TWENTY
As usual on a hot summer’s day, the Piazza di Spagna was a sea of sweating tourists. They milled elbow to elbow, expensive cameras dangling from their necks, flushed faces shaded from the sun beneath floppy hats and baseball caps. From her perch above, on the Spanish Steps, Lily surveyed the crowd’s movements, noting the eddies that swirled around the vendors’ carts, the crosscurrents of competing tour groups. Wary of pickpockets, she started down the steps, waving away the inevitable trinket hawkers who hovered like flies. She noticed several men glance her way, but their interest was merely momentary. A look, a flicker of a lascivious thought, and then their eyes were on to the next passing female. Lily scarcely gave them a thought as she descended toward the piazza, threading past a couple embracing on the steps, past a studious young man hunched over a book. She waded into the throng. In crowds she felt safe, anonymous, and insulated. It was merely an illusion, of course; there was no truly safe place. As she crossed the piazza, tacking past camera-snapping tourists and children slurping at gelato, she knew that she was all too easy to spot. Crowds provided cover for both prey and predator.
She reached the far end of the piazza and walked past a shop selling designer shoes and purses that she would never, in this lifetime, be able to afford. Beyond it was a bank with an ATM and three people waiting to use it. She joined the line. By the time it was her turn, she’d already taken a good look at everyone standing nearby and spotted no thieves ready to swoop in. Now was the time to make a large withdrawal. She’d been in Rome for four weeks, and had not yet landed any work. Despite her fluent Italian, not a single coffee stand, not a single souvenir shop, had a job for her, and she was down to her last five Euros.
She inserted her bankcard, requested three hundred Euros, and waited for the cash to appear. Her card slid back out, along with a printed receipt. But no cash. She stared down at the receipt, her stomach suddenly dropping. She needed no translation to understand what was printed there.
By now, the woman standing behind her in line was making
“Hey, are you going to be finished sometime soon? Like, maybe,
Lily turned to face her. Just that one look, molten with rage, made the woman step back in alarm. Lily shoved past her and headed back to the piazza, moving blindly, for once not caring who was watching her, tracking her. By the time she reached the Spanish Steps, all the strength had gone out of her legs. She sank onto the stairs and dropped her head in her hands.
Her money was gone. She’d known her account was getting low, that eventually it would run out, but she’d thought there was enough to last at least another month. She had enough cash for maybe two more meals, and that was it. No hotel tonight, no bed. But hey, these stairs were comfortable enough, and she couldn’t beat the view. When she got hungry, she could always go diving in the trash can for some tourist’s leftover sandwich.
She lifted her head, looked around the piazza, and saw plenty of single men.
She unzipped her backpack and feverishly dug around inside. Maybe there was a wad of cash she’d forgotten about, or a few loose coins rattling around on the bottom. Fat chance. As if she didn’t keep track of every single penny. She found a roll of mints, a ballpoint pen. No money.
But she did find a business card, printed with the name FILIPPO CAVALLI. At once his face came back to her. The truck driver with the leering eyes. “If you have no place to stay,” he’d said, “I have an apartment in the city.”
She sat on the steps, mindlessly rubbing the card between her fingers, until it was pinched and bent. Thinking about Filippo Cavalli and his mean eyes, his unshaven face. How awful could it be? She’d done worse things in her life. Far worse.
She zipped up the backpack and looked around for a telephone. Mean eyes or not, she thought, a girl’s gotta eat.
She stood in the hallway outside apartment 4-G, nervously straightening her blouse, smoothing down her hair. Then she wondered why the hell she should even bother, considering how slovenly the man had looked the last time she’d seen him.
The door swung open. “Come in!” Filippo said.
At her first glimpse of him, she wanted to turn and run. He was exactly as she’d remembered, his chin prickly with stubble, his hungry gaze already devouring her face. He had not even bothered to dress in nice clothes for her visit, but was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy trousers. Why should he bother to clean up? Surely he knew what had brought her here, and it wasn’t his sculpted body or his scintillating wit.
She stepped into the apartment, where the smells of garlic and cigarette smoke battled for dominance. Aside from that, it was not too horrible a place. She saw a couch and chairs, a neat pile of newspapers, a coffee table. The balcony window faced another apartment building. Through the walls, she could hear a neighbor’s TV blaring.
“Some wine, Carol?” he asked.
Carol. She’d almost forgotten which name she’d given him. “Yes, please,” she answered. “And…would you happen to have something to eat?”
“Food? Of course.” He smiled, but his eyes never stopped leering. He knew these were just the pleasantries before the transaction. He brought out bread and cheese and a little dish of marinated mushrooms. Hardly a feast; more like a snack. So this was what she was worth. The wine was cheap, sharp, and astringent, but she drank two glasses anyway as she ate. Better to be drunk than sober for what came next. He sat across the kitchen table watching her as he sipped his own glass of wine. How many other women had come to this apartment, had sat at this kitchen table, steeling themselves for the bedroom? Surely none of them came willingly. Like Lily, they probably needed a drink or two or three before getting down to business.
He reached across the table. She went stock-still as he opened the top two buttons of her blouse. Then he sat
