Italian Fever (22 page)

Lucy stood gazing up at
Apollo and Daphne
, mulling over these observations. A great sadness welled up, and all her excitement and pleasure at finally seeing the statue was dissolved. There was nothing marvelous in her appreciation of this work, she realized. One would have to be a stone oneself not to be moved by it; that was the whole point. She went out by the door she had entered, back to the first salon. There was much more to be seen, but she felt enervated, overstimulated, and moody. She decided to go out into the park, where she could sit on a bench, rest her ankle, and plan the rest of the day.

Chapter 19

T
HE PARK BENCH PROVED
cold, damp, and comfortless. Lucy had rested upon it only a few minutes before the claims of hunger overrode those of weariness and drove her farther into the park in search of food. She consulted her guidebook, which detailed a maze of possible walks, one of which led to the Spanish Steps. Though it looked a short distance on the map, the reality was a vast stretch of rolling terrain, scattered with bushes, rumpled and torn by tree roots.

She did not take in the view at Trinità dei Monti; she was too dispirited and hungry for tourism. Her plan was to find a bar on Via del Babuino, at the foot of the Spanish Steps. The steps themselves, littered with tourists and con artists, seemed impossibly steep and long, and the piazza at the base, with its barque fountain and tall palms, was so jammed with humanity that she had to push her way through to the opposite sidewalk. She heard half a dozen languages, all pouring into the air at
high speed and top volume. Why is everyone always so excited here? she wondered. Is it something in the air, or is it the coffee?

The thought of coffee spurred her on. She spotted two bar signs ahead. The first turned out to be a chilly establishment with a few dry sandwiches and hard pastries stacked in a case near the register, a long bar, and no place to sit at all. The second was much bigger. There were tables in the back and the long glass case that ran beneath the bar was laden with hot trays full of steaming dishes, stacks of appetizing sandwiches and pastries of many varieties. Her heart lifted, though there was the nagging anxiety about procedure—did one order at the counter or the register, pay first or after, carry the food to the table, or sit at a table and wait to be served?

She looked about hesitantly. The place was busy. The barmen were in constant motion, taking new orders without looking up from the preparation of the previous ones. A harried, perspiring fellow lifted a tray heaped with plates and cups and carried it out into the crowd at the tables. There was no sign of menus; one evidently had to choose by looking at what was available and then describing it to the waiter. Lucy eyed a sandwich composed of thin sliced
prosciutto di Parma
and
rughetta
on flat seeded bread, and another of tuna and artichoke hearts on a thick roll. “
Dica
,” the barman said to her abruptly. She looked up into his serious, demanding eyes. She would have liked to examine the contents of the steam table, but the pressure was evidently on, so she pointed at the tuna sandwich. She knew the right words for that, and to the question, “
Da bere?
” she responded, “
Un cappuccino
.” After a little more pointing and muttering of the simple phrases she knew for “May I sit?” and “Does one pay first or after?” the man, clearly aggravated beyond endurance by her ignorance and timidity, waved her into the seating area. She found a small
table in the center of the room and sat down wearily amid the buzz of conversation, the clatter of dishes, the undercurrent of jaws chewing and throats swallowing. She propped Antonio’s stick against the table leg; then, as it immediately fell over into the path of a waiter balancing a full tray, she leaned out over the floor to retrieve it. A man at an adjoining table addressed a remark to her. She didn’t understand him, but he sounded sympathetic, so she looked up, offering him an apologetic smile. There was no need for her to say that she had not understood. He knew it at once, and it irritated him. He scowled and turned his attention to his plate. He had chosen meat and potatoes, Lucy observed, just like an American.

Her own food arrived and she set to it at once. After the first few bites, she paused, reminding herself to eat slowly. She sipped the hot coffee, so paradoxically stimulating and comforting, and she looked about at the lively company in whose midst she felt herself to be as invisible and insubstantial as a ghost. The room was warm, fragrant with the aromas of coffee, tomatoes, garlic, and fresh bread, smoky from the ubiquitous cigarettes. No one would hurry her now, or even notice her. When she wanted the check, she would have to ask for it.

Lucy chewed her sandwich. I could never live here, she thought. Even if she spoke perfect Italian, she would never be assertive enough to fit in; her diffidence would always enrage the barman and irritate the ticket taker. One had to be strong, confident, and preferably big to get along. One had to make an impression, like Catherine.

Against her better judgment, almost against her will, Lucy admitted that she admired Catherine. She had courage; some might call it “nerve.” She had very odd taste in men and doubtless she took scandalous advantage of them, but she seemed curiously untouched by sex and independent in her thinking.
She had been hospitable and friendly to Lucy; she appeared to enjoy her company and had encouraged her to visit again before she returned to the States. Why not now? Lucy thought. The gallery was only a few blocks away. It would be her last chance. Perhaps she could draw Catherine out on the subject of her last days with DV.

She finished her sandwich and drained the sugary black liquid at the bottom of the cup. If she could get the check before hell froze over, she might easily reach the gallery before the afternoon closing.

A
S LUCY MADE
the turn into Via Margutta, the rain that had threatened all morning commenced in a sudden gush, like water overflowing from a bowl. She ducked in close to the shops, but there was little in the way of cover and what there was could be obtained only by diving through water curtains running off the eaves. She muttered her favorite Italian exclamation of despair,
porca miseria
—“pig misery”—and hurried along, poking the walking stick into the puddles and rivulets collecting already among the uneven stones. The street was not long, but long enough for her to become thoroughly soaked and chilled before she stepped up into the doorway with the brass plate marked
BULTMAN
. She wrung her hair out with one hand while she jabbed at the bell with the leopard head of the walking stick. She listened, but there was no click of the lock, no sound of footsteps from within. Was she too late? Was the gallery closed for the
pausa
already? Where would she take shelter if that was the case? It was a long walk to her hotel, and the rain showed no sign of letting up. She tried the bell again, this time holding it in for a good long ring; she could hear the loud buzz inside. “Please be here,” she said,
and, as if in answer to this request, the lock mechanism clicked and the door shifted perceptibly in the frame. She pushed it and stepped inside, pausing to shake the water from her shawl and stamp her feet. “
Vengo subito
,” Catherine called from the back, beyond the arch. But she did not, as announced, come at once. Instead, she continued a conversation she evidently intended to conclude before presenting herself to her prospective customer. Lucy could hear her deep voice, her clear, perfect Italian, and she recalled that Antonio Cini had grudgingly admired her good accent. She listened closely, trying to make out a word or two, and she smiled as she caught the final exclamation, “
Ma che imbroglio!
”

Then, as Catherine’s visitor replied, her smile disappeared. He spoke rapidly, excitedly, as if he feared interruption. Though Lucy didn’t understand a word of his conversation, she did receive an understanding, one that struck a sharp spear of light across her consciousness. She couldn’t grasp the message, but she recognized the voice of the messenger: It was Massimo.

In the next moment, she was able to observe the same cataclysm of recognition and comprehension playing across the handsome features of her lover. He appeared in the archway, following Catherine, still addressing her with the careless animation Lucy seldom saw, for it was the ease of speaking his native tongue. He finished his sentence, evidently acquitting himself admirably in his own estimation, for his eyes, as they fell upon Lucy, were merry and complacent. In the next moment, this good humor vanished, his eyes widened, and his jaw tightened. Catherine looked from one visitor to the other with an expression of hearty amusement. Lucy felt, as she had before in Catherine’s presence, small, uninteresting, plain. She was acutely aware of her wet, limp hair, the clamminess of her skin inside the damp cloth of her blouse, the homely smell of
sheep emanating from her soggy shawl. For a long moment, the three stood encountering one another, their various emotions plainly to be read on their faces. Then Massimo, recovering control of himself, and thereby the women, the room, the world, let out an exasperated sigh and advanced upon Lucy. “But Lucy, look, you are completely wet. You should not be out in this weather. You will die of cold. You must get back to the hotel and go to bed. You are not yet fully recovered.” As he delivered these directions and dire predictions, he put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length, careful, she observed, not to get his suit wet.

“I’m fine,” she said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He looked back at Catherine, enlisting her as a witness to this folly. “I can feel how chilled she is through this cloth,” he exclaimed; then, turning back to Lucy, he chided, “What possessed you to come out in this weather?”

“I thought you had to work today,” she said dryly. She shrugged, trying to free herself from his grasp, but he held her fast, looking down into her face, his mask of deep concern tightly in place. He would not be distracted; this was his tactic—she had been naughty, but he had come to her rescue.

An awkward moment followed in which Lucy fairly writhed in her lover’s grip, but Catherine intervened, rescuing them all. “Let Lucy come upstairs with me,” she advised. “I’ll give her a towel.”

Massimo released her. “Of course,” he agreed. “She must be made dry as soon as possible.” While Lucy followed Catherine obediently, Massimo clucked nervously after them, his warnings tempered now with excuses: He could not stay much longer. Really, he was just leaving, having only stopped by on his way back from the bar where he had taken a hurried
panino
, but he would wait, of course, and see Lucy into a taxi.

“That’s really not necessary,” she said. Catherine turned at the staircase, adding, “Lucy came to visit me. She should at least have a nice cup of tea before she goes back. Then I’ll call her a taxi.” To Lucy, she added, “They come in two minutes, literally. Taxis are the only thing in Rome that work properly.”

“Well, you are right,” Massimo said. “This is a better plan. I will return to my work and you ladies may have a pleasant visit. Lucy, I will come for you at the hotel at seven-thirty.”

She cast him a look heavy with skepticism, which he countered by raising his eyebrows and opening his hands in a gesture of exasperated pleading so entirely spontaneous and inappropriate that she could only smile. “I’ll see you then,” she said.

He called a farewell to Catherine, who sent back a cheerful “Ciao, Massimo” from the landing. Lucy watched him—he had his back to her—as he took up his stylish raincoat and umbrella from the chair next to Catherine’s cluttered desk. He hadn’t come out unprepared for anything. He ran his hand over one side of his hair, an unnecessary gesture, for his hair was always perfect, pulled on the coat, and, without looking back, went out through the archway. Lucy labored up the stairs to Catherine’s studio. By the time she got there, Catherine had draped a towel across the banister and put the kettle on to boil. “How long was he here?” Lucy asked as she applied the towel gently to her face and then roughly to her hair. It was plush and smelled faintly of lavender.

“About an hour,” Catherine replied from behind the kitchen screen. “Have you eaten?”

“I had a sandwich.” She rested Antonio’s stick against a table and collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Jesus, I’m exhausted,” she murmured. Catherine came out from behind her screen and stood cross-armed, smiling at her guest. “What did he want?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, I think he wanted to further our acquaintance.”

Lucy frowned. “How much further?”

“He’s an Italian. He wants to go as far as he can, though, oddly enough, they are often satisfied with very little.”

“He could have waited until I got out of town. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

“He said you were annoyed with him for going off so suddenly yesterday, and he feared he had made a bad impression. He was in the neighborhood, so he stopped in.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No.”

“What did he talk about for an hour?”

“It was just gossip. His family knows my landlord’s family. He told me a few scandalous stories about them.”

The teakettle shrieked and Catherine disappeared behind the screen. “What kind of tea do you want?” she asked.

“Anything,” Lucy said. She folded the towel and placed it over the arm of the chair. She felt a cloud of gloom and consternation settling upon her, and no resistance rising to meet it. She gazed longingly into the shadows of Catherine’s forest screen. How pleasant it would be to lie down in some such peaceful place and drift off to sleep.
Whose woods these are I think I know
, she thought.

Catherine appeared bearing two steaming cups, smiling and solicitous like some ministering angel. The artist’s life didn’t seem to be causing her any anxiety or discomfort, Lucy thought. She leaned forward to take the cup, murmuring her thanks. The aroma that rose from the tea had a familiar sharpness, and she sniffed it appreciatively.