The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 2





Excerpt from Faith Fairchild’s travel journal:

Know I will have neither the time nor the inclination to keep this systematically, so I’ll just write down some things to remember—especially food and people like Freddy Ives, although I doubt I’ll be running into anyone else like him on this trip or, in fact, ever. As soon as I started to write in here, I immediately heard Freddy’s voice quoting Oscar Wilde’s Gwendolen and why she kept a diary, “One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” I doubt very much that I will have anything sensational to write about. Being off the leash is sensational enough.

Freddy definitely brings out the reader in me, maybe because he looks a little bit like Peter O’Toole in “Mr. Chips” and I’m making a separate list in the back of this journal of books I need to read or reread when I get home, that place across the pond, which seems very far away right now. Pause to gaze out window. This journal is turning more into stream of consciousness than anything else.

Called to tell Pix we’d arrived safe and sound. She put the children on and I doubt they miss us, which is only fair, as I don’t miss them—at least not yet. Ben wants us to bring him back a Vespa (as if) and Amy is 6 boxes away from selling the most Girl Scout cookies in her troop and would we buy some more? Am picturing self as old lady surrounded not by stacks of newspapers like the Collyer brothers, but stacks of Tagalongs and Thin Mints. Tom did not get on, as he unfortunately found out what the roaming charges are before we left home, so no calls to chat with anyone. Had to tell Hope not to phone unless dire emergency and bad haircut does not count.

We had a picnic lunch in the Piazza Navona, which we found by chance thereby reinforcing the Freddy Method of sightseeing. On the way we came across a street lined with wonderful antiques shops, the goods all beyond our reach with the terrible exchange rate. Cannot do the math in my head, so am counting the euros as dollars but not mentioning this system to Tom. At a panetterria nearby we bought three yummy panini: proscuitto crudo with fresh mozzarella, artichoke fritta—eggy and still warm—and one with roasted vegetables drizzled with truffle oil and sat to eat on a stone bench by Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers facing Borromini’s Church of St. Agnes in Agone (want to remember at least some of what we’ve seen). A guide was describing the piazza in English to a small group of sturdy-looking travelers. Judging from the prevalence of Birkenstocks with socks, as well as fanny packs worn on tummies and men wearing those polo shirts with penguin logos (what brand is this anyway?), I pegged them as Americans. Maybe shoes and dress are still clues. Elder Hostel or some other similarly educational program? The guide was giving them their money’s worth and I decided it wasn’t cheating to eavesdrop. The fountain’s four rivers are the Nile, symbolizing Africa; the Danube, Europe; the Ganges, Asia; and the Rio de la Plata for the Americas. The Plata’s muscular arm was said to have been raised to protect the giant from the collapse of Borromini’s facade, and the Nile was similarly posed, covering his eyes in disgust. A bitter Baroque rivalry, literally carved in stone! Unfortunately the guide added that the fountain was completed before Borromini even started the church, so no dis intended. I was hoping she’d be leading them to a Caravaggio next, but they were headed for the Pantheon. At least we knew the direction to go, but we ended up sitting and people watching instead.

Then we needed coffee and then we decided to go back to the room again, and then . . . Now I’m waiting for Tom to finish his shower, so I can get ready to meet Freddy for dinner. Am feeling festive, so will wear only posh frock I brought—a jersey Eileen Fisher pale gray number with a cropped sweater in the same color that I adore. It’s so light it feels like a cobweb, with tiny crystal beads like dewdrops. Something Titania would wear. Feel as if I am being possessed by Victorian lady novelist, or teenage girl. Oh Freddy, what are you doing to me? This journal is going to be one of those things I burn before my children pack me off to a home. Too embarrassing.

We are going to the restaurant by way of the Pantheon. Or that’s the plan anyway. I have the feeling this is going to be one of those things like my never having been to the top of the Empire State Building despite every intention. Tom’s done finally—and another note to self: have never met a woman who couldn’t get dressed to go out faster than a man. More later. Feel as if we have been here for a week at least. Could it be only last night we were at Logan?

“You’re not tired?” Tom asked. “You didn’t sleep at all today. I did and I’m still feeling a little bushed.”

They were walking along the Tiber. The night was warm and lights from the bridges and buildings on both sides of the river reflected up into the sky, still dusky blue.

“I may not sleep until we get back on the plane if the rest of the trip is like this,” Faith said. “I don’t want to waste a moment. I remember feeling this way when I was a teenager. I could stay up all night and my eyelids never drooped the next day. Remember that bumper sticker Samantha Miller had on her car when she was in college—‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’?”

“I do, and I also remember thinking it was pretty extreme. I prefer Millay and the image of burning a candle at both ends to give off a lovely light. But, wife o’ mine, this is your trip. Sleep or don’t sleep, whatever your heart desires.”

“I’m looking at it,” Faith said, and they stopped to kiss. She hoped this would get to be a habit while they were in Italy. They certainly weren’t going to be able to do it on Aleford’s Main Street. Millicent Revere McKinley, the embodiment of the defunct Bostonian Watch and Ward Society, would come flying from her little clapboard cape strategically located by the town green and throw a bucket of water on them.

“Here’s our turn, the Via Arenula,” Tom said. “The third left will take us to the Via del Portico.” While they had taken Freddy’s advice and ignored printed material earlier, Tom was charting their route to the restaurant from their stop at the Pantheon, map in hand.

The street was lined with shops, most of them closed. They were in the historic ghetto of Rome, and it was after sundown, signaling the start of the Sabbath. Yet some nonkosher restaurants were open, Faith noted, and enticing smells were coming from the crowded tables set up outdoors. She was hungry; lunch had been a long time ago.

Hostaria Giggetto was at the very end of the street. Freddy was sitting at one of the tables and strolled out to meet them. Kissing Faith on each cheek and clapping an arm around Tom’s shoulder, he was wearing a black collarless shirt underneath what Faith’s father always called an “ice cream suit,” vanilla white linen. For a moment it occurred to her that if Tom had been wearing his work clothes, they would have made interesting bookends.

“Come and sit down. I hope it’s all right to sit outdoors?”

“It’s perfect,” Faith said.

Tom was nodding his head in agreement and perhaps awe, gesturing toward three dramatically lit Corinthian columns and the partial facade of a ruin so close to their table they could almost touch the stones.

“Incredible,” he said.

“The columns are all that remains of the temple of Apollo,” Freddy said. “Augustus named this portico in honor of his sister, Octavia.”

“Probably to make up for her scummy husband,” Faith said firmly. “I mean, it’s the ancient version of putting your husband through medical school or business school and then getting dumped. In her case, it was supplying him with an army and whatever they called K rations. Okay, he left her for Cleopatra, pretty tough competition, but he could have said no, I’m a married man.”

Freddy was laughing. “And don’t forget Octavia raised their son along with a passel of other assorted offspring. She was a bit like Victoria in being the progenitor of all sorts of future heads of state. Kings, kaisers, tsars, not so different from emperors, although I don’t think Caligula and Nero would have made it into her ‘Granny Remembers’ book, had she still been around. And now we need some food and a great deal of wine over which you can tell me all—perhaps not all—you’ve been doing since we parted.”

The waiter approached and Freddy said, “Please ask Claudio to select some wines for us and he may as well choose the whole meal so long as one entrée is today’s fish. Just start us off with plenty of fiori di zucchina, carciofi alla giudia, and filetti di baccalà. Grazie.”

“Prego, signore.”

“Who is Claudio? The chef ?” Faith asked.

“No, he’s the grandson of Luigi Ceccarelli, known to one and all as ‘Giggetto,’ who started the restaurant—hence the name—in the 1920s after he served in the war. It had been an ancient inn, one of those Caesar-was-here-type places or perhaps it was Remus even further back wanting a little fritto misto, despite his early penchant for vulpine milk, after dispatching his brother. Later I’ll take you inside and Claudio’s father, Franco, who took over from his father, Luigi, will take us to see the wine cellar, which has enough Roman masonry to satisfy what I am very much afraid may be an unhealthy touristic leaning on your part. Oh, and I asked for Claudio because he does all the buying. Gets up at an ungodly hour to go to the markets.”

Healthy or unhealthy, Faith thought that by the time dinner was over they wouldn’t need a guidebook. All they had to do was keep Freddy talking, a happy prospect. Apparently Tom had the same thought.

“So Augustus built this in honor of his sister.”

Freddy shook his finger at him. “Naughty, naughty. Soon you’ll have me telling you that it was the foyer for the Theater of Marcellus next door. Spare a thought for the poor lad, a favorite of his uncle’s but dead at nineteen. This entrance also led to a vast array of temples, libraries—the Circus Flaminius in short. Ah, saved. Here are the courgette blossoms.”

It was soon apparent that the man who eschewed anchovies on his pizza was a huge fan of them mixed with ricotta and stuffed into the golden flowers, even more golden after being lightly battered and fried. Faith filed the preference away, thinking she could now try Tom on one of her favorites: spaghetti alla foriana, that heavenly combination of anchovies, raisins, plenty of garlic, walnuts, and pignoli (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen). The waiter placed another appetizer on the table. It was the baccalà. Small chunks of cod that looked like the fish part of fish and chips, seemingly commonplace. But these morsels! Anything but commonplace. Perfectly done, and it was hard to believe they hadn’t come right from the ocean, bypassing boats and markets. Freddy advised a tiny squeeze of lemon that brought the flavor out even more. Judging from the starters, it was going to be a memorable meal.

She sighed and sipped some wine. Octavia’s portico was facing her, and for a moment she gave a thought to the kind of monument she might erect for Tom’s difficult sister, Betsey. Her own sister was easy. She already worked in a temple of sorts—one not to a deity, but mammon. Quite apart from that, Faith would choose something elegant yet warm for Hope—maybe a Carrara marble plinth. She smiled to herself at the direction her thoughts were taking.

Freddy was smiling, too, as he watched them eat with such obvious relish. “Before the artichokes arrive, which will require our utmost concentration—it is my favorite dish in Rome—tell me, what did you look at today?”

Faith abandoned her sculptural speculations. “People mostly, mobile, and immobile as in the Piazza Navona Berninis. We had a picnic lunch there.”

“I like that piazza, although it’s a bit large. Our Piazza Farnese is more intimate. And of course those poor Berninis in the Navona. You Yanks snapped off their fingers as souvenirs when you were bivouacked there during the Liberation. Odd thing to put on a mantel.”

“As odd as your Lord Elgin’s Greek trophies? As I recall there was a bit of statuary pillage there, too,” Tom said.

“Ah, you have me there, I’m afraid, Reverend. But we digress. Any Caravaggios today? My favorites are just off the Piazza Navona in Chiesa San Luigi dei Francesci. The Saint Matthew cycle. Stop in if you missed them. I suppose I go back whenever I’m here because I am poised to identify with him as an old man, as he is depicted in the last of the three paintings. Wrinkles abound and Matthew’s taking dictation from an angel—unfortunately mine own writing has quite obviously never had the benefit of divine intervention, but I hope to share those noble marks of age, lines earned by living. And then of course there are his marvelously filthy feet.”

“Filthy feet?” Tom said, scraping the last flakes of cod from his plate.

Freddy lifted his foot from under the table. It was clad in the same well-worn desert boot as earlier, unless he had numerous pairs of similar vintage. “Yes, quite a brouhaha about it. Not the thing, don’t you know, to portray a saint with plebian dust on his soles.”

His imitation of a “tebbily” upper-crust Brit was all too accurate and Faith found herself wondering what his mysterious middle name was. Something from Debrett’s, like Cholmondeley, pronounced for reasons no doubt dating back to William the Conqueror as “Chumley”?

Before she could ask, the waiter placed one of the carciofi alla giudias in front of her. The sight of the crisp, steaming artichoke, its choke removed and the petals fanned out like a sunflower, drove all thoughts from her mind save one: eating it. She was familiar with the dish—a kind of artichoke onion blossom—but had never tasted it and vowed it would be the first thing she tried to replicate back home. Although it might lose something in the translation, or rather transportation. It seemed meant to be eaten just where she was, under the Roman sky.

Her husband had what could only be described as a dopey grin on his face, the kind engendered by either good food, good sex, or both.

“Do you think Francesca could teach us how to make this?” he asked.

“Old friends of ours, Francesca Rossi and her husband, Gianni, live in Tuscany and have just started a cooking school. We’re going there for its first week, their maiden voyage,” Faith explained to Freddy. She’d told him they were in Italy to celebrate their anniversary but hadn’t mentioned the school.

Freddy looked surprised. “It’s a common name, all three, but I rented a small place from a Rossi family near Montepulciano while I was writing a book on the hill towns many years ago. Of course it’s the people you know. Maria and Mario had a daughter, Francesca, who was married to a man named Gianni, with whom I enjoyed many happy glasses of Vino Nobile. They had three small children who must be quite big now. Francesca spoke often of her time working with a chef in New York City. The Rossis are the ones who steered me to our hotel also. I believe wholeheartedly in fate, not coincidence.”

Faith believed the same thing. Coincidence was showing up at a party with the same dress as another guest; fate was what happened afterward. And Freddy was definitely fate.

He continued, “Like your delicious wife, you cook? I applaud you, Thomas. I have studiously avoided any involvement with the preparation of food lest it detract from my appreciation of it. Or that is what I tell myself.”

Tom was nodding thanks to the waiter who was replenishing his wine. “Well, I try. Keep my hand in, so to speak.”

You old fraud, Faith thought to herself, storing her husband’s comment away for future teasing. And apparently the wine is making you start to sound like Bertie Wooster. Tom was a big Wodehouse fan.

She was savoring one of the crisp, golden-brown carciofi leaves. The secret had to be starting off with such a flavorful, perfectly ripe artichoke and using only the freshest oil.

“Carciofi alla giudia may be the most famous dish to come from the Roman ghetto—‘ghetto’ is an Italian word,” Freddy said. “In fact, most of what we call Roman cuisine is really la cucina ebraico-romanesca, the food that was developed out of necessity in the ghetto. Between roughly 1555 and sometime in the 1800s, Jews were confined to a seven-acre area surrounding where we are sitting now. There were five thousand of them, far, far fewer today, and the area has shrunk in size. These apartments are now the most prized in Rome, but for hundreds of years, in addition to not being able to leave the area during the day, or even go out into the ghetto itself at night, Jews were herded to mass in a church you may have passed on your way here, Sant’Angelo in Pescheria. They also had to wear yellow hats. Color sound familiar?”

“I’ve read about this,” Tom said. “When the Romans invaded Judea, they brought their captives to Rome as slaves. There were periods though, weren’t there, when Jews were allowed the freedom to worship, own property, and live where they chose? A rabbi friend told me the Roman Jewish community is the oldest in Europe.”

Freddy nodded. “It was the isolation that gave rise to the dishes we have before us, but you’re right that prior to the 1500s there were periods when it wasn’t so bad—especially if you were a physician. A lot of the popes were smart enough to call, say, Dr. Shapiro instead of the local barber with his jar of leeches.” He looked away from the Fairchilds and gestured dramatically toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Ah, the arrival of Il Primo! And Claudio has given us Rigatoni all’Amatriciana, I see.”

The waiter set steaming bowls of the pasta in front of them and returned with a wedge of pecorino Romano, which he grated on top and left. Faith was familiar with the dish, deceptively simple—guanciale, a kind of Italian bacon; onions; garlic; olive oil; and peperoncino, the Italian spicy crushed red pepper whose zing took the pasta to another level. She was going to have to pace herself. There was still a second course and Il Dolce, dessert, to come. And possibly a contorno, side dish. No food would go to waste, though. Fortunately her husband was a bottomless pit, and from the way Freddy was attacking his plate, he seemed the same.

Silence reigned comfortably for a bit as they ate. The growing dark and soft light from the votive candles on the table had created a sense of intimacy, as if they had known each other for a long time.

Freddy picked up the thread of their conversation again. “It was those years of forced separation that gave rise to things like these delectable artichokes. The ghetto wasn’t exactly a place where one could plant veggies, and the Tiber had a nasty habit of overflowing, its waters creating a rather noxious cocktail. Jewish housewives relied on spices to both preserve food and add flavor. Plus they fried what they could in olive oil. We are also sitting on the site of an ancient fish market, hence fish as a staple in their diet, a happy accident giving us, among other tasty bites here, a fish soup that I hope will be one of tonight’s offerings.”

He looked somber for a moment, a cloud across what had been a relaxed and happy face. He pointed toward the portico. “After dinner, I’ll show you the plaque over there. It’s the kind of thing I seem to be able to memorize: ‘On October sixteenth, 1943, here began the merciless rout of the Jews. The few who escaped murder and many others, in solidarity, pray for love and peace from mankind and pardon and hope from God.’

“Over a thousand had assembled that day bringing the amount of gold—one hundred and ten pounds—they were told would save them from deportation. In my mind’s eye, I see them still gathering, weighing, trusting. Only fifteen returned, all adults. None of the two hundred children made it. The irony—such an inadequate word almost always—is that Il Duce didn’t have a problem with Jews. The old some-of-my-best-friends-are thing, but in his case, it was a fact. A number of the original founders of the fasci di combattimento were Jewish. But Mein Führer wasn’t having any of it.”

The narrow cobbled street was filled with echoes and visions. Faith had to close her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, their plates had been removed.

Freddy filled their glasses and raised his, spilling a few drops on the table and his notebook. “Memento mori. Now we must switch to cin-cin as a toast and talk of other things.”

By the time the next course arrived, they had covered the recent elections in the States, the solution to Italy’s economic woes—“The entire country is covered in masses of white canvas umbrellas much of the year like a giant Christo wrapping, surely these manufacturers, these tentmakers, can step up to the plate,” Freddy suggested. They moved on to the notion—and the obscenity—of colonizing the moon. “Would serve them right if it is made of green cheese and not the good kind, but some horrible dyed concoction,” Faith offered.

As the main course was arriving, Claudio himself brought a side dish of emerald green asparagi, simply prepared with olive oil and lemon. After the meal, he promised, he and his family would give the Fairchilds a tour of the restaurant.

Il Secondo turned out to consist of three wonderful dishes: the fish soup Freddy had mentioned; plus filetto di cernia, grouper, the fish in a fragrant white wine and mushroom sauce; plus spring lamb—abbacchio—alla scottaditto, which Freddy obligingly translated as “finger blistering,” an act Tom cheerfully undertook, grabbing one of the crispy, seared chops from his plate and passing it to the others. Faith was happy to see that Freddy was not one of those “If you wanted it, why didn’t you order it” types and was obviously willing to share, calling for additional bowls for the large serving of soup that had been placed in front of him. Many an unhappy marriage could have been prevented if the bride or groom had been firm on this essential act or walked away when refused. This thought led Faith to another. She’d noticed right away on the terrace that Freddy wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Some men didn’t wear rings, though. She felt herself relax even further into the mood of the evening; it was time to move from the political to the personal.

“Did you grow up near London?” It was an opener and usually people proceeded from childhood to their entire life stories.

“Clever minx, but I’m on to you. I have no desire to kill the cat in this case, though. No, I did not grow up near London. My family is from the north of England, not far from York. Part of the Roman wall went through our backyard. Such engineers. Such big thinkers. Like all little boys of my type I was sent away to school, where I was educated by sadistic masters and learned quite a bit in the process despite the beatings or perhaps because of them. I will never know, will I? And then to university and now here.” He grinned. Faith knew he knew it wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.

“Always been a writer, then?” Tom came to the rescue.

“No,” Freddy answered, and unlike most people, who go on to fill an ensuing silence after a while, he appeared content to sit and watch them quietly for the rest of the night.

“Do you get back to England to see your family often?” Faith wasn’t quitting, and going on the assumption that he must travel a great deal for his work, she thought the question was not out of place.

“No,” Freddy said again and then laughed, a laugh that was almost like a bark, startling the young couple at the next table, who, having finished their antipasti, had been engaged in locking lips.

“I wander ‘lonely as a cloud.’ I cannot disappoint you any more, Faith my sweet. Ask me anything. Well, almost anything. My parents are both dead. I am an orphan with no siblings. I tried being married once, but couldn’t get the hang of it and, much to the relief of my wife, stopped trying. She now lives in Shropshire with her much nicer husband and four children, none of them mine, and she sends me a Christmas card each year. And now, pudding? Or if I may suggest instead, an espresso for me—you two must go to sleep and get on local time—un liquore for you, perhaps a limoncello if they have some of the della Costiera, as I’m sure they must. Then we can walk back by way of the Pantheon, which you need to see at night. There is an acceptable gelateria nearby for afterward. Mo’s, the best in Rome, is too far—near Vatican City. But you will be in Florence and can go to Carapina as many times as possible. I’m quite fond of Italian ice cream. All those flavors, much like your original Howard Johnson’s without the orange roofs.”

“So you’ve spent some time in the States?”

“Don’t you think I’ve shared enough information with you for one night, dear lady? We must leave something to talk about the next time we meet, as I’m sure our paths will cross again, although not immediately. I leave Rome early tomorrow morning.”

Faith, too, was sure their paths would cross again and pictured the three of them walking off at the end of the evening into the fog à la Claude Rains and Humphrey Bogart, except it was a clear night and Rome, not Casablanca.

He ordered their liquori and his espresso. Faith sipped her limoncello appreciatively—she wanted to remember the brand—and then Freddy shooed them off for a tour of the restaurant while he proceeded to write in the notebook that he’d closed and placed next to him on the table when they’d arrived.

What Faith had thought from the outside would be a small interior turned out to be a maze of delightful rooms ranging from banquet proportions to an intimate patio with a few tables tucked away at the rear. The wine cellars were impressive for the number of bottles and the brick walls that dated back to the original fish market. Claudio and his father were enthusiastic guides, pressing a bottle of a favorite Frascati on them. The Fairchilds had no difficulty promising to return as soon as possible.

When they came back outside, Freddy was engaged in writing. He snapped his notebook shut as soon as he saw them and said, “The Pantheon, I rather think now.”

“Just the brief look we had before coming to the restaurant was a revelation,” Tom said. “It’s the kind of place that a photograph can’t capture. It sounds quite inane, but it’s so big and the oculus is truly like an eye to the heavens. I’d very much like to see it at night.”

“Not inane at all, exactly right. When you come back to Rome, which you will even if you don’t go to the Trevi Fountain and toss a coin, try to go to the Pantheon when it’s raining. I have a small store of special memories and one is of being under that eye during a sun shower. I was quite young and felt like some sort of male transfiguration of Danaë. The golden mist hung in the air and even the puddles on the floor looked molten. Ah youth, truly wasted on the young, as Shaw, that curmudgeony vegetarian, aptly said.”

He stood up, tucking his notebook in his jacket pocket. “Andiamo! Before you both turn into pumpkins. I shouldn’t be keeping you up so late, but I’m a very selfish man. Ask my ex-wife. I can say that now, since you know all.”

Faith was quite sure they did not even come close to knowing all about Freddy.

“Could you ask the waiter for the check?” Tom said.

“Done. Remember I said it was my party. Now I very much want some nocciola gelato. I suggest we indulge in that delightful Italian ritual known as La Passeggiata, a leisurely evening stroll.”

How long had they been eating? Hours, Faith knew, but the time was stretching out even further, and despite the meal she had just consumed, she realized there was still space for gelato, even a doppio, two scoops and yes, one would definitely be nocciola—hazelnut.

They strolled out into the night. The street was starting to get crowded, and Faith was reminded that Italians ate late. Freddy led them to the commemorative plaque, and they stood quietly in front of it for some minutes before he linked an arm through each of theirs, moving them back the way they’d come. He pointed out a small stone arch leading to an alley to the right of the restaurant that he told them would take them on the kind of pleasant wandering he espoused—“where way leads on to way.” Faith thought again of all the footsteps they were following in Rome.

“But,” Freddy added, “not tomorrow. Having forbidden you the more conventional tools of travel, I’ve made arrangements for you to go to the Borghese, where you will gaze upon Berninis, Caravaggios, and all manner of gorgeous things. Paolo has the information. It was too late for me to get you to the Sistine Chapel with a small group, and I forbid you to go any other way. In any case, you will love the Borghese. Mostly I go to be thrilled by the sublime Pauline herself, so erotic, that lusciously smooth marble.”

Faith had seen pictures of the statue of Pauline Borghese, Napoleon’s sister. She was reclining seductively, half nude on her Empire marble chaise longue. Tickets to the Galleria Borghese had to be purchased at least several days in advance, and she wondered how Freddy had managed it.

“You strike me as good walkers, but not fanatics—no jolly hockey girl thick ankles on you, Faith my love. So you might have a leisurely breakfast—the hotel lays on quite a nice spread—and walk to the museum and gardens. You’ll bump into a number of famous sights unless you’re careful. Afterward you can have lunch at ’Gusto—very chic, but very good, it’s near the Ara Pacis—then make your way to the Forum. I know you want to see the Colosseum, my little Daisy, and thankfully that kind of Roman fever—malaria—is not the kind of danger it once was. Not to say there aren’t others . . .”

Before he could elaborate, if he was, they were at the Pantheon, dramatic, impressive in the long floodlight beams, all Freddy had promised. They stood for a while in the center of the square by the fountain, gazing at the front before walking completely around the exterior, the massive dome looming over them, omnipresent. Afterward, he led the way to the gelateria, which had a long line of customers whose happy chatter in several languages sounded like flocks of various kinds of birds, among them the passionate couple at the table next to them in the restaurant.

As they reached the Corso Vittoria Emanuele, Faith thought she would always remember this moment, like those “store of memories” Freddy had mentioned. She had a store of them as well. She assumed most people did. Flashes of intense, perfect happiness that existed in one’s mind as if they were being relived that instant. This flash was the three of them standing perfectly still, waiting for the pedestrian sign to change while the traffic whizzed by in front of them. Their gelatos were gone, but the flavor lingered, and above, the Roman night hung suspended, a canopy of light and dark.

When they got to the Campo de’ Fiori, she remembered to ask Freddy about the large bronze statue, even more forbidding at night.

“Ah, Bruno. Reduced now to a convenient meeting place. We say, ‘Meet me at Bruno’ and everyone knows where to go. You must be familiar with the Dominican supposed heretic Giordano Bruno, Tom.”

Tom nodded. “Was this where they burned him, then?”

“I’m afraid so. Rather a popular spot for public executions, those highly popular precursors to the horrid reality shows on the telly, or melees at soccer games, that captivate audiences now. The market didn’t move here until the mid-nineteenth century. Before then it was in the Piazza Navona. Bruno was put to death in 1600. Poor man. He’d spent most of his adult life outside Italy, where his ideas about an infinite universe and other things such as the solar system met with more favor than here. Anyway, he thought the madness of the Inquisition had subsided and came back. Homesick, I imagine. Italians usually are when they leave for any length of time. His bad luck that the embers were still smoldering. Rather literally.”

“Who put the statue up? Surely not the church,” Faith said.

Freddy shook his head. “It was erected at the time of Italy’s unification, late 1800s, by the Freemasons, primarily. It’s still a symbol for all stripes of independent thinkers, or those who imagine they are. They have a kind of fair every year, but you’d have more fun at the Befana Toy Fair in the Navona, especially at its end during Epiphany in January. La Befana would never bring coal to you good children,” Freddy said. “And even if she did, it’s made of chocolate nowadays.”

They walked into the Piazza Farnese, which was completely empty, in contrast to the somewhat rowdy crowd that had spilled out from the many restaurants and bars lining the Campo de’ Fiori market. The change was so abrupt that Faith found it unsettling. Not so much as the shadow of one of Rome’s numerous cats flitted across the cobblestones.

“These must have been baths originally, yes?” Tom asked. “Only a modern contemporary artist would design fountains with tubs like these.”

“Indubitably. And not just any fountains, but ones from Caracalla. Aaah, the thought. I would not have liked to live in that time—pestilence and no single-malt Scotch—but I would like to have indulged in the baths. Just look at those tubs.” Freddy flung out his arm toward the one near the street to the hotel. “Solid granite, excellent for holding the heat and lovely nubiles pouring ewers of scented water for me to splash about in. In point of fact, they were not baths, but fountains from the start, extremely decorative conversation pieces in the Baths’ vast gardens, but I imagine them otherwise, functional objets d’art. I’m glad they didn’t end up as landfill. The Farneses moved quite a number of bits out of the Baths luckily. So much of Rome has been someplace else at one time or another. And speaking of time, I must bid you good night and farewell. I will be leaving early in the morning. Do ask Paolo to show you my room, by the way. I always have the same one. Such an old fuddy-duddy, but it is the hotel’s largest and has what was once a tiny chapel at one end, perfect for me to contemplate more venal things. There are lovely frescos on the ceiling above it and also the bed.” He put out his hand toward Tom’s, shaking it firmly.

“You’re not going back now?” Faith said. She wasn’t ready for the night to end. She’d pictured them sitting on the rooftop terrace together for a while.

“I must, my pet.” He kissed her on both cheeks. He smelled ever so faintly of lime. “But we will keep in touch. Maybe I will come to that Aleford place of yours and eat some Indian pudding. I see you are shuddering. I forgot, not a native New Englander. And here am I such a lover of all things Transcendental. We’ll have lobster instead. Surely you will allow that. My card.” He drew one from inside his jacket pocket.

Faith took it. The address was a post office box in London and there was no phone number. “Frederick L. Ives,” she read aloud. It sounded like “Frederick Lives” and she smiled. “Surely you know us well enough now to divulge your middle name.”

Freddy bowed. “I must confess it to be ‘Lancelot.’ Mater was an ardent Tennyson fan. She did not consider the effect of the consonant before the vowel.”

And he was gone.

Faith was hungry. It was long past breakfast time in Aleford. Much to her husband’s surprise, she was up and dressed well before 7 A.M., the time the hotel started serving their colazione. The fact that Tom was not just a morning person, but an extremely early morning person, had been one of the few major differences between them. That and the entire Fairchild family’s penchant for games of all sorts—active outdoor ones and the indoor type involving boards, game pieces, and cards. Faith knew at an early age that someone else was going to have to play Candy Land with any kids she would have. What she didn’t know was that someone else was going to have to play its grown-up equivalent with her spouse. Scrabble, Boggle, Othello, even Clue—she resisted them all.

“Something smells heavenly and I need coffee,” Faith said as they walked into the pleasant breakfast room. The buffet that extended the length of the room on one wall boded well.

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear,” said a voice to their right. It belonged to a woman, and although she spoke with an English accent, it sounded like the kind Freddy had been imitating, not using. “I can see that you have an egg thingy out, so that means you must have eggs in the kitchen. Why then is it apparently impossible for one to order two of them poached?”

Dressed in a starched white jacket, the young man who had brought the Prosecco up to the terrace the night before bent down toward her and answered. His voice was too soft for Faith to catch much apart from many uses of the word “signora.”

The signora flushed and stood up, speaking even more loudly to the man next to her. “I will be making sure that none of our friends come here, Roderick, and filing an immediate complaint to the management, although I sorely doubt that will do anything in this sort of place.”

Faith almost started to giggle. The woman made it sound like a bordello. “I suppose I’ll have to make do with some of their dry toast,” she said. “The fruit looks spoiled.”

She was tall and had an extremely long oval face some might unkindly associate with winners of the Derby. Her chin and nose completed the picture. All that was missing was a feed bag. Faith assumed Roderick was the woman’s husband, but they looked enough alike to be mistaken for fraternal twins. They were cut from the same cloth—and the cloth was tweed. His took the form of a jacket, and hers a skirt, both bagging—the elbows and the seat, in her case. Good tweed lasted forever, and judging from the rings on her fingers and her earrings, at some point money had not been spared on any of their attire. But tweed! In Rome in the spring! Faith made her way to a small table for two in the corner where she could continue her observations as other guests arrived. At the moment it was just the four of them, unless the English lady had a Corgi tucked under her chair.

“Yum,” Tom said, clutching his plate. “Did you see what’s on the buffet? Cake and cookies for breakfast! What a sensible idea.”

There were two kinds of cake. One looked like a lemon sponge and the other was layered with custard and topped with chocolate. In between, cookies were arrayed in tempting rows on a large tray. The egg “thingy” referred to a kind of frittata with small, whole sausages—kind of Italian mini-franks, Faith thought—baked into the puffy omelet. Then there were plates of cured meats and cheeses, including fresh mozzarella. Plus slices of luscious-looking tomatoes, mounds of fresh fruit that was not in the least spoiled, yogurts, muesli, a huge jar of Nutella—Tom’s preferred spread—several kinds of juice, crackers, breads, and warm cornetti, the Italian equivalent of a croissant. Jams of all kinds, more pastries. A large bowl of creamy ricotta stood next to jars of three kinds of honey for drizzling. In short, it was the breakfast that Faith had dreamed about with a hotel so near a market like the one at the Camp de’ Fiori. It was not, however, in the least like a typical Italian breakfast, most often eaten standing up or on the run and consisting of a sweet roll dunked in cappuccino or a caffè latte.

Now, what should she have?

But coffee first.

By the time the Fairchilds finished, each table was occupied. The picky Englishwoman was still tucking in with a large slice of cake and, despite her voiced objection, enough fruit for a family of four on her plate. The only other traveler who had attracted Faith’s attention was a young woman sitting alone who looked as if she’d be more at home in a hostel. Her visible piercings were on her earlobes and nose. She was dressed all in black, and her spiked hair was cut short. Beneath the violet and chartreuse streaks, it looked blond. But hard to tell. She’d gone straight for the coffee and quickly drunk three cups before turning to the buffet.

“Happy?” Tom asked. They had stopped for a moment in the Piazza Farnese, which was as empty as it had been the night before.

It was very late Saturday, or rather early Sunday. They had lingered over dinner well past midnight. Faith felt as if she were looking through some sort of View-Master, those funny contraptions she’d had as a kid with reels of Disney’s Snow White plus things like the pyramids and shots of the Amazon that had been in a drawer at her grandparents’ house. She’d been astonished to discover they were still made when Ben had received a SpongeBob one some years ago.

But it was the perfect image, she thought. Click, and it was the walk to the Borghese, window-shopping on the Via Condotti, elegance she could never afford even with a stronger dollar, then click and they were stopping to climb the Spanish Steps. Click, the small Keats-Shelley Memorial House museum that clung to one side. They stood in the tiny room where Keats had died so young and looked out the window as he had, gazing at the boat-shaped fountain in the Piazza di Spagna he was said to admire for its lion heads at the prow and stern. Since the train to Tuscany didn’t leave until after lunch the next day, they had decided to go to the English cemetery in the morning to see both Keats’s and Shelley’s graves—Keats with the sole identification: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

Another click brought the Borghese, the gardens and the museum itself. The Berninis seemed to breathe, even tremble, Proserpine forever seeking to free herself from Pluto. In the next picture they were sharing a mound of mouthwatering fritto misto at ’Gusto followed by an equally outstanding crunchy, thin-crusted pizza covered with cherry tomatoes, black olives, tomatoes, arugula, and two kinds of cheese—Parmesan and fresh mozzarella. Faith had had to wander in the adjacent emporio with its array of cookware and cookbooks. Tom had suggested a cab back to the hotel, what with the wine at lunch and what with . . .

And then back to the views. Ancient Rome at last. The cab driver, Stefano, had proved to be an accidental tour guide, providing a running commentary on everything they passed, interjecting his own description of his native Roma: “We are a historic lasagna!” Really quite an ideal way of thinking about the layers and layers that made up the Eternal City, the people, the food. Faith resolved to write a postcard to Freddy with the metaphor. And then, click, there was the Colosseum (“When it falls, so will Rome,” Stefano had quoted the old saying, adding that it was publicized now to discourage people from chipping away at it). Click: wildflowers growing in the Forum next to pieces of the grandeur that once was there, scattered about like a child’s discarded building blocks. A final shot: dinner at a place that looked and smelled good from the outside, proving even better. And now the question.

“Happy?” Tom said again, muffling his wife’s obvious reply with a long kiss.

A kiss that was abruptly interrupted by the sound of people running. Faith broke away from Tom to look. There were two people, and one appeared to be chasing the other. They were racing across the piazza toward the fountain just in front of the Fairchilds. Tom grabbed his wife back and folded her in his arms, pulling her out of their path. The second figure gained on, then tackled the first. Faith watched, aghast as the two were locked together in a violent embrace, thrashing about on the hard cobblestones. Suddenly there was a single shout, an exclamation almost of surprise. Tom and Faith stood frozen, staring. What had come before had occurred with stunning speed and now time briefly stopped. One person got up; the other didn’t. Faith buried her face back against her husband’s chest, afraid to look.

And then speed again, the noise of racing footsteps, but only one pair. She lifted her head and caught sight of the fleeing figure. It was a man. Young. A face like the faces they had been seeing astride scooters, sitting in caffès, on the sidewalks all day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except what had just happened, she was sure, wasn’t ordinary at all.

The person on the ground was trying to sit up. The face was in the shadows, but as they went to help, they could see it was also a man, dressed from head to toe in black.

Not quite to toe. His shoes were brown. Well-worn desert boots. Faith knew those shoes. Knew the man.

It was Freddy—and he was clutching at the handle of a knife that had been thrust into his body just below his heart.

Fate, not coincidence?