The Body in the Piazza (3 page)

He raised his hands in mock horror. “Worse than a guidebook! The point of travel is to get lost. But perhaps you are one of those travelers who needs to be able to tell one's friends that one ‘did' the Borghese, the Sistine Chapel, and so on.”

“No, we're not like that. We do have a bit of a plan—a friend gave a suggestion. We call it the Caravaggio, Bernini, Borromini Trail. We thought we'd wander from one artist to the other.”

“I thought you seemed like a sensible woman. I can always tell. A focal point is different from a checklist, as you surely know.”

He leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs out. He was wearing light tan trousers and a well-pressed white linen shirt. His feet, however, were incongruously clad in dusty brown suede desert boots.

He followed her glance. “I walk a great deal—and it's also an affectation. Like the hat. My name, by the way, is Frederick Ives and I am called ‘Freddy.' I also have a ridiculous middle name, which I will reveal upon closer acquaintance, one I am positive will ensue. Now tell me who you are, literally. Not simply your name—a good place to start—but tell me all. You said ‘we,' so you are not a solo traveler and I am quite, quite sure you are not with some sort of ghastly American tour group. Since you are wearing a wedding band I assume a husband is somewhere about, more's the pity. Although you could be a divorcée wearing a ring to stave off unwanted attention, inevitable with such beautiful eyes, or sadly a widow, but I don't often have that kind of luck.”

In Rome for only a few hours and here she was, already dallying in a pleasant, harmless flirtation! Faith had pictured exchanging a meaningful glance with one or more handsome
signors,
but with native speakers the kind of wordplay she was engaged in at the moment would have been far beyond her linguistic skills. To have such luck a few hours off the plane! And Frederick—“Freddy”—Ives was not unattractive. Not at all. An older man. She guessed he was in his late forties. She studied him more carefully.

Freddy's hat was covering his hair and what she could see was fair, hard to determine whether any of the threads were silver, or missing. His initial, courtly gesture had not provided more than a second's glance at what lay beneath. His boots had obviously taken him into sunny climes, as his face and arms were deeply tanned, making his blue eyes quite startling. Why was it that some men grew even more attractive with age, while women were fighting a good fight, eventually surrendering to the inevitable—comfortable shoes and Not Your Daughter's Jeans?

Faith took a breath and fervently wished she could change the water into wine to suit the mood, but that was not her department. How to tell all? Where to start? She followed his suggestion. “My name is Faith Fairchild—”

“I'm so glad,” he interrupted. “It's perfect for a heroine. I was trembling with fear that it might be ‘Mabel' or ‘Maude.' No, I take that back. I like ‘Maude,' just not for you. Go on.”

Somewhat nonplussed, Faith plunged back into the conversation, giving Freddy the CliffsNotes version of her life so far, which seemed to delight him, and he further interrupted only twice to comment on how extremely unlikely it was that she should be a cook—“One thinks of Mrs. Beeton”—and also a minister's wife—“too Trollope.”

Faith was enjoying herself very much. All these literary allusions. As an English major she'd pictured herself married to someone who would read what she read and they'd sit sipping sherry in front of the fire, discussing books while little Elizabeth (
Pride and Prejudice
) and little Nicholas (
The Great Gatsby
and
Nickleby
) slept in their wee trundles overhead. Thank goodness she had met Tom instead, and while they shared some of the same tastes in reading, they had totally avoided tweeness.

Still it had its attractions. Just as she was about to ask Freddy for his own
vita,
the door from the hotel opened and this time it
was
Tom, followed by a member of the hotel staff bearing a tray with a bottle of Prosecco in an ice bucket and several little bowls with olives, nuts, and some sort of Italian Chex Mix equivalent. Faith jumped up and hugged her husband in delight.

“Ah, the bridegroom cometh,” Freddy said, standing also.

“Tom, this is Frederick Ives. Freddy, this is my husband, Tom Fairchild.”

“I think we need another glass if you would, Antonio,” Tom said, putting his hand out to greet his wife's new companion, who immediately shook it heartily, saying, “I would not dream of intruding. You are obviously a man of exquisite sensibilities, and priorities. I envy you this moment in your maiden
Roman Holiday
. First times are rare in life.”

Tom laughed. “That's exactly how I feel.
La dolce vita
.” The men exchanged looks, and it was Faith's turn to laugh. Schoolboys, both of them.

Freddy picked up the books he hadn't opened. One was a small notebook; the other was a copy of Graham Greene's
The End of the Affair
.

“I would be honored if you would be my guests for dinner tonight at an
hostaria
not far from here. I selfishly want to watch your enchanting wife's face as she tastes their
carciofi alla giudia
and your nice one, too, Reverend Tom, when you drink the golden Frascati from my friend, the owner's, private source in the Alban Hills.” He paused and then added in a surprisingly intense voice, “I don't know when I will be in Rome again, and I won't be here long this time.”

The Fairchilds accepted his invitation. Nine o'clock at Hostaria Giggetto on the Via del Portico d'Ottavia. Their host would meet them there.

Antonio was opening the door for Freddy when Faith realized she had an unanswered question.

“But what do you do? You never said.”

“Oh, I write guidebooks. Ciao.”

C
HAPTER
2

E
xcerpt 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?

“Y
ou'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.