The Body in the Piazza (4 page)

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.”