The Body in the Piazza (7 page)

Any hotel guests who had not departed were lingering at breakfast and the hall was empty as Faith quietly slipped from their room. Freddy's room was on the same floor as the Fairchilds,' but at the far end. She hadn't dared to hope that the room had not been cleaned, but the first thing that greeted her was the sight of the unmade bed. Knowing Freddy wasn't coming back immediately, the staff must have skipped making it up, pressured by other housekeeping demands.

Yet aside from the bed, the room appeared not to have been occupied at all. There was nothing in the wastebaskets save a spent tube of Italian toothpaste, Pasta del Capitano. Faith was sure Freddy would have told her he used that brand because of its captivating name and the picture of the Capitano himself, complete with nineteenth-century mustachio. It was a large tube, indicating that Freddy had been in Italy for some time, or it could just have been his preferred paste.

The armoire was empty, as were all the drawers. Nothing under the bed. The minibar looked untouched. The room had to be, no question, the nicest in the hotel. Freddy was right about that. The ceilings above the bed and the small marble altar in the alcove that had once been a private chapel were covered in celestial frescoes, a giant sunburst positioned above the
letto matrimoniale
. The only clue that Freddy had been there was the faint smell of the lime cologne he wore. She knew that the scent would always bring him, and those awful moments, back.

Faith went to the window. It was at the front of the hotel and looked straight across into the French embassy. The embassy shutters were closed, but the street was starting to come to life. She pictured Freddy looking out yesterday morning. He had taken the time to draw the drapes and fold the shutters back, seeing what she was seeing now before he left. Left to go where? She turned away, closed and locked the door, before taking the stairs to the lobby. She didn't want to smile at anyone in the elevator.

For once Paolo was not at the desk. A young woman who seemed to know who Faith was introduced herself. “I am Carolina, what can I do to help you? The breakfast is over, but I can get you and your husband anything you want to eat.”

“
Grazie,
but we are fine for now. Here is the key Paolo gave me. Please tell him I thought it was a very beautiful room, very special.”

“Our best.
Signore
Ives always had it.” Carolina's face fell. Faith broke the somber silence voicing a thought she'd had on the way down.

“Did Freddy, that is
Signore
Ives, leave a suitcase or anything else in your storage closet when he checked out to pick up later in the day? If so, I wonder if I might look to see whether he had packed the book he was going to lend me.”

“
Sì
. His case is here. I put it away myself. I must remember to ask Paolo what we are to do with it now.” Carolina gave a deep sigh.

Faith followed her to a closet beyond the bar and watched as Carolina unlocked it. There were a number of bags in it. The one Carolina pointed out as Freddy's was a good-size one behind the others. It didn't have a luggage tag or anything else to distinguish it.

“I must go back to the desk. If you will put it back when you are finished, I will lock the door again.”

Faith set the case flat on the floor and unzipped the outside pockets, which were empty, before opening the main compartment. She felt like a voyeur as she went through Freddy's things. Invading his personal space. But she had to.

He packed neatly. Extremely neatly. And, like the room, the contents offered nothing. They were impersonal to what she was sure was a considered degree. No one could ascertain anything from it except that what Faith had seen Freddy wear was what he wore all the time—there were duplicates of the two outfits, including an extra pair of his signature shoes. His toiletry kit revealed he preferred an American nonelectric-brand razor and the cologne was made by Penhaligon's, a nod to his British roots? And very expensive ones at that?

She sat back on her heels to think about what this lack of information might mean. Both the room and now his suitcase were devoid of receipts, stamps, a souvenir postcard, letter, crumpled note on the hotel stationery, not even a used
biglietto
for the bus, although she and Tom had been surprised to see that no one ever used these tickets, hopping on and off without stamping one in the machine. Even a nun! Stefano, the taxi driver, had told them the widespread practice was putting him out of business.

Carolina had said there was just the one item. Faith would have expected a computer case or an electronic notebook in the suitcase. Freddy was a writer. Surely he didn't create entire books using only the small notebook he carried.

There were two choices in cases like this—the conscious obliteration of one's tracks. Freddy didn't want his movements traced, either because he was a good guy—or a bad one.

There was a book at the bottom of the case, but it was not his notebook. It was the Graham Greene he'd been about to read when Faith met him on the rooftop terrace.
The End of the Affair
.

She took it with her.

T
om was still asleep. There was no need to wake him. The train didn't leave for hours. Paolo had put a basket of small pastries, biscotti, rolls, butter, and jam on the tray with the tea. She had not thought she would ever be hungry again, but she was. She filled a napkin with some biscotti, buttered a roll, and took a bottle of water from her bag. Then, slipping quietly out of the room, she climbed the stairs to the roof. Tom would know where she had gone.

She assumed the terrace would be deserted and so it seemed. The hotel guests would be making their ways to Vatican City, the Capitoline Museum, or other parts of Italy, having “done” Rome. Faith sat on one of the small chairs next to the jasmine-covered trellis that hid the swing she'd thought she and Tom would have shared. Another time. Yes, they would come back.

She spread her small feast on the table and broke off a piece of biscotti. It was going to be another glorious day, the sky already an intense blue and cloudless. The sun felt good.

“This is a fine time for you to be getting scruples.”

The woman's voice was so close that it startled Faith and she dropped the cookie. There
were
people on the roof and they were on the swing, out of sight, but only a scant few feet away. What to do? Cough? Leave?

“Just because you're paying me doesn't mean you own me!” a second woman said angrily.

They were speaking English, but their accents were purely American. Americans who had grown up or spent a great deal of time south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

This wasn't friendly girl talk, so one or both was likely to get up and leave at any moment. There was only one thing to do if Faith wanted to find out who the women were. She gathered up the remains of her snack in the napkin and her water, retraced her steps on tiptoe, then came back, selecting another chair farther away and noisily scraping it against the concrete. From her new spot, she couldn't hear anything, but a face peered around the trellis and seeing Faith gave a little wave.

“
Buon giorno,
” she said.

Faith half expected the greeting to be followed by “y'all.”

“
Buon giorno,
” she said, recognizing the woman from breakfast yesterday. She'd come in as the Fairchilds were finishing. She appeared to be in her thirties, and even at the early hour was in full makeup. Her deep auburn hair, lacquered in place, was styled as only big hair can be. An older woman with the same grooming regimen had accompanied her. They had made a beeline for the coffee.

Faith returned to her snack, eating slowly, and stared at the tops of the palms. It wasn't long before both women emerged from their jasmine tent and nodded to her as they passed.

Not a moment too soon. Tom came on their heels, saying, “I thought you'd be here. But it's been long enough. We need to take a walk, love.”

His words suggested she'd been there a while, and she was glad the two women hadn't overheard him. Although the exchange Faith had overheard could mean nothing more than the one asking the other to smuggle the Gucci scarves, Fendi bags, and Bulgari bracelets that put her way over the limit allowed by customs in her luggage, she didn't want them to know she'd been eavesdropping.

“And I'm hungry, too,” Tom added. “We need to get something to eat before the train.” He took her hand, pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

“Yes, let's take a walk,” she said, holding him close. “It's our dream trip and I'm not forgetting that. Do you know what I think we should do?”

“Haven't the foggiest.”

“I want to go to church and see the St. Matthew Caravaggios, especially the one with the dusty feet. I want to pray and light candles for Freddy. And then I want to go to the Trevi Fountain, throw two coins in, and find some more great panini.” Her voice caught at the last words, and she ended with a sob.

Tom stroked her hair. “This sounds perfect. Just what he would have wanted us to do, I'm sure.”

Faith shook the napkin out and wiped her eyes. Several pigeons swooped in to peck at the crumbs. She kissed her husband, their embrace lasting long past the pigeons' consumption of the unexpected treat. The roof was completely empty of all forms of life when they finally let go of each other and went down the stairs to pack.

I
t wasn't until she got to Termini, the train station, and saw all the families crowding the platforms for a day out, the women holding bouquets, that Faith remembered it was Mother's Day here, too, Festa della Mamma. Sitting on the train, waiting for it to leave, she thought back to last year's Mother's Day. Her family had served her breakfast in bed and she had pretended to be very surprised. Both kids were comfortable in the kitchen, having started cooking with her at an early age. Ben had produced a delicious omelet oozing with fontina and thin shavings of smoked turkey, as a change from ham, he'd explained. Amy had made popovers, and Tom, well, Tom gave her flowers. After church they'd driven down to Norwell, Tom's hometown on the South Shore, where they'd had a late lunch with the Fairchild clan, afterward piling into canoes for a paddle on the North River.

Faith's own mother didn't believe in Mother's Day, declaring that every day was mother's, father's, and children's day. That the May date was invented to sell cards, flowers, and perfume. She'd always thanked Faith and Hope for the cards they'd made at school and then the whole occasion had vanished once they were older until Tom appeared, askance at the attitude. His mother got flowers; Faith's would, too. And Faith noticed that Jane very quickly began to enjoy the custom. She was glad she'd remembered to order them for both mothers before she'd left. But here she was, childless in Italy, and she felt quite a pang looking at all the happy families on the train and with such good things to eat, she suspected, tucked in all those baskets and boxes.

It was almost departure time, and as usual one lone traveler was making a dash for the doors. Faith was amused to see Goth Girl from the hotel lunge in at the last moment and then search for her seat, the cool expression on her face replaced for the moment by confusion and finally, relief.

It seemed they were almost immediately in the country, and Faith tried to focus on the passing scenery. A lone line of cypress trees atop a distant hill stood out against the blue afternoon sky. They looked almost human, with their stark limbs lined up for some kind of
danse macabre
. She instantly recalled the image from Ingmar Bergman's film
The Seventh Seal,
and shut her eyes tightly.

“Honey, we're almost there. Wake up.” Tom was gently shaking her shoulder.

She opened her eyes. The train was slowing. They were in the outskirts of another city. It couldn't be Florence. Much too soon. Although the Eurostar train cut the time in half, to under an hour and a half. How long had she been sleeping?

“Come on. If we don't get off, we'll end up in Venice.”

“Not a bad thought,” Faith said. “Another time.”

She grabbed her carry-on bag and followed Tom to the storage area where they'd stowed their two cases. She'd put together a wardrobe of white tee shirts and jeans plus two sweaters, black crop pants, the one dress, shoes for walking, sandals, and flats. A raincoat, socks, and underwear completed her packing, except for some scarves and a necklace she'd bought several summers ago in Brooklin, Maine, at Sihaya Hopkins's glassblowers studio—a thin gold wire with a selection of beads in several sizes. Sihaya worked in the tradition of Italian glass, molten layers of dense color, so it seemed appropriate to bring her work as Faith's only jewelry.

“Did you catch what the conductor was announcing?” Tom said.

Faith had been aware of something coming over the loudspeaker, first in Italian, and then in English, but hadn't paid attention. They were at the right stop and she was concentrating on getting off without leaving anything behind. “No, what was it?”

“He was apologizing for the train being seven minutes late. Can you imagine that happening on the MBTA?”

She could not, and it was yet another indication of how civilized things were here.

Francesca had told them to go outside and stand in front of the station and that someone would be there waiting holding a sign that said
CUCINA DELLA ROSSI
, the name of the school. As they exited the platform, Faith heard the very distinctive ringtone Ben had installed on her phone for the trip: the opening to
2001,
which her son was very surprised to learn had been composed by a man named Richard Strauss in 1896, not John Williams. Ben thought his mother needed something that wouldn't go unanswered, something dramatic. She fished her phone from her bag in a panic and hit “answer” only to hear two voices, one very childlike and the other octaves below, say in unison: “Happy Mother's Day, Mom.”