“Pizza con prosciutto for the signore; pizza Margherita for la signora; Calzone for la signorina and Stromboli for il giovanotto. Eat, okay?”
Hostaria Al Colosseo, an old-style restaurant situated opposite the Coliseum, with its colorful red, blue and white tablecloths is high on passion and even higher on prices for tourists. The wait staff claims that while sitting in the shadow of the centuries old structure, the sounds of battling gladiators echo on a Strega (bewitching) night.
The Coliseum, the largest amphitheater in the world, is at the centerof aroundabout that echoes with the sounds of vehicular traffic and legions of pedestrians in the piazza. Of course, there is the predominance of motorbikes that are as common as mozzarella and pepperoni on pizza. Their horns beep away but their frail sound is difficult to take seriously.
The food tastes reheated. As anywhere in Italy, side street eateries offer better fare at a more reasonable cost than main street outlets targeted to tourists. I slip a pizza slice to a mutt sitting by the edge of the curb. The mongrel sniffs and moves along.
The pizzeria is a nice-looking establishment
and a convenient place to meet. It is active with tired, famished vacationers and locals engrossed in animated conversations. Even several off-duty carabinieri sit at adjacent tables. One of them keeps whispering in his sweetheart’s ear. She reacts, like a woodpecker in heat, with kisses to his face.
“Emily, afterwards, do you want to go back to St. Peter’s Basilica and take in the celebrations? It sounds like a spectacle to remember.”
“What for? So you can leave us stranded
again?”
It is best I do not engage her further.
Emily does not desire to adjust to the
downshifting, laid-back Italian life-style. She craves excitement. With my slide into silence, she turns her venom on Christina.
“Stop slouching and take that frown off your
face.”
“Don’t talk to me lady. Do not tell me what to
do. Just leave me alone. You are so annoying.”
“Are you going to let her talk to me like that?” spouts Emily in my face.
I am not so secretly amused. I snicker and remain resigned to Christina’s emulation of my wife’s true nature. A ‘just dessert’ is the phrase that echoes in my brain.
Christina interjects as she bolts from her chair, “I’m not really hungry. I am going over to see if I can get a personal tour of the Coliseum. Marc Anthony, come with me.”
Mark Anthony seizes his Calzone and leaves the table before Emily or I get a chance to protest. They both jog down the sidewalk and cross over to
the Roman Coliseum.
“Nice role model you are for your kids,” bites
Emily.
“Will you lay off? Stop breaking my balls.
You are always demeaning me in public, in front of strangers and in front of our family. I have told you hundreds of times not to quarrel in front of the kids. There is no mileage in arguing and lying in front of them. All you’re going to do is get them to hate you and me.”
“First I’m a flirt. Now I’m a liar. Is there no end to your twisted view of me?”
“You’re both. Flirting is a mix bag of white lies that communicates dishonesty and deception. Lying, by doing or remaining silent, is contempt for the trust and the feelings of another person. You demean me when you flirt and lie. You also disrespect yourself.”
“Really, professor? You are quite the arrogant bastard! I suppose you do not keep secrets. What about that bimbo who sat next to you on the plane? Were you authentic with her or did you put on a façade?”
“Actually, I do not have any regrets about that conversation. Ali is just an arts professor familiar with my hometown. Nothing was said that could not be said in your presence.”
“Ali? Ali? Ali is it? How nice for you.” I reach into my shirt pocket.
“Look, she gave me her business card.”
“Ali did. Indeed, she did. Allegra Lupo, Associate Professor.”
Emily, with the exaggerated face of an
amateurish actor, sneers sternly at the card.
“You are either a man of matchless integrity or a blind simpleton. I choose the latter,” and with that Emily rips the business card into four pieces and tosses the remnants onto my plate.
Without raising my eyes from the fragments, I negotiate a different course.
“I need to pick up our rental car before 8
p.m. tonight. If we leave after breakfast tomorrow,
we should be in Tarquinia by 11 a.m.”
“Great, perhaps you’ll find someone there who will confirm you are not a Mafioso’s errant child.”
Emily is continually egging me into an acute, psychiatric disorder. I will be damned before I accept her coquettish crap. Her hallucinogenic words give me visions of pay back. I am convinced that there exists in me a person who is vastly different in moral character. So often, Emily has toyed with my trigger. It will not take much more for my protective bubble to burst.
Chapter 13
Rome, central Italy Vatican City
Emilio is approaching the Swiss guards. He touches his chest to feel his necklace, the entry ticket to the Vatican’s inner stronghold. He walks past the police Lamborghini as the hinged doors swing open and twists his head to assess the police barricade and the commotions in the square. The moment has arrived. He estimates he needs twenty minutes to do his job.
The Pontifical Swiss guards and the military band, in their ceremonial dress, have entered Saint Peter’s Square. Colored pomp of centuries’ old ceremonies is about to start. Onlookers begin to applaud.
Percussion instruments spike the air with
notes circling about the countless halberds, axe- like blades and steel pikes mounted on the end of long shafts. Swords and saxophones, drums and trumpets combined with strict military training dazzle the growing stream of smiling visitors. There are cloudbursts of applause and cheers. No doubt, strollers like Michelangelo and Mona Lisa swapped pleasantries during similar past processions. The police have barricaded the washrooms, but some officers appear more enthralled by the festivities than their own investigation.
Emilio has a reflective, grave look. He watches the two relatively young men who stand guard at the Arch of the Bells, southeast entrance to Vatican City. This gateway is far away from the other main entry, Porta Sant’ Anna, next to the barracks of the Swiss Guards located on the other side of St. Peter’s Square.
The guardsmen, looking like court jesters, appear abandoned and bored. The short tunnel behind them leads to the Square of the First Christian Martyrs and, more importantly, to the Treasury building that encloses the courtyard. Farther away, there is Paul VI Audience Hall and even further is the Government Palace. It is customary for the Secretary of State to leave his office in the Government Palace and visit the Treasury Department before stepping into St. Peter’s Basilica. The Cardinal is an exacting creatureof habit that surprises neither the professore nor Emilio. Cardinal Pio is kinfolk.
The professore laid out clear routes and instructions. After only one previous visitation, Emilio now knows the inner sanctum of the Vatican
community as well as any