"Roman pizza's the thin-crusted kind," Paul said. "It's thicker in Naples."
A waiter, unsmiling, dropped menus on the table. "Oh my," Pamela said, scanning the choices. "You know, Richard, pizza's just about my favorite food in the world. Did Paul tell you?"
"No."
"And now to be having a genuine Roman pizza in a genuine Roman pizzeria—it's just thrilling!" She returned her gaze to the menu. "Now let's see ... mushroom sounds good. And what's a Napoli?"
"Mozzarella and anchovies, I think."
"I don't like anchovies. Maybe mushroom then. Or sausage. Or what's this? My goodness, zucchini flowers. How exotic!"
"Prego," the waiter said, returning.
They ordered, Pamela opting for the zucchini flowers. The waiter went away.
A silence immediately fell over their table, mostly because the mob of German women across the way was talking so loudly. Also, each of them was watching something: Paul, Kennington; Pamela (alternately) the pizzaiolo and Kennington; Kennington, a handsome boy who stood behind a butcher-block counter in the open kitchen. Taking a sharp knife, the boy spread his left hand out on the butcher block and stabbed at the wood between his fingers, moving from the space between thumb and index finger to the space between index and middle finger to the space between middle and ring finger to the space between ring finger and pinkie, then back again. He did it so fast the steel blade blurred: five, six times. Then he stopped, breathed, started again, as if he were trying to break his own record.
Their drinks arrived: Nastro Azzurro for Kennington, water for Pamela and Paul. Kennington's expression, as he watched the boy, was avid, almost lustful. And what was he hoping for? Paul wondered. That the boy might make a mistake, chop off a finger or a fingertip? That he wouldn't make a mistake, and prove his mettle? All that was obvious was that if this was a game, the boy was winning it; time after time he won it.
Soon their pizzas arrived, spilling over the edges of plates too small to contain them.
"Oh my, isn't this beautiful?" said Pamela, looking first at her son and then his friend. "So beautiful I almost can't bear to eat it."
Tears welled in her eyes—tears that neither Kennington nor Paul noticed, so quickly did she cough them back. "Well, buon appetito," she said.
"Buon appetito," they repeated in unison.
She took a bite, a little nervously, having never eaten flowers before. But as it turned out, they were delicious.
11
THEIR LAST MORNING in Rome, Kennington was supposed to go with Paul and his mother to Tivoli, to see the Villa d'Este. Indeed, at nine Paul was already dressed and ready in his room, when the phone rang. "Good morning," Kennington said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not really. Richard, about our conversation last night—I feel that I owe you—"
"Nonsense. If anyone owes anyone an apology it's me." He sneezed.
"Are you all right?"
"No. Actually, that's the reason I'm calling. I think I'm catching a cold."
"Oh?"
"Nothing serious. Only I'm not sure I'm up to an expedition today. Would you mind terribly if I bagged out?"
"Of course not." Paul's voice grew chilly. "You're free to do whatever you want. You know that."
"Well, if you really wouldn't mind, as things stand I think I'd probably rather rest this morning. I'm sure I'll feel better in the afternoon, and then we can meet as usual at the Bar della Pace. How does that sound?"
"Fine," Paul said.
"You have fun now, you hear?"
"I will."
"I'll miss you."
"Thank you. I'll miss you too."
They hung up. Picking up his backpack, Paul stomped downstairs to his mother's room. "Are you ready?" he shouted, rapping on the door.
"Almost. Come in!"
He barreled through and hurled himself onto the bed. Pamela was doing her make-up. "Sleep well?" she asked.
"Richard isn't coming," he answered matter-of-factly. "He says he has a cold."
Pamela colored. "You know, that's funny, Paul"—she put down her lipstick—"because as it happens my allergies are acting up this morning. Would you mind—"
"Oh, so now I'm supposed to go alone?"
"Well, you're always saying you need time to yourself, honey."
He rolled onto his side. "All right." Hoisting himself up from the bed, he headed for the door. "Well, bye."
"Bye, sweetheart. Be careful. See you this afternoon, okay?"
"Fine."
"You have enough money?"
"Yes."
The door slammed shut. Turning around, Pamela examined herself in the mirror; she looked good enough, she decided. Next, making sure first that the coast was clear, she hurried downstairs and across the street to a little grocery store, where she bought orange juice, pretzels, and a package of cornetti. At the pharmacy she got vitamin C tablets. Finally, on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, she hailed a cab. "Hotel Bristol," she said, adjusting her collar as the driver moved her into traffic.
It occurred to her that what she was doing was very possibly mad. And yet might not this announcement of illness also encode the clue for which she'd been waiting, delivered shyly—or perhaps slyly—through Paul?
No one stopped her—indeed, no one noticed her—in the Bristol lobby. Relieved not to have been accused of prostitution, she rode the elevator to the sixth floor, feeling rather conspicuous with her sack of groceries. Down the long corridor she walked, past open doors and metal carts loaded with linens and little shampoo bottles, until she reached the room she knew to be Kennington's, the room marked 611.
She knocked. "Chi è?" a voice asked from inside.
"Pamela."
Silence. Several seconds passed before Kennington opened the door. Unshaven, he stood lumpishly before her, in gray sweatpants and a Tanglewood T-shirt.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," she said. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"No, not at all. Come in."
He stepped aside to let her pass. His room, though elegant, was a mess: the bed unmade, a shirt draped over the back of a chair.
"This is lovely," she said, putting down her bag. "So refined."
Hugging her arms, she grinned at him.
Silence.
"Well, I'll bet you're surprised to see me, aren't you?"
"Yes, in fact. I assumed you'd gone with Paul to Tivoli."
"Oh, at the last minute I decided to stay. I wasn't really in the mood for a bus ride."
"Ah."
"And then when Paul told me you weren't feeling well, I thought, I'll bring him some breakfast. Here." She handed him the bag. "I've got orange juice, pretzels, croissants. Something sweet and something salty, that's what Paul always likes when he's sick. Also, vitamin C."
"Thanks." Kennington put the bag down on the dresser. "You really didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"Oh, but I wanted to. Especially after all the meals you've bought us."
"But it was my pleasure."
"Well, now it's my turn to be hospitable. So you just lie down over there"—she pointed to the bed—"and I'll get breakfast ready. Do you have any glasses?"
"Over by the minibar."
"I'll get them. You stay put."
She took two tumblers from a shelf, poured the juice, handed him a glass.
"Cin-cin."
"It's bad luck to toast with anything other than wine."
"Oh, I didn't know."
"Let me clear that off for you," he added, getting up and removing the shirt from the chair.
She sat, and Kennington returned to the bed, where he lay down and crossed his legs at the ankles.
"So," Pamela said, smiling loudly. (What to say now?) "Actually, Richard, I do have a little confession to make. I didn't come by your room this morning only to bring you orange juice."
"You didn't."
She shook her head. "The truth is, I had an ulterior motive. In fact, I only decided not to go to Tivoli after Paul told me you w
eren't coming. Was that wicked of me?"
"Why would it be wicked ?"
"Because, well, to be honest, I wanted you all to myself." She laughed. "And please don't assume from that that I haven't enjoyed the time the three of us spent together. I have. It's just that, do you realize this whole week you and I haven't had a single minute by ourselves? Without Paul?"
"No, I guess not."
"Have a croissant," she added, getting up and ripping into the package.
Crumbs fell into the sheets as he tore the somewhat stale croissant in half.
"How is it?"
"Oh, delicious."
"Good. You want some pretzels?"
"No thanks. Not just yet."
"You can keep them in case you have a craving." She sat down again, wrapped her hands one around the other. "You know, Richard, I've been wanting to tell you how grateful I am to you for all the help you've given Paul and me on this trip. I mean, when we arrived, as you could see, I was a wreck. And now look at me."
"I'm glad you're feeling better. Still, I can't take credit."
"Oh, but you should! If today I can face things again, it's thanks to you." She leaned into the soft, embracing fabric of the armchair. "A bad marriage can be a very ego-draining thing. You assume that just because there's no love, then no one can love you."
"I understand."
All at once she spilled out the saga of Kelso's abandonment, with which of course Kennington was already familiar.
"And yet it never occurred to me to get out of it," she concluded, "because it's all so familiar, that kind of misery, so ... homey, almost. You see what I'm saying? It's funny. At first I was angry at Kelso. But now I feel almost grateful to him. After all, if he'd come with us to Rome..." Her voice fell away.
"It's a decision I suspect he'll live to regret," Kennington answered after some seconds.
"You're sweet to tell me that. And I can't deny that deep down, I probably do hope his little liaison turns out to be a failure. You know, that he comes over, begs me to take him back, and I basically say, 'Up yours.'" She covered her teeth with her hand. "Isn't that horrible of me to say?"
"I don't think it's horrible at all. I think it's natural."
"I'm happy to hear it. I trust your judgment. So does Paul."
"Does he?"
"You're his hero, Richard. Why, I can remember taking him to buy his first record. He couldn't have been more than nine. And he'd been saving his allowance for weeks, and finally, when he had enough, I drove him to the record store, which was this very sixties place, basically a huge wooden box on the edge of El Camino Real—we always just called it 'The Box'—and I watched as he walked over to the classical section, so proud, and thumbed through the albums until he found your new one, and made all these meticulous comparisons between the copies until he decided which one was perfect. Then he carried it over to the counter and bought it with change. All change." She laughed. "That's why this trip has meant so much to him. Why, just think, if those gypsy girls hadn't attacked me, if you hadn't happened to be in the piazza at the same instant..."
"And tomorrow you're off to Florence. Are you excited?"
"Let's not talk about that. Would you like some more juice?"
"No, I'm fine."
"How about some vitamin C? Oh, I'm so scatterbrained, I haven't even asked how you're feeling."
"Congested. Also, my throat hurts."
"Any fever? Let me feel your head."
"I haven't got a fever."
Moving to sit next to him on the bed, she cupped her cool palm against his brow. "No, you're not warm."
"I told you, I haven't got a fever."
She did not remove her hand.
"Pamela—"
Still she did not remove her hand.
A panicked virago, she smiled: all teeth.
Some time passed very slowly. "You know what?" Pamela said after a while. "Maybe you do just have the tiniest bit of temperature. I'll go and get you a wet cloth."
Taking away her hand (it was hot now), she retreated to the bathroom, where very delicately she closed the door, switched on the tap, picked out a facecloth. Cream-colored, this facecloth. Plush. She stared at it until her vision blurred. Then she sat down on the toilet, and for just a few seconds buried her face in the cloth, heaved breath, formed her hands into fists.
For some reason an old memory assailed her. Taking a French course in college once, she had studied so hard for her midterm that she'd ended up mismemorizing a key rule of grammar, and getting an F. Yet when she explained what had happened, her professor had shown little sympathy. "No ear!" he'd said, tapping her on the side of the head.
No ear.
"Fool," she whispered to herself, "idiot," until, realizing that she could not sit like that all morning, she got up again; checked her make-up, which seemed to be all right; wet and wrung out the facecloth. Indeed, she was just about ready to go out again, when she noticed a pair of boxer shorts hanging on the back of the door. They were pale blue, from Brooks Brothers, just like the ones she'd given Paul last Christmas.
Moving closer, she plucked the boxers from their hook. They were torn down the middle seam.
Were they Paul's? The label was the same, the size the same. And yet if they were Paul's, what were they doing in Kennington's bathroom? Maybe Kennington owned an identical pair. Not unlikely. But the same size?
Putting them back where she'd found them, she opened the door. Kennington was still lying where she'd left him.
"Here," she said, handing him the cloth. "This should make you feel better."
"Thanks." He pressed it against his forehead.
"I always made these up for my kids when they were sick. They really eat the fever." With her left hand she rubbed at what seemed to be a sore spot on the back of her head.
Kennington closed his eyes, let the moisture soak into his brow.
"Well, I should probably skedaddle," she said after a minute. "You need to rest."
"Yes, I think a little sleep will do me a world of good."
"So, I'll see you this afternoon at the caffè, how about that? Unless—" She raised her head proudly. "Well, I guess I just want to say that if you don't feel up to meeting us this afternoon, you shouldn't feel obligated, Richard. At least not on our account."
"Oh, I don't," Kennington answered quickly. "In fact, I'm sure after a little sleep I'll be"—he snapped his fingers—"fit as a fiddle."
"Good," Pamela said, feeling sacrificial. "That'll mean a lot to Paul."
She held out her hand toward the bed, but Kennington was already on his feet, moving toward the door, holding it open for her to pass through.
Once Pamela had gone, Kennington immediately bolted the door behind him. During the course of her visit, he noticed, the bellhop had slipped through another fax. He picked it up and was about to stuff it, as he had the others, into the bedside drawer, when a familiar name leapt out at him. Alarmed, he read the fax through. Then he opened the drawer and dragged out the other faxes, and read those through as well. To his regret and horror, he discovered that Joseph had never once mentioned Signore Batisti, but wrote only of Sophie, whose death, it seemed, had crushed his spirit more ferociously than Kennington would have thought possible.
He picked up the phone and dialed. "It's me," he told Joseph's voice mail. "Joseph, I am so sorry about Sophie. Please call me back. I ... I don't know what else to say." Then he hung up and sat down on the bed. Five minutes passed. He picked up the phone and tried Joseph's number a second time. Again the voice mail answered. He didn't leave a message.
Getting up, he took off his clothes. That he had to get away—a possibility already brewing in his head for several days—he now felt certain. No, he should never have suggested, even casually, accompanying them to Florence for now not only Paul, but his mother was in love with him. Everything, as usual, had gone too far too fast (his own fault) so that from the very intensity of the affair—the habit pleasure has of curling up hotly at the edges
—he found himself wanting to run. It was more than he could handle, more than he wanted to handle. For if he continued with Paul, what would welcome him but problems? From Pamela there would be wrath to contend with; from Paul himself, competitiveness or envy. Or perhaps he would try to use Kennington's fame to jump-start his own career, or resent that fame as an impediment. It was possible. Anything was possible.
As for Joseph, could they even separate? They were joined by more than need. Their money was as intertwined as two lovers waking on a winter morning. Which meant that if they did break up, the resulting turmoil would be financial as well as emotional; even, perhaps, public; no, it was more than he could bear to contemplate.
He pulled on his jeans. He was, he recognized, having a panic attack; and though he could now hold his panic at a distance, as it were, examine it—he was one of those people who at moments of crisis gain access to a certain clarity, even tranquillity of intention—still, panic alone ran in his nerves.
Had Paul found his phone number? He hoped not. Even so, to be on the safe side, he'd be sure to change it when he got back.
It wouldn't be the first time he'd changed his number.
He picked up the telephone, called Delta, and arranged to switch his reservation onto the flight that departed the next morning (easy, because he was traveling first-class). Then he called the front desk and explained that due to an emergency he would have to be checking out immediately. Then he called Joseph and left a second message, this one more restrained, telling him when he'd be home.
Phone calls finished, he packed, which took no time at all; after so many years of travel, he could get his luggage together in ten minutes flat. Finally he checked under the bed and in the bathroom, where he discovered Paul's torn boxer shorts hanging on the back of the door. Had Pamela seen them ? he wondered.
Did it matter? Not anymore.
Picking them up, he held the boxer shorts to his nose, for an instant; for an instant, breathed Paul's stale, sweet smell. Then he dropped them into the trash can.
A taxi picked him up outside the hotel. Through a dry, dreary zone of high-rise apartment blocks and empty lots he rode, past the Baths of Caracalla to EUR, its fascistic towers gleaming whitely in the hot noon light. The landscape of this part of the city had a lunar aspect that would have frightened Kennington if it hadn't seemed so transitional, so impermanent. And how urgently, at that moment, he longed for his loft, for his piano, for familiar things: sheets and pillows he knew, and Joseph's apartment, and the sofa with its smell of leather and dachshund, through which just the slightest note of honey always seemed to rise! All the things he feared losing, if he left Joseph. Even Joseph himself. Yet home had its own evils, too. Perhaps best of all, then, these waterless seas, where no one could find him.
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