One Summer in Rome

by Samantha Tonge

‘What was this scare all about, anyway? Has anyone been hurt – or arrested?’ she asked.

  Dante stared at her for a moment. ‘What? No. No luckily. It was a false alarm. A black rucksack left at the top of the escalators with a copy of the Koran sticking out the top. It belonged to a young woman, on her way back from a mosque. She’s pregnant, felt sick, and took off her rucksack to look for a bottle of water. However, she panicked and without thinking rushed to the nearby toilets before throwing up. She didn’t quite make it in time and had to spend a while in there, cleaning herself.’

  He shook his head. ‘I saw her from a distance, molto upset. The police handcuffed her until they had finished thoroughly examining the rucksack. Also sticking out of the top of her rucksack was just the head of a straight, plastic black handle – it belonged to her umbrella. The police thought it could be a firearm.’

  ‘Poor her. How do you know all this?’

  Dante jerked his head towards the officer. ‘We used to work together.’

  Journalists swarmed around the policeman, including a photographer who, for some reason, was pointing at Dante. The officer waved him away and then came over. He spoke urgently to Dante. Mary managed to pick out the words newspapers and vultures.

  ‘Grazie,’ murmured Dante to the officer, who clapped him on the back.

  ‘Right,’ said Dante, face grim but sounding more like himself. ‘Let’s go. Get you a strong coffee before heading back. Everyone back at Pizzeria Dolce Vita will be waiting to check for themselves that you are still in one piece.’

  ‘Good idea. There’s a photographer who, for some reason, has taken a real interest in you.’

  Dante scowled and put an arm around her shoulder and forced the pace. She stumbled and realised that she was still wearing the smart executive’s high heels. Mary turned her head for a second, as she regained her balance and noticed the photographer staring their way. The man then quickly ran around to face them, raised his camera, and took a shot. The photographer winked at Mary and, with a smug expression, walked off as he took out his phone.

  ‘He took a photo,’ said Mary.

  Dante quickened their pace further.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mary yawned as she set out the tables. Eight a.m. How she loved this time of day, when the piazza was alive with the chorus of chirping birds. Accompanying them was the trickle of fountain water and the whistling of artists as they set up their easels. The sky was forget-me-not blue and the early morning air held the promise of a sultry afternoon.

  Rocco fed scraps of ham to his stray furry friend. They’d built up quite a routine, coming together before the first customers arrived and after the last left. Natale had got up early to make pewter bracelets. With Lucia off school and the busy tourist season, she didn’t have much time to work on her jewellery. She needed a good stock as she was running a stall at the Assumption Day street festival.

  As Mary smoothed out the green gingham tablecloths, she thought back to her reception when she got back last night. Lucia had run straight up to her with a lump of her rose quartz. The little girl had overheard the adults talking about some sort of potential danger, yet despite their reassurances couldn’t sleep.

  ‘I borrowed this pink crystal from your room,’ she’d explained matter-of-factly, in Italian, ‘because you said it was good for hearts – and my heart was hurting with tears for you.’

  Mary’s eyes pricked at the memory of the big hug Lucia had given her. She’d told her to keep the stone.

  The hugs didn’t stop there with an all-engulfing one from Alfonso and Natale’s fragrant embrace following that. Enzo brought her a coffee and plate of biscuits from the kitchen, showing off how he’d mastered that British classic: shortbread. Even Rocco patted her shoulder and said he was glad she was okay.

  Humming, Mary smiled at the waiter as the little dog yapped and rolled on its back for a tummy tickle. For the first time in … ever, she felt the hint of a sense of fitting in. The nearest she’d got was with a lovely foster couple, who genuinely seemed fond of Mary. But their circumstances changed, Mary was sent away with speed. Oh they wrote for a while, and sent small gifts, but it was the less tangible things she craved, like a shared joke or a just-because cuddle. She told herself it didn’t matter. That they – and the world – owed her nothing and she had to be strong. Yet each time it happened, a new layer was added to her protective shell.

  Yet in Italy that shell, millimetre by millimetre, was beginning to crack. Here, at Pizzeria Dolce Vita, her housemates genuinely seemed to care. Although Mary still thought Dante’s reaction … in fact the whole family’s … was out of proportion to what had actually happened.

  She straightened herself and scanned all the tables to check they had the right cutlery and napkins. Dante hurrying over to the Coliseum underground, last night … the Rossi family’s anxiety … it had made her resolve more than ever to repay their hospitality by doing what she could to keep them on the Lombardi List.

  So, when her shift finished at two o’clock she decided to eat lunch at Margherita Margherita. Maybe a visit would help highlight Pizzeria Dolce Vita’s exact strengths and Mary could come up with some new ideas. But the restaurant had seemed busier than ever today. Enzo and the kitchen assistants hardly had time to breathe as Dante had the day off. Apparently he was visiting a friend.

  Mary nipped upstairs to grab her handbag and kissed Natale on the cheek before leaving. How Italian she was becoming.

  ‘Shall I go to the newsagent’s, before heading off?’ she asked. ‘People have been asking for the papers we usually stock all morning, but I don’t think they were delivered. Honestly, I don’t know what is up with the customers today. They’ve wanted to do nothing but chat to me. There seems to be more locals than usual. Normally Saturday trade is all about the tourists.’

  Straight away Natale looked up from her pewter work. ‘Chat? About what?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘The main topic of conversation is what happened on the underground, last night. It was as if they knew I was there.’ Mary wondered if that photographer had sold the shot of her and Dante, although they were of no interest to the public. It would make no sense.

  Natale cleared her throat. ‘It sounds like they are too busy talking to read newspapers. But don’t worry, I’ll sort it out when I’ve got a moment.’

  Mary walked downstairs, determined to ignore her friend who was busy enough. If customers wanted to read the news then she’d make that wish come true. At the moment the pizzeria had to do everything possible to please those with full wallets.

  ‘I’m just dropping into the newsagent to pick up today’s papers,’ she called to Rocco and Alfonso as she walked past the bar.

  ‘No!’ Rocco raised his voice. Mary stopped to look at him. ‘I mean … no …’ His pale face flushed. ‘I … we … you see …’

  Alfonso’s brow furrowed. ‘Not after last night, Maria. Let’s keep things positive for Lucia. They might be full of articles on terrorism. I don’t want her overhearing customers discussing it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mary said although something shifted inside her. Once more, the reaction seemed over the top. Why was the Rossi family so super sensitive to a security alert? Baffled, Mary headed straight out to the underground.

  A humid half-hour later she sat under the canopy, out the front of Margherita Margherita. It wasn’t quite as full as Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Mary ordered a sparkling water and studied the colourful menu. All she fancied was a couple of the mini pizzas from the Rossi family’s restaurant – it was just so humid. With satisfaction Mary noted that the only lighter option on this menu was a salad. So the Rossi family were one step ahead there. A friendly waiter took her order and brought back her drink with breadsticks.

  ‘Margherita! Over here!’ called a middle-aged woman on the table next to Mary’s. She waved and was clearly English, with her northern accent. Eventually a tall woman, perhaps in her late twenties, came over. Her hair was tied back and looked as if it was prematu
rely greying. She’d wrapped an apron tightly around her slim waist. Her face broke into a smile.

  ‘Jackie! Lovely to see you, bella,’ she said. ‘We will all miss you when you fly back home tomorrow. Have you enjoyed your break in Rome?’ Margherita sat down.

  ‘Yes. It’s been dead good.’ The woman grinned. ‘And finding this gem of a place has been the best part of my holiday. The food’s far better than in my hotel and everyone is so friendly. I may be travelling alone but you’ve made me feel like part of a community.’

  Margherita squeezed her hand. ‘We hope you come back. Dessert on the house today. Any one you want.’

  Mary shifted uncomfortably. She’d expected to hear insincere tones in this Margherita’s voice. She didn’t want to like this competitor who’d been so rude to Dante. Yet she seemed genuine and caring. She wasn’t just putting that on for the customer – after years serving food and drinks, Mary could usually tell.

  At that moment her salad arrived and her heart sank further as she took in its appealing presentation and tasted the delicious, piquant dressing. The lettuce looked perky and had just the right crunch. The sweetness from the tiny, succulent tomatoes made Mary want to shut her eyes and savour every second. She gazed around, in the hope of spotting some sort of failure but nothing caught her eye. Just young children happily crayoning and customers delighted with their free plastic daisy, as they left.

  ‘Sign of the times, no?’ Margherita said and sighed.

  Mary couldn’t help overhearing as she and the English woman discussed last night’s underground scare. Together they were flicking through a newspaper.

  Margherita shook her head. ‘See him? He’s the son of the owner of the Pizzeria Dolce Vita I was telling you about.’

  ‘The place that had that food poisoning scare?’

  Mary’s eyebrows shot into her forehead and she glanced over. Margherita’s striking face looked ugly for a second with curled lips and narrowed eyes. As far as Mary knew, the Rossi family’s place had never made a single customer ill – Alfonso was very proud of that. How dare their competitor spread lies.

  ‘Si,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping it won’t be too difficult to knock them off the Lombardi List I mentioned – either by me or a couple of other pizzerias that are doing particularly well this season.’

  The woman pulled a face. ‘Well, from what I’ve read in this paper, the son isn’t the sort of person I’d trust with my dinner, let alone my life.’

  What were they talking about? Without realising it, she stared. Margherita looked over. Squinted further and then glanced back at the newspaper. She pointed to a photo.

  ‘Is that you?’ she said, politely.

  Mary leant over. It was a shot of her next to Dante. Must have been the one that photographer took. Why on earth would a newspaper print that?

  ‘Are you his girlfriend?’ she asked, in Italian.

  ‘I really don’t see …’

  ‘You are English?’ she said and ditched the Italian. ‘Perhaps you don’t know about his background. You might want to check it out.’

  Jackie nodded. ‘I’d read the paper, dear. I can see the attraction – he’s a handsome man and looks decent. However, appearances can be deceptive.’

  ‘He’s brought shame on our country – on our police force,’ said Margherita, in stilted tones.

  ‘Dante is one of the kindest men I know.’ Mary shook her head. ‘You must have got it wrong. He’s helped me no end since I’ve moved over here and started work in his family’s restaurant – which,’ she added, ‘has a spotless record when it comes to hygiene.’

  Margherita’s cheeks pinked up. ‘Have you come here to weigh up the opposition? All you’ll find here is excellent food, great service, and a business owner who fervently supports our police and armed forces.’

  ‘This place deserves to be on that list,’ said Jackie. ‘Margherita works all hours. And I’m ex-army. That’s why I first came here. I got chatting to her and we just connected. Margherita does a lot of fundraising for ex police and army personnel. There was a raffle last week, collection pots on the bar and—’

  Margherita blushed.

  ‘And that’s really great, but as for the rest, no one could accuse the Rossi family of not working hard either.’ Mary folded her arms.

  ‘But they’ve lost rank during the last two years.’ Margherita sneered.

  ‘They’ve had a difficult time.’

  Margherita’s lips pursed as if she was holding back an unpleasant comment. She got to her feet. ‘Jackie? Would you like your usual tiramisu on the house? With extra cream?’

  Jackie beamed. ‘You’re a good girl.’ She looked at Mary, after Margherita disappeared inside, high-fiving a little girl on the way. ‘She’s a lovely person – just passionate about good food, good service, and supporting those who are meant to teach us about loyalty and teamwork.’

  ‘Meant to?’

  Jackie bit her lip and then passed over the newspaper. ‘Look … settle your bill. Go and read this in private. I just think family is very important to Margherita. Apparently her granddad was executed in 1943 by the Germans, on the Greek island of Cephalonia, after Italy decided to surrender to the Allies. She grew up with relatives working in the forces and parents always supporting them with fundraising.’

  Mary took out a twenty-euro note, put it by her plate, and left. On the way back to the underground was a small park and she sat leant up against the trunk of an olive tree, grateful for the shade. She opened the newspaper and turned the pages until she spotted the photo of her and Dante. After batting away a bee, she skimmed through the Italian and several words immediately jumped out at her – coward, best friends, and brutal death.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday night, late the next day, Mary sat alone by the Moor Fountain.

  ‘Everything okay, bella?’ said Gabriel, in Italian. He sat down next to her and tucked dyed greying curls behind his ear. The other artists were packing away. A guitarist strummed in front of Pizzeria Dolce Vita. The Rossi family had all gone to bed. Dante still hadn’t returned. And after reading the newspaper yesterday, she now understood why.

  Mary sighed and looked over at Rocco who was in his cycling helmet, ready to go home. He crouched down outside the restaurant and fed scraps to his feline friend.

  ‘You are upset? By a couple of newspapers?’ Gabriel lit a cigarette. ‘No worries. They will have something new to gossip about in a few days.’

  Mary gazed at him. Wondered how much he knew. More than the journalists who’d written that article? Less? He caught her stare.

  ‘You have many questions, no?’ He jerked his head towards Rocco and blew out smoke. ‘He is the man to ask – good at Italian and English. And he was closest to the family when it all happened. Hey, Rocco!’ he called. Gabriel stood up. ‘I’ve got to go now. My hands and back are aching from a busy day.’ He bent down and kissed her on each cheek before having a quick word with Rocco who’d come over. The head waiter sat down beside her. The little dog followed and collapsed at his feet. Whistling, Gabriel packed away his easels and left.

  ‘Seems like you have a loyal friend there,’ Mary said, returning to English, too tired to think about grammar and vocabulary.

  Rocco’s mouth drooped at the corners. ‘Loyalty sometimes comes at a cost.’

  She gazed at his deep nose-to-mouth lines. ‘Sorry if I was a bit slow today, it’s just trade was so busy and—’

  Rocco held up his hand, took off his cycling helmet, and placed it on the ground, next to the dog. ‘I suspect you didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘When you got back, I noticed the newspaper sticking out of your bag. And you’ve hardly said a word today.’

  Mary gazed at the ground and then looked up. With frustration, she rubbed her short hair. ‘I didn’t know, Rocco. About the shooting. Why didn’t anyone say?’

  ‘It still feels so … recent – the fallout from that night. I
t went on for months. All that on top of Dante losing his sight.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to ask him about it … if he ever returns.’ Her chest pinched. Not having Dante in her life any more would be like drinking Prosecco without the fizz.

  ‘He’ll be back. Tomorrow probably. Monday is usually a quieter day, despite all the July tourists.’ He stared at her straight in the eyes. ‘I will tell you what I know, about the incident. Dante probably won’t want to talk about it himself. Plus there is personal stuff that happened afterwards. It is not my place to—’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  Rocco rubbed a hand across his forehead. The dog looked up with concern and Rocco tickled its ears.

  ‘Tell me what you know, Maria. As you’ve probably read, Dante’s colleague, Hugo, got shot dead – the two men were close friends and often worked together.’

  Mary nodded. ‘No one else was killed. Five people were injured by the terrorist.’

  She understood, now, why the Rossi family – why Dante – had worried so much when she’d been stuck in the underground due to the security alert.

  ‘Correct. It happened not far from the Vatican and the shooting shook Rome to the core. People then realised that nowhere was sacred. Hugo and Dante just happened to be on duty and walking past when the lone terrorist drew out his gun. He shouted something in Arabic and started randomly shooting.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mary and she threw her hands in the air. ‘Dante couldn’t win either way – it was either Hugo getting killed or a member of the public. I mean, there aren’t rules in the police force, are there, for a life-threatening situation? He wasn’t duty-bound to protect a colleague?’

  Rocco shrugged. ‘He had to make a split-second decision, and you are right, there are no regulations covering that. The terrorist waved the gun between Hugo and a rough sleeper. Dante told us afterwards that you could tell the young man was nervous. Sweating. Shouting crazily. His hand shook. The rough sleeper was closest to Dante so he decided to stand in front of him. Better to save one person at least. But it seemed that that gesture made up the shooter’s mind and seconds later he shot Hugo in the head.’