The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome

by Katrina Nannestad

  ‘As safe as a seal colony,’ Freja whispered as she and Finnegan wove in and out through the warmth and colour and bustle that was Rome.

  On reaching the centre of the piazza, Freja skipped a full loop around the pretty fountain with the boat in the middle. Finnegan galloped through the pretty fountain with the boat in the middle. He snapped at the jets of cool, clean water, sprang out and shook himself dry, all over a backpacker. Then, together, the girl and the dog stood at the base of the Spanish Steps, staring up at the twin towers of the Church of Trinità dei Monti.

  ‘Spanish Steps,’ murmured Freja. ‘It’s a terribly dull name for such a marvellous place.’ For this wasn’t just any old set of steps leading up the hillside. It was a collection of grand marble stairways and wide terraces. A work of art. A meeting place for friends. A sun-drenched wonderland.

  Freja and Finnegan ran up the steps, stopping at the first terrace to catch their breath. An artist sat at her easel, sighing between brushstrokes. An elderly couple shuffled by, sharing a chocolate gelato and love.

  ‘Woof!’ said Finnegan, and he bolted upward. Freja followed.

  At the next terrace, a group of preschool children ran back and forth, dodging their teachers, wiping their sticky fingers along the marble balustrade. A juggler tried to finish his performance, but dropped all of his balls. He cringed as they bounced down the steps towards the fountain. The children squealed and chased after them. Finnegan joined in the fun by barking and snapping at the ends of scarves, the tips of chubby pink fingers, as the preschoolers scuttled by.

  ‘Come on, Finnegan,’ said Freja, and she ran until she reached the top of the steps, where a wide, open terrace spread out to the church.

  A group of nuns cycled by, voices cawing, black linen habits flapping in the breeze.

  Freja giggled. ‘A flock of crows wearing sandals and socks!’ She leaned against the marble railing and watched as the nuns flapped away down the road. The sun felt warm and delicious on her back. ‘Rome,’ she sighed. ‘It really is wonderful. Such a surprise for a city! Clementine would love it here.’

  A lump sprouted in Freja’s throat.

  Clementine.

  Always in her thoughts. But never by her side.

  Not for weeks now.

  Freja clutched at the letter in her pocket. She closed her eyes. ‘I’m not going to cry,’ she whispered. ‘Not here. Not now.’ But two fat tears forced their way out between her eyelids and dribbled down her cheeks.

  And more might have followed, but a short burst of music tumbled through the air. Jolly and joyful.

  ‘Woof!’ said Finnegan, his ears pricking up.

  Freja’s eyes flicked open.

  A second cluster of notes rollicked towards them.

  ‘Boof!’ said Finnegan, nudging the girl with his nose.

  Freja wiped her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Okay.’ She rested her hand on the dog’s neck and, together, they followed the music to the other side of the terrace.

  ‘Look!’ whispered Freja. ‘It’s an organ grinder and a . . .’ She wrinkled her nose. What was it?

  Finnegan lowered his head and let out a low, cautious growl. The hackles on the back of his neck stood up.

  ‘Oh!’ Freja clasped her hands together. ‘It’s a monkey.’

  The organ grinder smiled at the gathering audience, his thick black moustache stretching across his round face. He wore a battered straw hat, a billowing white peasant shirt and worn black trousers. At his side, on a small wagon the size of a pram, stood an antique organ. The brass pipes were polished to a shine, the timber casing was painted with a delicate flower pattern and the crank boasted a fine mother-of-pearl handle.

  The monkey lounged on top of the organ, his legs and tail dangling over the edge. He wore a crimson fez on his head and a matching silk waistcoat with brass buttons. From their clothes and attitude, one might think the monkey was the master and the man the servant.

  ‘Ciao, beautiful people! Welcome to Rome!’ The man gave a sweeping bow. ‘I am Giuseppe and this is Pazzo, the naughtiest monkey in Italy.’

  Freja tucked herself between two plump nuns. She was half-hidden by their bottoms, but could still see Giuseppe and Pazzo.

  Finnegan dashed forward from the crowd and barked. Giuseppe’s bushy eyebrows wriggled, but Pazzo the monkey did not react. He just scratched his belly between the buttons of his waistcoat and yawned. As though everything — even this enormous, threatening hound — was too, too boring.

  ‘Psst!’ hissed Freja. ‘Finnegan, come here!’

  Finnegan slunk back to Freja, glancing nervously over his shouder at the monkey.

  When the crowd had grown to a good size, Giuseppe straightened his hat, cleared his throat and turned the organ handle. Cheerful pipe music tumbled across the piazza and he began to sing an Italian song, ‘’O Sole Mio’. His voice was surprisingly high and sweet for such a large man.

  Freja wrapped her arms around Finnegan’s neck and sighed. ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’

  Giuseppe closed his eyes as he sang and Pazzo, completely lethargic and disinterested until now, began to misbehave. He pulled off his little red waistcoat and tossed it at Finnegan. He did a backflip on top of the organ, then another and another. Freja giggled. The tourists chuckled. The nuns tittered and pressed their hands to their chests. But Giuseppe was so lost in song that he didn’t seem to notice. He continued to play the organ and sing of sunshine and love.

  Pazzo, encouraged by the laughter, did three front flips, then stood on his head. His foot kicked Giuseppe in the face, but Giuseppe sang on and on.

  Pazzo turned right side up again. He pulled his lips away from his teeth and grinned at the crowd. He bobbed up and down and scratched his bottom. Finally, tired of showing off, he sat down on the organ and picked nits from his belly and popped them into his mouth. By now, the crowd was roaring with laughter.

  The final words were sung with a flourish. Giuseppe opened his eyes and frowned.

  ‘You stupid monkey!’ he roared, his voice no longer high and sweet. ‘Stupido! Stupido! What have you done with your clothes?’

  Pazzo climbed down from the organ and pointed at Finnegan. The dog grabbed the waistcoat in his teeth and shook it from side to side. Freja prised it from his jaws and, blushing, handed it back. Pazzo gave her a teeth-baring grimace that she hoped was a smile, then blew a raspberry at Finnegan. The monkey tossed the vest to Giuseppe, hitting him in the face.

  The crowd went wild. People were howling with delight, clutching their bellies, wiping tears from their eyes.

  Pazzo climbed up onto Giuseppe’s shoulder and stole his hat, then ran from person to person, collecting coins. If anyone refused to pay for their entertainment, the monkey jumped up and down at their feet, screaming, until they were shamed into opening their wallet.

  As Freja placed a coin in the hat, she bobbed down and whispered, ‘Hello, cutie pie.’

  Pazzo froze.

  Freja smiled and ran the back of her hand gently down his cheek.

  The monkey sighed in delight, ‘Oo-oo-oo,’ and blew her a kiss. Spinning around, he squealed, yanked Finnegan’s tail and returned to the organ, jangling the coins.

  ‘Bravo, Pazzo! Bravo!’ cheered Giuseppe. He took the hat and raked his fingers through the coins. ‘Enough for our lunch. Maybe even a banana for you, naughty monkey.’

  Pazzo jumped up and down on the spot, grinning.

  Giuseppe tipped the coins into a little black money pouch, squashed his hat back onto his head and gave a dramatic bow to his audience. ‘Arrivederci! Arrivederci!’ Pushing his wagon away down the street, he shouted back over his shoulder, ‘Now, Pazzo, we must find a new audience to pay for our supper, our rent and, if business is good, a bottle of Rome’s finest red wine!’

  The crowd chuckled at this final snippet of theatre, then drifted apart.

  Finnegan whimpered, baffled by the first monkey he had ever seen. He shuddered and pushed his head beneath Freja’s arm. Furthermore, he refu
sed to move until she had soothed his troubled nerves by stroking his neck, cooing gentle ‘there-theres’ and mentioning the most fortifying word he knew: ‘Jam.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Café Vivi

  Two hours later, Freja touched Tobias’ sleeve. He stopped typing, looked to the right and stared.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he mumbled. ‘Those sparkling blue eyes look ever so familiar. But what are they doing in the middle of my story?’ He frowned and tugged at his ear.

  Freja rested her hands on the desk and smiled.

  ‘Finnegan,’ he muttered, clutching at the first memory from the real world that floated into his brain.

  ‘Close!’ Freja giggled. ‘I’m Freja. Remember? Finnegan is lying under the table, eating a jar of jam.’

  Tobias bent down and peered at the large hound. Finnegan sucked in his tongue, grinned, then licked his master’s boot.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Freja. ‘Could we go out for lunch now? Please?’

  ‘Why, of course we can, old chap! I’m rather peckish myself, now you mention it. And a stretch of the legs will do me no end of good.’

  Tobias tugged the page from his typewriter and added it to the growing pile on the desk. He plonked the Pope teapot on top as a paperweight. Ushering Freja and Finnegan through the apartment, he grabbed his scarf and slammed the door behind them.

  ‘Did you remember the key?’ asked Freja.

  ‘No,’ replied Tobias.

  ‘But how will we get back in?’ she gasped.

  Tobias leaned forward. ‘Is that a bobby pin I spy in your hair, just behind that fabulous pink flower?’

  Freja nodded, wide eyed.

  ‘We’ll use that!’ he declared. ‘You will recall that in my third novel, A Mousetrap in Moscow, Natasha Andronikov was not only a brilliant hairdresser, but a whizz at breaking into highly secure buildings. I did a lot of research into using various hair accessories to pick locks before I wrote that book. I am now quite adept at getting back into my own home without a key. Especially when accompanied by a spiffing lass who happens to be holding her hair in place with a bobby pin!’

  Freja flashed him a smile, and they walked on down the stairs and into the street.

  The lunchtime crowds were thickening. The cafés that Freja and Finnegan had passed earlier were now bustling. Waiters dashed back and forth between the outdoor tables, bearing giant pizzas, baskets of bread and bowls of tortellini. Wine and water flowed freely, as did the melodic conversation and laughter. Freja tilted her head to one side and listened. Already she was picking up a word here, a phrase there, the lilt and flow of the Italian language.

  Tobias stared intensely, rudely, at people. ‘Marvellous!’ he cried. ‘Noses, noses, everywhere. Never underestimate the power of a nose to reveal something important about a person!’ He threw his hands wide to indicate the diners at the nearest café, but accidentally swept a wine bottle and two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter. The waiter was furious, but Tobias carried on, oblivious to the disaster. ‘Just look at them! Noses twitching over the aroma of a carbonara sauce. Noses wrinkling in disgust at a fellow diner’s manners. Noses flecked with small bits of tomato after a particularly enthusiastic slurp of spaghetti arrabiata.’

  Finnegan’s interest was more primitive. His big brown eyes roved from table to table, looking for dropped or unguarded morsels of food. On passing the fifth café, the pizza gods of Rome smiled down upon him. A young woman flew into a rage, leapt to her feet and stormed away down the street, teeter-tottering on her high heels. Her boyfriend raced after her, slapping his head and pleading for forgiveness. The pizza they had ordered lay alone and uneaten on their table. Finnegan — with the stealth of a ninja, the speed of a greyhound — dashed between the diners. Seizing the edge of the pizza in his teeth, he tugged it off the tray and shot back out into the street. By the time Tobias had committed seven different noses to memory and allowed his attention to return to the world at large, the pizza was gone. All that remained was a small pile of olives between the dog’s front paws.

  ‘Finnegan,’ scolded Freja, but so gently and with such a sweet smile that the hound took it as a sign of approval. He blinked, licked his nose and dribbled on Freja’s boot.

  Tobias took one last glance at a pair of cavernous nostrils before they wandered down a street they had never explored before.

  ‘Look!’ cried Freja. ‘Over there! Doesn’t that café look pretty . . . and happy . . . and pink?’

  Indeed it did! At the front of the tiny café sat a round pink table and two pink chairs. A pink-and-white striped awning hung out from the window and a cheerful pink sign with white writing swung above the door: ‘Café Vivi.’

  ‘Shall we have lunch in there?’ Freja asked. But Tobias didn’t reply. He was staring wistfully, admiringly, at a man with a nose the size of a turnip. Freja grabbed his hand and dragged him through the pink door.

  Café Vivi was even prettier inside. It looked like a jumble sale in which everything had been dipped in pastel paints. Old tables and chairs, velvet lounges, squishy cushions, crocheted granny rugs, tablecloths, crockery, the walls, the floor, the counter and even the cash register were pale pink, powder blue, mint green, lemon yellow or white. Everything was well worn, loved to softness, yet looked perfectly fresh, positively delicious.

  ‘It’s like walking through a meadow of wildflowers in spring,’ whispered Freja.

  ‘Hmmm. It’s certainly pleasing,’ agreed Tobias. ‘Soothing, subtle, sweet, sensuous.’

  ‘Woof!’ said Finnegan, although he was probably not agreeing so much as expressing his excitement at the smell of roasting meat.

  Tobias peered over the shoulder of one of the diners. The plump woman and her even plumper friend were sipping red wine, chattering and nibbling away at their food.

  ‘Fascinating!’ gasped Tobias. ‘Why, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were eating Amazonian ghost fruit for lunch!’

  The woman closest to Tobias frowned, a forkful of eggplant suspended in the air before her mouth.

  Her companion threw back her head and laughed. ‘Ridiculous!’

  ‘No, truly,’ said Tobias. Leaning forward, he spoke earnestly and rapidly. ‘The Amazonian ghost fruit looks very similar to eggplant. It’s a rare fruit found in an isolated region of Bolivia and can be incredibly useful. All you need to do is boil the skin for several hours, then reduce the resulting liquid to a concentrate, and you will find yourself in possession of a reliable tranquilliser. One teaspoonful mixed into a glass of water or a cup of tea will send a grown man into a deep slumber for at least twenty-four hours. Of course, more than a teaspoonful might have rather serious consequences, but that’s the risk you take when playing with poison, isn’t it, eh?’ He stood upright, nodded and smiled as though he had just complimented them on their handbags. The women, not surprisingly, had suddenly lost their appetites. Their forkfuls of food were abandoned and their plates pushed away.

  Freja poked Tobias in the side. ‘There’s a perfect table over there. In the corner, half-hidden by the wood fire.’

  Tobias turned on his heel, took three steps and halted. His head flew backward as though he had been struck in the face. He let out a strange, high-pitched whimper: ‘Oooh.’

  ‘Tobias?’ whispered Freja. But Tobias’ feet were glued to the spot and he would not move. No matter how hard Freja tugged at his hand. No matter how many times Finnegan head-butted the back of his legs.

  A young woman breezed out from behind the counter amidst a waft of delightful aromas — oregano, lemon, mozzarella and freshly baked bread. She was petite and olive skinned, with dark hair that fell to her shoulders in soft, shiny waves. She wore a pink apron with large white polka dots and looked as delectable as the tray of macarons she held in her hand.

  Tobias gawped and began to mutter stupidly. ‘Eyes! Two of them! She has two eyes!’

  ‘Most people do,’ whispered Freja, ‘unless they’re a pirate or a Cyclops or —’

  �
�Beautiful eyes!’ gasped Tobias. ‘Deep chocolate pools surrounded by liquorice-thick lashes. And those lips! Her lips are plump and delicious, the colour of . . . of . . . what is that sensational colour?’

  Freja thought she had elbowed Tobias into silence, but suddenly, unexpectedly, he shouted, ‘RASPBERRY GELATO!’

  The entire café fell silent.

  Freja hid beneath the flap of Tobias’ cardigan and giggled into his vest.

  ‘Ciao!’ sang the raspberry-gelato lips. ‘Can I help you?’

  Tobias froze again. He did not speak or move. He just stared at the pretty Italian woman and whimpered, ‘Oooooh.’

  Freja peered up into Tobias’ face. He was being terribly odd. Somebody should probably take control of the situation, and it was not going to be Tobias or Finnegan. She took a deep breath, then whispered, ‘We’re hungry. We’d like to eat lunch, please.’

  The waitress smiled and tilted her head towards the half-hidden table. Freja and Finnegan scuttled to the corner, where they each sat on a chair, but Tobias stayed put.

  ‘I’m Vivi,’ said the young woman, holding out her hand. ‘This is my little café. I’m the waitress. And the chef. And the owner.’ She laughed. ‘I’m everything, I suppose.’

  ‘Everything,’ echoed Tobias. He took her hand in both of his and shook it with far more vigour than was normal.

  Vivi stared at their joined hands — hers white with flour dust, his black with ink. She looked into Tobias’ ink-stained face, tossed back her head and laughed once more.

  ‘Oooh,’ sighed Tobias.

  ‘Pardon?’ asked Vivi.

  ‘What?’ he gasped, as though awakening from a dream. He dropped Vivi’s hand and allowed her to steer him towards the table where Freja sat giggling, peeping out from behind her menu. Finnegan licked the tablecloth.