The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome

by Katrina Nannestad

  ‘I’ll have the pasta of the day, please,’ whispered Freja. ‘And Finnegan will have a bowl of sardines, a very big one, and perhaps two or three pork sausages.’

  Vivi took a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad from the pocket of her apron. She wrote down the order and looked to Tobias.

  Tobias gazed back at her, but did not order. Instead, he said, ‘I tuck my pencil behind my ear too!’ Then he launched into an animated — and totally inappropriate — description of the way in which a pencil could be used to hot-wire a car if one had the sudden need (or urge) to steal one.

  When he was done, Freja smiled shyly at Vivi and said, ‘Perhaps Tobias should have the pasta of the day, same as me, and a salad. Grazie!’

  Tobias nodded and grinned. He drew in a deep breath and looked like he might be about to explain how a pencil could also be turned into a lethal weapon. But Finnegan interrupted by jumping to the floor and chasing his tail. He ran around and around, snapping and growling. When, finally, he caught his own tail between his teeth, the diners at the tables nearby cheered.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’

  ‘Well done, boy!’

  ‘Complimenti!’

  ‘Fantastico!’

  Finnegan returned to his seat, where he settled down to chew on the breadsticks and then the bread basket. Vivi, laughing and shaking her head, disappeared into the kitchen to make their lunch. Disaster averted.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ said Freja, ‘isn’t she?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Tobias.

  Freja frowned. ‘Vivi. The café lady.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tobias. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  Finnegan slumped his chin into the bread basket, put his paw over his nose and whined.

  When Tobias had eaten spaghetti carbonara, a wild-rocket and parmesan salad, veal scaloppine, tiramisù and four strawberry macarons, all washed down with a glass of mineral water and two espressos, Freja managed to convince him that lunch was well and truly done.

  ‘We could go for a walk,’ she suggested. ‘Explore some more of the city.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose so, old chap.’ Tobias drew out his wallet. ‘It’s just so lovely in here. I feel like I could stay forever. I don’t know what it is . . .’

  ‘You really don’t know?’ asked Freja.

  Tobias stared at her, open mouthed. After much thought, he said, ‘It’s the colour, isn’t it? The pale lemon walls, the powder-blue linen, the mint-green crockery, the pink velvet lounge. It’s like sitting in a bag of marshmallows . . . or floating on a cloud through which a rainbow has passed . . . or flying with a flock of flamingos, bluebirds and canaries.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Freja, uncertain of what to say.

  When Tobias had paid for their lunch, Freja crept forward and whispered, ‘Thank you, Vivi. Your café is lovely.’

  ‘I do hope you will come again,’ Vivi replied. She did not look directly at Freja, but smiled while folding a pale pink serviette. ‘And your father.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not my father,’ whispered Freja. ‘Tobias is just . . . just . . . he’s a writer . . . and he’s a little bit absent-minded, but he’s ever so kind and sweet and . . . well, he’s just Tobias.’

  The pretty Italian café owner, the little English girl and the scruffy Irish wolfhound watched as the writer walked out of the café, scratching his head and muttering to himself about his sudden mysterious urge to include pale pink macarons in the next chapter of his novel (even though it was set on an isolated mountain top in Switzerland) until he stepped straight into the path of an oncoming Vespa.

  CHAPTER 15

  The peevish priest

  The girl, the dog and the writer wandered along the narrow cobbled streets, turning this way and that as the urge took them. There was no such thing as a wrong turn. Rome was a strange but pleasing mix of ancient and new, rough and slick. Everywhere was fascinating.

  As they walked, Freja ran her hand along the buildings and walls, chanting. ‘Peeling paint . . . Damaged door . . . Majestic marble . . . Shonky shutters . . . Glittery glass . . . Burnished brass . . . Luscious leaves . . . Rusty railings . . . Cracked concrete . . . Lovely lady.’ She stopped and stared at a picture of a beautiful woman. It was a mosaic, created with hundreds of tiny blue, white and gold tiles. They looked like jewels set in the middle of the stark concrete wall. Smiling, Freja ran her fingertips lightly over the woman’s face and the golden halo of light behind her head. ‘Oh! It’s a picture of the Virgin Mary. And there’s a little shelf at the bottom where someone has placed a vase of flowers — a gift! How sweet. Look, Tobias.’

  But Tobias had not heard a word. He was skipping — actually skipping — to the other side of the street.

  ‘A gelato shop!’ He sighed and pressed his face against the window, like a small child.

  When he drew back, his eyes were wide, his smile a goofy wobble. ‘Would you like a gelato, old chap? I’d love a gelato. A pink one. A really, really pink one.’

  ‘Yes, I would, thank you,’ said Freja. ‘But are you sure that you can fit one in? You did eat a huge amount of lunch at Café Vivi.’

  ‘Café Vivi,’ echoed Tobias. He grinned and drifted inside.

  A glass counter ran the full length of the shop, displaying swirling mounds of gelato in seventy-two different flavours — everything from the light, fruity tang of mango, lime and passionfruit, through to the creamy, rich depths of toffee, hazelnut and dark chocolate.

  ‘Oooh.’ Tobias leaned forward, both hands splayed out on the glass. ‘Raspberry gelato.’

  ‘Grrrr,’ said Finnegan. He nipped at the seat of Tobias’ pants, bothered by his master’s strange new behaviour.

  The man behind the counter hovered, a gelato scoop in one hand, a waffle cone in the other.

  Freja sidled up to Tobias. She whispered, ‘I’ll have chocolate gelato, please, Tobias. Finnegan will like strawberry because it tastes like jam.’

  ‘Woof!’ said Finnegan, delighted at the mention of jam. He dribbled down the glass counter.

  ‘Righto!’ Tobias threw his hands wide and cried, ‘Raspberry gelato all round! Grazie! Grazie!’

  The man looked from Freja to Tobias, shrugged and served three raspberry gelati. ‘Tre gelati lampone. Deliziosi.’

  Finnegan gobbled his gelato, then galloped ahead of them, chasing cats, paper bags and the flapping laces on people’s shoes. Freja and Tobias walked in silence, licking their gelato. At least, Freja licked hers. Tobias gazed longingly at his. He sighed, closed his eyes and pressed it slowly to his puckered lips.

  ‘Did you just kiss your gelato?’ asked Freja.

  ‘Certainly not!’ Tobias chuckled awkwardly, then tugged at his ear. ‘What a strange thing to say!’

  ‘It’s a strange thing to do,’ murmured Freja.

  The air in the narrow street grew cool and damp. A few steps on, the sound of rushing water filled their ears. Freja looked up at Tobias and grabbed his free hand. They turned a corner and, unexpectedly, found themselves in a bright, open piazza, blinking at a giant cascade of water.

  ‘The Trevi Fountain!’ gasped Freja. ‘Oh, my favourite place in Rome! I had no idea we were near here.’

  ‘Nor did I, old chap.’ Tobias scratched his head with the point of his cone. ‘It’s the way the streets curve and meander and jumble about to make way for the palaces, the churches, the old ruins. It’s as though they want us to get lost. It’s their job to lead us astray so that we see new places and return to our favourites unplanned.’

  Freja beamed. This is what she loved about Rome — the glorious surprises, the never quite knowing what was around the next bend. It was, she felt, almost as good as discovering the nest of a snowy owl in an unexpected nook . . . or seeing a bear cub a little too early in the season . . . or returning to the beach after a swim and finding a seal pup sunbaking on your towel.

  Freja and Tobias squeezed past tourists, a performing mime artist and couples sipping coffee at little round tables. They sat down on the steps at th
e edge of the Trevi Fountain and stared. Freja had been here twice before, but still it dazzled and delighted her. The fountain was enormous, stretching across an entire wall of the Palazzo Poli. Water gushed out and around giant marble sculptures of naked men and winged seahorses. It tumbled and roared over the rocks and into a wide blue pool, where it became still and calm at last.

  Freja grabbed Tobias’ hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

  Tobias returned the squeeze and said, ‘Still spectacular, eh?’

  ‘Boof!’ said Finnegan. He’d gobbled Freja’s gelato while she wasn’t looking and seemed very pleased with himself.

  ‘I wonder if I can remember who the statues are,’ said Freja. She tugged at her ear, but stopped when she thought of how Tobias’ ears stuck out just a little too far. ‘Let me see. The man in the middle is Oceanus. He’s the spirit of the sea, which is why he’s riding in a chariot made from a giant shell. Normal people like you and me don’t get to ride around in chariots, you know, Tobias.’

  ‘As if anyone would ever think we were normal!’ cried Tobias. ‘What a droll idea!’ He threw back his head and laughed, untroubled by the fact that others might think him odd. Freja smiled a little. If only she could teach herself to feel the same way.

  ‘Oceanus looks cross,’ said Freja.

  Tobias nodded. ‘He might be annoyed at those naked fellows getting in the way of his chariot.’

  ‘They’re Tritons, aren’t they? Messengers of the sea.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder why they’re naked.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, old chap? If you live in the sea, clothes aren’t much use! They just get soggy and weigh you down. Quite dangerous, really.’

  ‘Like swimming in gumboots and a heavy winter coat,’ said Freja.

  ‘Absolutely!’ agreed Tobias. ‘Think about it. How many mermaids or dolphins have you seen swimming around in skirts and cardigans?’

  ‘None!’ Freja replied quite honestly.

  ‘Exactly! Anyway, these Tritons might not know how to wear clothes, but they do know how to play a jolly tune on a conch shell. They blow in their shells to calm the waves or to whip them into a frenzy, depending on their mood. Having a happy day — smooth the waters. Feeling grumpy — whisk up some wild and woolly waves.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound quite fair.’ Freja frowned. ‘What if they’re grumpy with their school teacher, or their brother, and they brew some wild, stormy waves that cause an innocent girl’s boat to sink?’

  ‘Aaah.’ Tobias rubbed his chin and nodded. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But this is Roman mythology, not a fairy tale. Things are not always sunshine and roses, you know, old chap.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Freja. ‘Not even in real life.’

  A little pain stabbed her chest, reminding her, yet again, of the gap Clementine had left in her life. She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the felt hare. Be brave, she told herself. For Clementine. For Tobias.

  They sat in silence, watching the fountain, until a group of tourists squashed into the space in front of them. They belonged to an organised bus tour and most wore red caps and green tracksuits that were far too tight. Tobias started muttering about bulging bottoms and overflowing waistlines, but, thankfully, was drowned out by the tour guide.

  ‘The Trevi Fountain!’ shouted the guide, pointing with a red umbrella. ‘You should all toss in a coin, then go over to that there café for a gelato. We meet at the bus in five minutes before we head off to the Vatican for a quick prayer, then onto Florence by suppertime.’

  The stunned tourists fossicked in their pockets, pulled out loose change and flung it into the pool. They nodded, patted each other on the back, then surged off towards the café.

  Freja had a clear view once more.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ she gasped and leapt to her feet. There was a dog in the middle of the fountain.

  And not just a quiet, little dog that might go unnoticed.

  This was an enormous, shaggy grey hound, and he was galloping back and forth in the wide blue pool, splashing, barking and making a spectacle of himself.

  ‘Finnegan,’ sighed Freja.

  A policeman blew his whistle and waved his arms. Finnegan barked and dashed towards him. But when the policeman grabbed for his collar, the silly dog retreated and jumped up onto the rocks. There he stood, halfway up the fountain, wet and bedraggled, barking and wagging his tail.

  ‘You’d better do something,’ gasped Freja, ‘or he’ll end up in jail.’

  Tobias nodded. He stood up, but a priest wearing a long black robe stepped in front of him.

  ‘Whoopsy! So terribly sorry,’ said Tobias, stepping to the side.

  The priest stepped to the side too. His biretta — a square black hat with a pompom on top — slipped to a jaunty angle upon his head.

  Freja frowned.

  ‘Scusa, padre!’ cried Tobias, and he stepped the other way.

  The priest followed, blocking his escape once more. This time, he clenched his fists and flexed his arm muscles so they bulged beneath the sleeves of his black robe. This no longer looked like an accidental muddling of paths. This was deliberate.

  Freja stared up at the priest’s face. A wide scar ran from the middle of his left cheek down to his chin. His dark eyes were narrowed to two little slits. His nostrils flared and there was a cruel twist to his mouth. This was not at all how she imagined a priest should look.

  Tobias tugged at his ear. ‘Hmmm.’ He dropped his hand to his side and the priest’s gaze followed.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ muttered Freja. For suddenly she noticed the ink stains on Tobias’ fingers. Which in turn reminded her of the smears of ink that were still on his face, neck and trousers. Which in turn reminded her of the morning’s disaster with the nun.

  Tobias’ thoughts must have been travelling in much the same direction, for he gasped, ‘Ooh-waah! You, my dear priest, must be a friend of Mother Superior Evangelista! Let me explain —’

  The priest grabbed Tobias by the front of his cardigan. He tugged him forward and snarled, ‘I am Padre Paolo and I know who you are, signore. More to the point, I know what it is you are doing.’

  Freja’s neck prickled. This priest had the same wild look about him as animals when they were about to bite or scratch. Uh-oh! she thought. Tobias is going to be punched in the nose . . . or the teeth . . . or both!

  Surprisingly, Tobias turned to Freja and winked.

  Freja scrunched her nose and scratched her head, confused.

  Tobias turned back to Padre Paolo. Taking a deep breath, he gave the priest a smile. Not a smirk or a half-baked affair like one might give to a traffic warden, but a full-blown grin that split his face from side to side and lit up his emerald-green eyes. It was sunshine on a plate. The priest, caught off guard, smiled a little in return and, in so doing, relaxed his grip.

  At that very moment, Tobias flopped to the ground, twisting and squirming out of his cardigan as he fell. He dragged Freja to the ground and, together, they crawled away. They scuttled between Italian legs, Japanese legs, American legs, British legs, tourist legs from all over the world, while the priest stared stupidly at the empty garment in his hands.

  Finding themselves out in the open, they sprang to their feet. Tobias whistled to Finnegan and he leapt from the rocks halfway up the fountain. Then the girl, the dog and the writer bolted. They zigzagged between sightseers, knocked over a stand of postcards, bit a poodle (just Finnegan) and darted back along the narrow cobbled streets. They turned corners, dashed up alleyways and circled buildings until certain they’d lost the priest.

  ‘Tobias!’ Freja gasped for breath, half-crying, half-laughing. ‘That was just like a scene from one of your novels!’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ Tobias agreed. ‘And you, old chap, conducted yourself admirably. You were quick thinking, fast footed and terribly brave.’

  ‘I was chased by a wolf once,’ whispered Freja. ‘I climbed up a tree and waited for three hours until the wolf grew bored and wandered
away. Clementine said it saved my life.’

  ‘You’re brilliant!’ cried Tobias. ‘A real-life heroine.’

  ‘Woof!’ said Finnegan, and he shook himself dry all over a passing businessman.

  Freja wiped a tear from her eye, took a deep breath and smiled.

  And as her eyes sparkled and her teeth flashed in the bright Roman sunshine, she realised, with a burst of pure joy, that she felt truly brave for the first time in her life.

  CHAPTER 16

  Nonna Rosa and Enzo

  Freja sat at the dressing table in her bedroom, frowning at the battered little treasure chest. A pile of misshapen paper clips, safety pins and hairpins lay in front of her carved wooden seal. The skin on her thumb was red and raw.

  Three days ago, on returning from the Trevi Fountain, Tobias had shown her how to pick the lock on their apartment door using her bobby pin. She’d practised all evening until she’d been able to do it with her eyes closed.

  The first lock mastered, she’d turned her attention to the little treasure chest. Every morning, she’d spent at least thirty minutes bending wire objects into new and hopeful shapes, poking them into the keyhole on the treasure chest and twiddling them about. It had, however, remained firmly locked. Even when she’d bashed the treasure chest against the marble fireplace. Even when she’d kicked it across the bedroom floor and called it two or three nasty names under her breath.

  This morning, Freja was feeling calmer, more hopeful. ‘One last try,’ she sighed, pulling a bobby pin from her hair. She bent it into an innovative new shape and stuck it in the keyhole. Slowly but firmly, she twisted it to the right and felt the pin catch on something. ‘If only I can —’

  ‘I say, old chap!’ Tobias stood at the door. ‘That’s the treasure chest! The one that Clem and I dragged from —’ He stopped abruptly, ran his hand through his hair and tugged at his left ear.

  Freja leaned forward, hoping he might continue.

  ‘Trying to pick the lock, eh?’ Tobias chuckled. ‘I admire your determination. You really are ever so much like dear Clementine. But it won’t work. It’s not that sort of lock.’