The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome

by Katrina Nannestad

  Freja blushed, bent the bobby pin back into shape and pushed it into her messy hair. ‘I miss Clementine,’ she whispered. ‘I just wanted to —’

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Ciao!’ A woman’s voice, Italian, called from the other room. ‘Have you forgotten me, Signore Appleby?’

  ‘Sì! Sì!’ cried Tobias, running back into the living room. ‘I had forgotten you! Completely and utterly!’

  Freja crept to the door and peeped out. The guest was Nonna Rosa Esposito. Nonna Rosa and her husband, Enzo, ran Trattoria Famiglia, a nearby restaurant where the girl, the dog and the writer sometimes dined.

  Nonna Rosa was old, short and plump. She had dark, soft eyes and grey hair pulled back into a bun. She stood inside the front door to their apartment, her hands folded across her white apron.

  ‘I forgot all about you, dear Nonna Rosa!’ cried Tobias. ‘You see, I am terribly absent-minded! Just yesterday, I made a pot of tea with oregano instead of tea leaves. And this morning, I washed my hair with toilet cleaner. It stung my eyes dreadfully, but I do think my noggin is looking very clean!’ He smiled and pointed to his hair, which looked as much like an overgrown mop as ever.

  ‘Sì! Sì!’ Nonna Rosa chuckled. ‘Absent-minded. It is because you are the writer. Writers are always — how do you English speak it? Bunkers.’

  ‘Bonkers,’ said Freja, then she blushed because she had spoken so loudly.

  ‘Ah, bella bambina!’ Nonna Rosa smiled, her eyes twinkling at the sight of Freja, who was dressed in red from head to toe — red skivvy, red skirt, red jumper, red tights and red gumboots. Sprigs of red berries dangled and danced around the hem of her skirt.

  ‘I have come to see if you would like to visit for the morning,’ the old woman said.

  ‘Alone?’ Freja whispered.

  ‘No,’ said Nonna Rosa. ‘The big, hairy dog will come too.’

  ‘Woof!’ Finnegan leapt to his feet and wagged his tail. Nonna Rosa was a good sort who always had a bowl of ravioli or a soup bone for a hungry hound.

  Freja looked to Tobias for guidance, but he was staring at the ceiling, scratching his head with the point of his pencil. He’d already drifted away into the pages of his story writing. She looked back to Nonna Rosa.

  ‘Enzo is driving me crazy!’ cried Nonna Rosa, throwing her hands in the air. ‘He is so lazy. All day long, he slouches behind the bar, talking, talking, talking with his silly old friends. I need someone sensible to keep me company . . . someone to stop me from hitting him over the head with my frying pan.’ Her words were harsh, but her eyes were soft and smiling.

  Freja took a deep breath. Be brave, she told herself. For Clementine . . . For Tobias. Nodding, she took Nonna Rosa’s plump, warm hand and left the apartment. Finnegan was right by her side, grinning and dribbling.

  Trattoria Famiglia was dark, cluttered and cosy. It felt more like Nonna Rosa’s own dining room than a restaurant. The walls were hung with photos of her children and grandchildren and an enormous painting of the Pope. The beams across the ceiling were draped with bunches of plastic grapes, strings of fairy lights and clumps of real garlic.

  ‘Pah!’ grumbled Nonna Rosa, flapping her hand towards the bar. Enzo and his friends were drinking grappa, even though it was only ten in the morning.

  Enzo was old, short and wide, just like Nonna Rosa. He had dark, merry eyes and fluffy grey eyebrows. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but grey hair grew in a frazzled fuzz around the sides of his head. As Freja walked by, he smiled and lifted his glass. ‘Bella Freja! Buongiorno! You are looking splendid today! Like a rosy red apple.’

  Four old men turned on their stools, smiling. They all lifted their glasses and greeted Freja warmly.

  ‘Buongiorno!’

  ‘Ciao! Ciao!’

  ‘Hello, beautiful girl.’

  ‘Ciao, bella.’

  But by the time they’d finished their greetings and drunk a toast to the beautiful child, she had vanished.

  Overwhelmed by the rush of attention, Freja had crawled into a sheltered nook beneath one of the tables. She regretted it immediately and might have crept back out except that Finnegan had followed her, blocking her path.

  ‘Nonna Rosa will be cross,’ Freja whispered.

  The dog licked her nose.

  ‘At least you love me,’ she sighed.

  The dog licked her face all over, starting at her chin and working his way up to her forehead. He finished off with a deep, probing slurp to her ear.

  Freja smiled. Finnegan always knew how to make her feel better. She lifted the edge of the tablecloth, stuck her head out and whispered, ‘Psst. I’m sorry for hiding, Nonna Rosa. I got a fright.’

  Nonna Rosa shrugged. ‘Poor little bambina!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t blame you. Five ghoulish old men. They are a terrible thing to see. I would be hiding beneath the table with you, bella. If only I was not so fat. If only my old bones were not so stiff.’

  She stomped towards the kitchen, tossing a second scoffing ‘Pah!’ over her shoulder at Enzo and his friends.

  Freja and Finnegan crawled out of hiding and slipped through the door behind her.

  For three hours, Nonna Rosa and Freja worked quietly side by side, chopping vegetables for soup, stuffing figs with mascarpone, kneading bread dough and making fresh pasta. Nonna Rosa gave few instructions, but taught a great deal. Freja watched and copied, and when she needed a little more help, Nonna Rosa used her plump, old hands to guide Freja’s in the way they should move.

  ‘We cook with our eyes and nose and mouth and these,’ said Nonna Rosa, wriggling her fingers in the air. ‘The recipes are not so important — you can read them or make them up! The secret to cooking something delicious is choosing the best ingredients and touching the food in just the right way.’

  Freja held up ten long, flat strips of freshly made fettuccine.

  Nonna Rosa pressed her fingertips to her mouth and made a kiss. ‘Bellissimo, Freja! That is the most delicate fettuccine I have ever seen. Tonight, when my customers eat their fettuccine Alfredo, they will think they have stepped into the finest restaurant in Rome! You already have a good touch with your clever little hands.’

  Freja smiled and draped the pasta over a rod that hung along the kitchen wall especially for this purpose. She wiped flour off the tip of her nose and giggled as Finnegan licked his way across the tiles, from one side of the kitchen to the other.

  ‘Now,’ said Nonna Rosa, ‘I must take you home to the crazy writer before he misses you.’

  This time, Nonna Rosa kept a reassuring grip on Freja’s hand as they walked back into the restaurant. The old men were still sitting where they had left them three hours ago, laughing and slapping their knobbly hands on the bar.

  ‘Look at them!’ scoffed Nonna Rosa. ‘Four silly old men perched on their stools, drinking grappa, eating walnuts and figs. Like a row of fat squirrels lined up on the branch of an oak tree. Useless! They think they are all so clever and amusing. If they were so wonderful to be around, their wives would not be sending them out, day after day, to my trattoria. The only time they go home is to eat their suppers and sleep. It’s not fair, Freja. It’s a cruel, cruel joke on poor, tired Nonna Rosa.’

  ‘Don’t listen to the old bat!’ said Enzo. ‘She’s just cross because she has no friends and I have many. She’s too grumpy. Gives too many orders. Nobody likes a bossy old goose.’

  ‘I like her,’ whispered Freja, pressing closer in to Nonna Rosa and her wide skirt.

  Enzo tossed his tea towel over his shoulder. ‘Of course you like Nonna Rosa!’ he cried. ‘That’s because you are an angel. Just look at your golden hair — a halo of goodness. You are sent here today by God himself, to keep my nagging wife happy and to be her friend when no-one else will give the old bat the time of day.’

  Nonna Rosa grabbed a breadstick from the nearest table and threw it at Enzo. He ducked behind the bar. The breadstick ricocheted off a bottle of wine and fell to the floor.

  ‘Woof!’ Finnegan pou
nced on it and gobbled it up.

  The old men roared with laughter, rocking back and forth, clutching at one another’s arms to keep themselves from falling off their stools.

  Slowly, cautiously, Enzo popped up from behind the bar. He slapped his hand on the counter, shouted, ‘Pazza nonna! Crazy grandmother!’ then burst into laughter.

  And then Nonna Rosa and Freja joined in, laughing until tears ran down their cheeks.

  CHAPTER 17

  Books and dreams and nightmares

  The next morning, the girl, the dog and the writer ran through the streets of Rome — boots clomping, tail wagging, map flapping. The bells of a dozen churches rang out across the terracotta rooftops. Ten o’clock!

  ‘This is it, Tobias!’ Freja looked at her map, gazed up at the pink building, then stared back along the narrow cobbled street. ‘There’s no sign, but this has to be it! Quick, or you’ll be late.’

  Squashing the map into her pocket, she pushed open the door. Orange paint flaked and crumbled through her fingers, falling onto the worn timber floor. She swept it away with the toe of her boot and crept inside. Finnegan and Tobias followed.

  The large purple room in which they found themselves was bare, except for a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The scent of roses and dust loitered in the air. A cockroach scuttled across the floorboards and disappeared into a crack in the wall.

  Freja looked back over her shoulder to see if, perhaps, they had entered the wrong building. Was the bookstore they sought on the other side of the street? Rome could be tricky to navigate — all those wonky alleyways, ancient ruins and slapdash maps.

  An exotic bird swooped out of the darkness. It glided towards them, growing larger and larger, until Freja realised that it was, in fact, a woman. She was dressed in a silk kaftan of purple, pink and red. Snowy white hair hung to her waist. Her lips and fingernails were bright orange, and her arms jangled with dozens of silver bangles and beaded bracelets.

  ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ sang the woman in a voice as light and floaty as her kaftan. ‘I am Delfina Eloisa Ventimiglia and this is my fabulous Libri e Sogni.’

  ‘Libri e Sogni,’ whispered Freja.

  ‘Books and Dreams,’ sighed Delfina Eloisa. ‘But it sounds so much better in Italian.’

  Freja looked around the bare space once more. This, she thought, must be the room for dreams.

  Tobias stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘Tobias Appleby, author of Rome’s Reward.’ He shook Delfina Eloisa’s hand so that her bangles and teeth rattled in equal measure.

  ‘Freja Peachtree,’ whispered Freja.

  ‘Woof!’ said Finnegan.

  ‘We are all here,’ said Delfina Eloisa, sweeping her arm wide as if to indicate the empty room. ‘We have been waiting eagerly for your arrival. We are very excited. Your last book, A Mousetrap in Moscow, was on my bestseller list for seven weeks. We adore a bit of crime here in Rome!’

  Freja tugged at Tobias’ cardigan sleeve. He bent down to listen.

  ‘Is she bonkers?’ whispered Freja. ‘Is her store all dreams and no books?’

  Tobias pulled at his ear and replied, ‘Perhaps, old chap. She seems to be waving at imaginary readers. And I can’t see a single book no matter how hard I strain my eyes.’

  ‘Boof!’ Finnegan bolted across the room and disappeared through a doorway, chasing after something which neither Freja nor Tobias had seen.

  Freja’s neck started to prickle. ‘Finnegan?’ she whimpered.

  ‘Ah,’ sighed Delfina Eloisa. ‘He has seen Eufemia.’

  ‘Eufemia?’ Freja’s shyness vanished in the face of her growing suspicions. ‘Is Eufemia a dream? A figment of your imagination? A . . . a ghost?’

  Delfina Eloisa threw back her head and cackled. She spun lightly on her toes and floated through the doorway, calling over her shoulder, ‘Come. Follow me and see the books and your fans and Eufemia.’

  They drifted down a long, dark corridor, Freja clutching Tobias’ hand all the way, until they stepped through a pair of heavy velvet curtains.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ cried Freja. She smiled up at Tobias, relieved that they were, in fact, in a real bookstore, not a crazy hall of dreams and ghosts. Rome’s delicious winter sunlight flooded down through a glass ceiling and fell upon thousands and thousands of books. There were books crammed into shelves, books covering the tops of tables, books spilling out of chests of drawers and books tottering in seemingly random piles all over the floor. It looked like a book sprouted and grew wherever a word was spoken, a story told, an idea born.

  Squashed into the remaining spaces was a hodgepodge of sofas and armchairs — crimson, purple and orange. Every seat was occupied and, as they made their way further into this remarkable room, a spontaneous round of applause broke out.

  ‘Ta-da!’ sang Delfina Eloisa. ‘See! See! They are very real, your fans. And very glad to see you.’

  Tobias blushed and bowed. He dashed into the middle of the room, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. People spoke in rapid Italian and, although Tobias barely understood a word, he responded loudly and enthusiastically: ‘Grazie! Grazie! Sensational to be here. I adore Rome. Love raspberry gelato. What a magnificent nose you have there — white and lumpy like a blob of overcooked gnocchi! No! No! I haven’t been to the Vatican this time. I’ve been there before, but haven’t had the chance since returning to Rome. Sì! Sì! The pigeons drive me crazy.’

  Freja ducked beneath one of the book-laden tables where she could avoid attention, but still see what was happening in most of the room. She was just making herself comfortable when she felt a gentle nudge in her back. Turning around, she found herself nose to nose with an Italian greyhound. She was tiny, black, skinny and ever so elegant. Beside her was Finnegan.

  ‘You must be Eufemia,’ whispered Freja. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Eufemia trembled from head to paw, but flicked her tongue across Freja’s nose in greeting.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Freja. ‘I know that took a lot of courage. I feel exactly the same way myself most of the time. I want to be friendly and to fit in, you see, but it’s really scary. People are so complicated and I make such a mess of things. Animals are so much easier —’

  ‘Woof!’ interrupted Finnegan.

  Eufemia turned her back on Freja and the two dogs lay down. Eufemia licked Finnegan’s front paw gently, delicately, with her small pink tongue. Finnegan grinned, dribbled on her head, then licked the saliva off with one swipe of his enormous tongue.

  Freja smiled and turned her attention back to the room. Tobias was still working his way around the crowd, springing from person to person. ‘Impressive shoes you have there, signorina — as green as slime and as large as two canoes. And you, signore, look just like the crazy archaeologist in my first novel, Three Cursed Pharaohs! Doctor Harmony is as mad as a meat axe and your eyes have the same wild glint as his. Marvellous! Stupendous! Quite exciting to see in real life . . . although I’m not sure that I’d like to meet you in a dark alley at night-time!’

  The poor man was gobsmacked.

  Switching from English to Italian, Tobias babbled on with a string of nonsense: ‘Lasagne ravioli spaghetti!’ he cried, sweeping his arms so wide that he knocked a pile of books and a stuffed pheasant to the floor. Unhampered by embarrassment, he continued singing out to the room: ‘Scusa panini bambino gelati! Sì! Sì! Magnifico!’

  The Italians erupted into laughter.

  ‘They love him,’ whispered Freja. ‘They love his craziness, his boldness, his energy, his silliness. But most of all, I think they love his kindness. He tries to please, even when he knows he’ll get it wrong.’ Freja thought about this for a moment. ‘He’s brave-kind,’ she concluded and decided to remember the phrase. Perhaps it could help her. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

  She thought of Mrs Thompson, the walrus in powder-blue slippers. She thought of the gossiping women in the library in Little Coddling. She shivered. But then she remembered Tobias s
oldiering on, even when Mrs Indira threw an orange at him.

  ‘Brave-kind forges ahead even when others are mean,’ she whispered. ‘Even when the world is scary.’ She reached into her pocket and found the tiny felt hare. ‘The leverets’ mother was brave-kind.’

  The laughter died down. Delfina Eloisa Ventimiglia took Tobias by the elbow and ushered him to the front of the room. ‘You, Signore Appleby, speak English,’ she advised. ‘I will translate to ensure that everything makes sense.’

  Tobias wiped his hand across his brow and nodded. He picked up a copy of Rome’s Reward and opened to the first chapter. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and began: ‘Crime —’

  But at that very moment the heavy velvet curtains were whipped apart with a swoosh and into the room strode another customer. From beneath the table, Freja could only see his legs and feet. He had fine black leather shoes, polished to a shine. They looked expensive.

  A rich man! thought Freja. She smiled, glad for Tobias, because such a customer might buy lots of books.

  Delfina Eloisa floated towards the new guest, speaking melodic Italian, a greeting. But he ignored her. The feet turned towards Tobias, and a voice, Italian, deep and menacing, said, ‘I know who you are, signore, and what it is you are doing!’

  Freja’s neck and shoulders prickled. She had heard those exact words before.

  Crawling out from beneath the table, she peeped over the back of one of the chairs. It was Padre Paolo, the priest from the Trevi Fountain! She could only see the back of him, but she was sure. He had broad shoulders that strained against his black robe and the same square black hat with a pompom on top.

  Tobias looked confused rather than scared. ‘Well, of course you know who I am,’ he said jovially. ‘My name and photo are on the cover of at least fifty copies of my book, just over there!’ He pointed towards the stack of books and, in so doing, caught Freja’s eye. He shook his head, ever so slightly, and Freja bobbed down a little lower.