Finnegan, sensing Freja’s fear, crept to her side. He growled softly, deeply.
‘Furthermore,’ said Tobias, ‘you would be a real dill not to know what I am doing. We’re in a bookstore and I am going to tell these lovely people all about my work. How I came up with the ideas before I put pen and ink to paper. How I researched all the gruesome details about blood and guts and explosions and severed body parts.’
Delfina Eloisa translated these last words and the audience chuckled. The priest, however, seethed.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Freja.
‘Grrrr,’ rumbled Finnegan.
‘Imbecille!’ snarled the priest. He pulled himself up to his full height, towering over Tobias. He held up his right hand and flexed his fingers.
This time, however, Tobias didn’t wait to be grabbed. He sprang to the left, shouted, ‘Grazie! Grazie! Arrivederci!’ and disappeared between the curtains.
Padre Paolo chased after him.
The audience gasped, then, one by one, rose to their feet and clapped.
‘Magnifico!’
‘Drammatico!’
‘Classico!’
‘Oh no,’ cried Freja. ‘They think it’s some sort of performance, a scene from one of Tobias’ novels.’
She jumped up from behind the chair and ran into the middle of the bookstore. ‘No! No!’ she shouted, waving her hands in the air. ‘Don’t cheer! It’s real. The priest is angry because of the ink and Mother Superior Evangelista and the mess all over her habit.’
But even as she spoke, she knew that it made no sense to them. It barely made sense to her! Already the customers were trotting towards the trays of sweet treats — cannoli, zeppole and cornetti.
Freja bit her quivering lip, took a deep breath and beckoned for Finnegan. Together, they dashed from the bookstore, scrambled along the dark hallway, ran through the dusty dream room and tumbled out into the street. A Vespa zoomed by. Freja jumped back, pressing her body against the wall. Her heart thumped, her legs shook and her mind raced as she wondered what to do.
Finnegan paced back and forth, sniffing at the road. He barked, nipped at Freja’s sleeve and bolted down the street. Freja slapped the palms of her hands against the wall and took off after him. She ran and ran, ducking in between people, stumbling over cobblestones, knocking gelato out of hands, apologising and all the while craning her neck to keep Finnegan in sight. It was easier to see once she reached the enormous, open space of Piazza Navona. It was long and wide, as big as three football fields placed end to end.
‘Wow!’ gasped Freja, slowing to a walk. ‘Amazing!’ She smiled as her gaze drifted around the piazza, taking in churches, palaces, apartment buildings, cafés and no less than three magnificent fountains.
But her heart sank when she spotted Tobias. He was running like an athlete, his long legs making great strides, but Padre Paolo was still in pursuit. Tobias stopped for a moment, ran his fingers through his mop of hair, then dashed around the nearest fountain, the Fountain of Neptune. The priest followed.
Freja stopped walking. She blinked, then gaped at the sculpture in the middle of the fountain. Neptune, Roman god of the sea, was wrestling with a giant octopus. He held his spear aloft, ready to kill. Fury filled his marble face. He looked like the angriest man on earth. He looks, Freja thought with a shudder, like the priest.
‘Idiota!’ Padre Paolo bellowed, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other.
Tobias had taken them on two full loops of the fountain and now they were back where they had started. All that separated them was the shallow water of Neptune’s pool and a few marble figures — a mermaid, some seahorses and two fat, naked babies.
‘It’s not enough,’ whispered Freja as she watched from a distance. ‘Anyone can leap over a fat, naked baby.’
Tobias hesitated for a moment. He tugged at his ear and looked from one side of the piazza to the other. There was nowhere to hide. No alleyway down which to duck and dodge and lose an enemy. No tour groups into which he could blend and vanish. Rome, normally so crowded and bustling, seemed strangely empty. Except for a nearby flock of pigeons. There were dozens of them, waddling hither and thither, pecking at a pile of breadcrumbs.
‘Finnegan,’ gasped Freja. ‘We have to do something.’
But a waiter had dropped a calzone at a nearby café and the dog was lolloping towards it, leaving a trail of drool as he went.
Tobias pushed up his cardigan sleeves.
He stretched his neck, tilting his head to the left then the right.
He blew his nose.
The priest, confused, took a step forward, then retreated once more. He crouched low, muscles tensed, ready for action.
‘Come on! Last chance, Padre Paolo!’ taunted Tobias.
And he ran.
He ran. He galloped. He bounced. Straight through the flock of pigeons, waving his arms, shouting stupidly, ‘SHOO! SHOO! SHOO! SHOO! SHOO!’
Feathers and confusion burst through the air. Hundreds of fat green-and-grey birds flew up around him, flapping, cooing, slapping each other with their wings. Padre Paolo followed Tobias into the feathery fold, but a pigeon slammed into his face. THWACK! He stumbled, cursed, swept the stunned bird aside and regained his balance.
A tiny green three-wheeled truck zoomed across the piazza. It drove straight through the flock of befuddled pigeons and Tobias leapt onto the back of it. He crashed amidst ropes, shovels and buckets of sand.
‘Hooray! Hoorah!’ Freja jumped up and down, clapping. ‘Well done, Tobias! Hooray!’
The truck zipped away, across the open expanse of cobblestones to the centre of Piazza Navona. It disappeared behind the Fountain of the Four Rivers, a formidable structure of giants and rocks and sea creatures and gushing waters and a towering obelisk.
The priest stopped and waved his fist in the air. Then, conceding defeat, he flopped forward, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.
Finnegan trotted to Freja’s side, licking the last cheesy traces of calzone from his lips.
‘It’s okay,’ said Freja, resting her hand on his neck. ‘Tobias is safe now.’
But she had barely spoken the words when the little green truck appeared around the other side of the fountain. It had done a complete loop and was now heading straight back towards them!
Slowly, Padre Paolo straightened up. He held his fists clamped at his sides and waited as the truck approached.
Freja’s bottom lip began to quiver. ‘How bad can it be?’ she murmured. ‘He’ll probably give Tobias a good shake and tell him to keep the lid screwed on his ink bottle in future.’
The truck zipped by and the priest jumped aboard just as it turned out of the piazza. It gathered speed and disappeared into the distance.
Freja sniffed. She shuffled over to the Fountain of Neptune. She sat down on the cold marble edge. She didn’t look at the mermaids or the seahorses, even though they were dancing joyfully through the water, just begging to be noticed. She didn’t laugh at the pigeons as they landed at her feet and began to bob and gossip like the old men in Trattoria Famiglia. She did not even hum along with the bells as they chimed out from the Church of Sant’Agnese in Agone. In the past, she had thought the church bells of Rome beautiful, celebratory. But now they were the knells of defeat. Every dong sounded like another thump to Tobias’ poor head.
‘Woof!’ said Finnegan, nudging her shoulder with his nose.
‘I know,’ sighed Freja. She stood up, ready to drag her feet home. ‘At least I have a bobby pin in my hair. We can get into the apartment without Tobias and the key.’
‘Woof! Boof!’ said Finnegan. He nipped at Freja’s elbow and trotted away towards the middle of Piazza Navona and the Fountain of the Four Rivers.
Freja followed wearily. ‘Come back, puppy. We have to go home, in case Tobias —’
But Finnegan was now galloping, his tongue flapping out the side of his mouth. On reaching the giant fountain, he leapt up onto the marble edging, barked and belly-flopped i
nto the water.
‘Silly hound.’ Freja sighed. ‘We’re in the middle of a disaster and all you can think of is taking a swim.’
But when Finnegan’s head popped up over the edge of the pool, it was joined by another. This head was wet and bedraggled, but delightfully familiar.
Freja ran across the piazza, shouting and waving her arms. ‘Tobby! Tobby! Tobby!’ She didn’t care that people were staring, laughing, pointing. Arriving at the fountain, she jumped up and down, blowing kisses across the water to Tobias. ‘I thought he got you. I imagined all sorts of dreadful things. A bloody nose. A black eye. A lump on your forehead. A missing tooth right at the front of your mouth so that when you said “raspberry gelato”, you would lisp and say “rathperry delato”! But here you are with your kind face and your twinkling green eyes and . . . and your pencil still tucked behind your ear!’
The pencil was too much. Freja clasped her hands to her face, her mouth wobbled and she burst into loud, heaving sobs.
CHAPTER 18
To market, to market
‘Buongiorno! Lovely morning for a swim!’
Freja peeped through her fingers and saw a pretty young woman dressed in white jeans, a pale pink sweater and a lemon-yellow beanie.
‘Vivi!’ cried Freja, wiping tears from her cheeks.
‘Raspberry gelato!’ sighed Tobias. His arms and head lolled over the edge of the fountain towards Vivi while the rest of his body floated in the water. He kicked his feet slowly up and down, and his grin grew wider and wider.
Finnegan ran a full lap of the pool, snapping at the water that tumbled down from the fountain.
Vivi threw back her head and laughed.
Freja shivered.
‘You’re cold, bella,’ said Vivi. Taking a shawl from her shopping basket, Vivi wrapped it around Freja’s shoulders, drew her close and rubbed her back. Freja leaned in, cherishing the warm, calming touch after the terrible fright.
‘What are you doing here?’ whispered Freja.
‘Me? I’m on my way to Campo de’ Fiori, to the market. My mamma and papà look after Café Vivi a few times a week so I can have a little free time — to walk, eat gelato, drink coffee with friends, shop at the markets.’ Vivi paused and frowned at Tobias. ‘I think the greater mystery is what are you doing here?’
Tobias shrugged and pulled himself out of the fountain. Water streamed from his clothes. His cardigan and trousers sagged more than ever, and his shoes squelched rudely with every step.
Finnegan leapt out of the pool and shook the water from his fur.
‘I wish I could do that,’ muttered Tobias.
Vivi pursed her raspberry-gelato lips and put her hands on her hips. ‘Why are you in the fountain, Signore Appleby?’
Tobias blushed. ‘Well, technically, I’m not in the fountain any more.’ He pulled the pencil from behind his ear, looked at it and tucked it back again. ‘But of course! Of course! I was in the fountain . . . just moments ago . . . because of a spot of bother with a priest and a nun.’
‘And some ink,’ added Freja.
‘Just a funny misunderstanding.’ Tobias chuckled.
‘And a little bit scary,’ whispered Freja. ‘I thought Tobias was going to get his nose broken.’
Vivi frowned, obviously confused, but asked no more.
Tobias peeled off his cardigan, wrung it out, then slung it over his shoulder. He pulled off his shoes, emptied them into the fountain and slipped them back on. Finally, he pulled his trouser pockets inside out and removed the pulpy wads of paper that had once been notes for his novel. ‘Okay!’ he cried, rolling the paper into a soggy ball. ‘Market time. Let’s go!’
‘Campo de’ Fiori means Field of Flowers,’ explained Vivi as they walked the few blocks to the market. She was very kind and pretended there was nothing odd about the trail of water that Tobias left behind.
‘Sounds beautiful,’ sighed Freja, daring to squeeze Vivi’s hand. ‘I love fields and flowers. Larkspur, poppies, lupins . . .’
But when they arrived, Freja realised that Campo de’ Fiori was not a field at all, but another bustling city piazza. She dropped Vivi’s hand and took a step backward. She stood as still as a granite rock, her eyes roving back and forth. There were flowers, but it must have been many centuries since they’d sprouted and bloomed right here on the floodplains of the Tiber River. Now the flowers were cut and sold in bunches at the market stalls. They sat alongside fruit, vegetables, fish, herbs, spices, clothing and souvenirs. And all around them, people bustled, jostled, shouted, poked and stared.
Freja’s first instinct was to run. To find a secluded place where she could at least imagine herself alone in a field of poppies or lupins. But a small, quiet voice whispered in her head, ‘Stop, listen, watch, smell, learn.’ Clementine’s voice! Her wise and gentle words.
Clementine was always in her thoughts.
Freja swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘This is just like any other noisy gathering of animals,’ she said to herself. ‘A colony of penguins, a herd of reindeer, a flock of geese. Grunts, squawks, colour, energy, strange smells, artichokes.’ She stopped and scratched her nose. ‘Well, perhaps the artichokes are different . . . but that’s all right. Clementine would tell me to notice the differences. Learn something new from them.’
Freja wrapped her fingers around the felt hare in her pocket and whispered, ‘Come on, little leveret. Let’s be brave!’ She stepped forward into the market.
Just metres away, a stout woman with a black apron and headscarf was arguing with a man selling chickens. Both were shouting, waving their arms, rolling their eyes and slapping the table. Just when Freja thought they might come to blows, they threw back their heads and laughed with as much passion as they had just argued. The woman bought three large chickens, kissed the man twice on each cheek and trotted off through the crowds.
Crazy, thought Freja. They’ve just shouted their heads off at each other and they’re still friends.
A group of six nuns flocked to a stall that was selling cut-price footwear. Freja watched, open mouthed, as each and every one of the nuns pulled their skirt up around their knees, kicked off their black leather boots and slipped on a new pair of white sandshoes. Together, they bounced up and down on their toes, jogged on the spot and sprang from side to side, their pale blue habits flapping merrily about them. One of the nuns shouted, ‘Attenzione!’ She bowed, held her old, worn boots aloft in the air, then tossed them into a rubbish crate. Her companions gasped, then cheered as the boots disappeared amidst soggy lettuce leaves, newspapers and fish heads. One by one, they followed her lead, tossing their own boots in the rubbish. Finally, they skipped away, laughing and clucking over their comfortable new shoes.
‘That’s sweet,’ said Freja, feeling a slight ache in her chest. ‘Look, Finnegan. Shared joy!’
But Finnegan wasn’t listening. A small boy had come to a standstill right in front of them . . . and he was holding a big, fat cheese-and-salami panino in his hand.
‘Woof! Boof!’ said the dog, drooling.
‘Finnegan,’ snapped Freja. ‘You mustn’t!’ But it was too late. The panino was gone and the dog was licking his chops.
The child howled and pointed, but his grandmother didn’t understand. She swept the boy into her arms, showered his soft brown curls with kisses and whisked him away to a sweets stall. There, a white paper bag filled with torrone, soft Italian nougat, was pressed into the child’s chubby hands. The tears stopped.
Freja laughed at a family of American tourists as they rushed from one souvenir stall to the next, buying plastic gladiator helmets, plates with pictures of the Pope and salad bowls shaped like the Colosseum. She watched, wide eyed, as a man stole a whole watermelon from a fruit stall and stuffed it up his jumper. And she gave a little squeak of delight as Giuseppe walked by, pushing his wagon with the beautiful pipe organ. Pazzo the monkey lounged across it, eating a bunch of grapes. On spying Freja, he leapt to his feet, danced up and down and blew her a kiss.<
br />
‘Buongiorno, bella!’ Giuseppe waved at her over his shoulder until the crowds swallowed them up.
‘This really is rather fun,’ said Freja. ‘Market time at Campo de’ Fiori is almost as entertaining as seeing bear cubs learning to catch salmon . . . or Tobias acting out the next scene for his novel when he thinks nobody is watching. I’ll describe it all in my next letter to Clementine.’
Finnegan grinned and dribbled on Freja’s shoe.
‘Ah, bellissimo!’ cried Vivi, her voice ringing out above the babble. ‘Freja, come here! Look at these tomatoes! Big and round and red. And still warm from sitting in the sun. And radishes, endives, onions, pink potatoes. Pink potatoes are much, much prettier than the white ones, don’t you think?’
Vivi ran her fingers across the piles of produce like a musician fondling the keys of a piano. She nodded and murmured her delight. ‘Uh-hum . . . mmmm . . . sì, sì . . . bella . . .’ She squeezed and poked vegetables. She smiled. She spoke rapid, joyful Italian to the woman behind the table and her shopping basket started to fill.
Silently, Tobias took the basket from her arm. Vivi nodded her thanks, but neither of them spoke.
Freja stared and blushed. There was something here in the silent language of eyes and mouths, shoulders and hands, which she understood.
Vivi flitted to the next market stall, this time delighting in fruit. She smelt grapes, plums, peaches and oranges, her mouth pressed into a little pucker, her brow wrinkled with concentration.
Tobias grabbed a passionfruit and clutched it tightly in his hand. He tossed it into the air a few times. ‘Do you think,’ he asked, ‘that a passionfruit could break a window? Or knock a grown man senseless? I mean, if one was feeling malicious and threw it really hard . . .’
Vivi’s eyebrows shot upward. She took the passionfruit from his hand and passed him a bunch of dark purple grapes instead. ‘Smell these!’ she demanded.
Tobias, eager to oblige, sniffed so hard that a small grape disappeared up his nostril. He gasped, coughed, dropped the shopping basket and staggered about. His wet shoes squelched and squeaked. His arms flapped and flailed, becoming entangled in strings of chillies and plaits of garlic. Finally, he snorted the grape from his nose and it rolled away across the cobblestones.
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 10