‘Quickly!’ cried the Italian woman. She pulled the silk scarf from around her neck. ‘Please, take this! Prego!’
‘Very kind!’ The Chinese woman smiled and bowed to the Italian woman. The Italian woman blushed.
Freja looked from one face to the next. The onlookers were completely spellbound by Tobias’ drama. Except for the victim. His face had grown quite pale and small beads of sweat were breaking out across his forehead.
Tobias wound the scarf firmly around the man’s calf. ‘And now,’ he explained, ‘our brave friend is able to make his way down the mountain — slowly and painfully, I might add — to find proper medical help . . . Unless his enemy finds him first and shoves him off another cliff!’
Tobias leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and smiled.
The audience, relieved that all was well, clapped and cheered.
The man with the bandaged leg fainted.
‘What has happened here?’ asked Vivi, pushing her way through to the table.
The Chinese man stepped forward. He placed his hand on Tobias’ shoulder and announced, ‘This genius has just saved this other man’s life!’
CHAPTER 22
Flitting feet and dizzy heads
‘Mamma mia! Did you see the pasta Signora Bandoni served her family last night?’
‘Urk! That overcooked mess could be used to stick bricks together!’
‘That’s exactly what her husband said — so she smacked him over the head with the pasta pot!’
Freja laughed so hard that a piece of salami came out her nose.
Tobias bit into his focaccia and the pigeon gossip paused while he chewed.
The girl, the dog and the writer were picnicking by the lake in the Borghese Gardens. Finnegan lay on the grass gnawing on a bone — a gift from Nonna Rosa. Freja and Tobias sat on a park bench, nibbling their way through focaccia, salami, walnuts, figs and Vivi’s pastel-coloured macarons. They’d barely unwrapped the focaccia when the flock of pigeons had arrived. Now the green-and-grey birds dithered back and forth on the ground at their feet, pecking, cooing, fluffing up their chest feathers. They were obviously gossiping and, of course, Tobias was there to interpret.
‘Have you seen Signorina Moretti’s new hairdo?’ Tobias boomed in a deep Italian accent.
‘Disastrous!’ he replied in a high-pitched voice. ‘Who dyes their hair that colour? Blue! Bright blue! As blue as the Tyrrhenian Sea!’
‘Signore Rizzo has sold his house and run away to Spain.’ Now a croaky, old voice.
‘You know why, don’t you?’
‘Everyone knows why! He had to leave Rome before the law caught up with him. Ten million euros he stole from the bank where he worked!’
‘I heard it was ten million pillows he stole from the factory where he worked.’
‘Pah! Euros! Pillows! Ten million is still a lot. I hope they catch him.’
A pigeon landed on Tobias’ head. He swiped it away, but it flapped lethargically about in the air and settled on his head once more. Freja giggled. Tobias pretended not to notice. He whistled and pulled an elephant-shaped teapot out of his backpack.
‘A teapot?’ gasped Freja. ‘Why on earth did you bring a teapot on our picnic?’
‘To make tea, of course,’ said Tobias. ‘One cannot have a proper picnic without a nice cup of tea. It’s simply not possible.’
Sitting the teapot on the bench between them, he continued to fossick in his backpack, pulling out a caddy of tea leaves, a teaspoon, a jar of sugar, a small bottle of milk, a Thermos of hot water and two cups and saucers.
‘Oh poo!’ Tobias examined one cup after the other. ‘It would appear the handles have snapped off. Perhaps I should have wrapped the cups in tissue paper or a cloth.’
Freja bit into a strawberry macaron.
‘Never mind! Never mind!’ Tobias muttered. ‘Nothing that can’t be mended with a bit of glue or a good length of sticky tape.’
He carried on with the tea-making ritual, spooning tea leaves into the elephant pot, pouring over the hot water, popping on the lid, spinning the teapot three times, then leaning back against the bench to wait. The pigeon, still on Tobias’ head, fluffed up its chest feathers and cooed.
Freja laughed.
‘What?’ asked Tobias.
‘There’s a pigeon on your head. I think it’s planning to stay. Maybe forever.’
‘Well, that’s hardly anything to cackle about,’ said Tobias. ‘There’s a monkey on your shoulder.’
And a split second later, there truly was!
‘Pazzo!’ cried Freja.
‘Oooow,’ whined Finnegan, a little scared, a little confused.
‘Ciao! Ciao!’ sang Giuseppe, pushing his pretty wagon around to the front of the bench. ‘It’s the golden princess and the dog that grows too big!’
Pazzo twitched about on Freja’s shoulder, then quickly, shyly, planted a kiss on the top of her head.
‘Aaah!’ sighed Giuseppe. ‘It’s amore! Love! Pazzo might be a very naughty monkey, but he knows a beautiful girl when he sees one.’
Freja smiled.
Pazzo blew a raspberry at Giuseppe. Then, sitting down on the back of the bench at Freja’s shoulder, he played with her hair. He pulled one of the golden curls as far as it would stretch, then watched, fascinated, as it bounced back against her head. He monkey-muttered and clapped his hands, then did it all over again.
Tobias leapt up. ‘Ciao! Hello, my good fellow.’ He thrust his hand towards Giuseppe. ‘My name’s Tobias Appleby and this spiffing lass is my . . . my . . . my delight and joy, Freja Peachtree.’
The two men smiled and shook hands.
‘Tea?’ offered Tobias.
‘Grazie!’ sang Giuseppe, and he joined them on the bench.
Within moments, the girl, the writer, the organ grinder and the monkey were chatting, laughing and nibbling on macarons.
Finnegan did not join in. Still confused by the monkey, he commando-crawled beneath the bench. There he lay, his head between his front paws, whimpering and staring up between the slats.
‘Aaah,’ sighed Giuseppe, sipping tea and closing his eyes. ‘Nobody makes a cup of tea like the English.’
‘The secret’s in the pot,’ explained Tobias. ‘It always tastes better when you use a truly marvellous teapot. Not expensive, mind you. Just one that tickles your fancy.’
‘It is the same with any drink, any meal,’ agreed Giuseppe. ‘It is good to have fine crystal, beautiful china, even for a glass of water and a humble wedge of cheese. But the most important thing is to share it with good friends.’ He lifted his teacup and smiled at the writer then the girl.
‘Good friends,’ whispered Freja, and she felt a glow spread across her cheeks. She passed the pink-and-white cardboard box of macarons around once more and they sat in companionable silence — the warm winter sun on their shoulders, pigeons fluffing and twittering at their feet, pistachio and strawberry sweet treats dancing across their tastebuds.
Freja rubbed her cheek against Pazzo’s and whispered, ‘Bliss.’
‘EEEEEEE!’ Pazzo squealed and sprang across to the top of the organ.
Freja jumped, knocking the box of macarons to the ground. The pigeons flocked all over them.
Finnegan let out a deep, menacing growl.
A hand rested on the back of the bench where Pazzo had just been. Freja’s gaze ran from the long, well-manicured fingers, up the black sleeve, to the familiar white collar of a priest. She closed her eyes for a moment, swallowed hard and forced herself to look into the priest’s face.
‘Huh!’ she said, surprised. For this was not Padre Paolo, who had chased Tobias from the bookstore four days ago. This priest was younger, thinner, taller. His black hair was oiled and combed so that it swept upward and backward. His face was adorned with a thin moustache and a second tiny clump of hair in the middle of his chin. And his mouth, although turned up at the edges, was not showing a jot of kindness or joy.
Freja thought, His smile is all wrong. He looks like an Arctic fox creeping around a leveret nest.
And then she realised, He’s smirking, not smiling.
And then she wondered, Are priests even allowed to smirk?
‘Hello there!’ sang Tobias. ‘Ciao ciao!’ He lolled over the back of the bench, a smile on his face. A real smile, which put wrinkles around the edges of his eyes.
The priest did not respond.
‘We’re having a tea party!’ Tobias continued. ‘Care to join us, padre? We always have room for one more. We can bunch up.’
The priest’s smirk turned down at the sides. He growled, ‘You are the English writer, no?’
Tobias flinched and the pigeon flew from his head, taking cover amidst the flock at their feet.
Tobias leaned forward and set his teacup on the ground. He sat back and tugged at his ear. He looked into Freja’s wide and worried eyes. ‘Me?’ he cried. ‘A writer? Oh, I don’t think so. You’ve made some sort of mistake, my good fellow.’
The priest moved his hand to Tobias’ shoulder. ‘I, Padre Flavio, do not have time for filthy liars. You are the English writer. I know that is who you are.’ Slowly, the hand squeezed through Tobias’ cardigan, digging into flesh and bone.
Tobias winced.
Freja gasped.
‘Oo-oo-oo!’ squealed Pazzo.
The pigeons flapped into the air and whooshed away. A cloud of feathers and macaron crumbs settled in their wake.
Finnegan scrambled out from beneath the bench and lurched at the priest. A shiny black shoe met his shaggy grey chest with a thud. The dog leapt backward, more surprised than hurt. He had never been struck before.
Freja dropped to the ground and wrapped her arms around Finnegan’s neck, but he shook her off. He stared at the priest, tail and ears aloft, paws planted wide apart on the grass.
‘I say!’ cried Tobias, trying to keep his voice light and untroubled. ‘You seem to have made a dreadful mistake. I’m not a writer any more than you are a teapot.’
‘Ho-ho-ho-ho!’ chuckled Giuseppe, slapping his thigh. ‘A teapot. That is very funny.’
But the priest was not amused. He snarled.
‘Boof!’ snapped Finnegan.
Padre Flavio loosened his grip on Tobias, but persisted. ‘We both know, Signore Appleby, what it is that you are doing.’
‘Pah!’ grumbled Giuseppe. He heaved himself up from the bench and turned to face the priest. ‘That is enough! Who is this Signore Appleby?’ He shrugged, looking truly confused. ‘He is nobody we know. This man is my assistant, Leonardo. He is far too stupid to be a writer. Stupid as a donkey with no brains.’
‘It’s true!’ Freja chimed in, jumping to her feet. ‘He’s so stupid that he can barely write his own name! That’s why we call him Leonardo Stupido.’ She blushed a little as the words came out — partly from shame, for she did not like to call anyone stupid, but also from pride, because she thought the name had a charming ring to it.
Tobias stumbled to his feet. He swung his arms back and forth and grinned.
The priest flared his nostrils.
‘So very, very stupid,’ sighed Giuseppe. He slapped his forehead in despair. ‘The only job he is fit for is to wind the handle on my pipe organ while I sing and my monkey dances.’
Pazzo bared his teeth.
The priest’s eyes narrowed and he glanced sideways at Freja.
‘The little girl is Leonardo Stupido’s niece,’ said Giuseppe. ‘But she is smart. Very smart! Not like her uncle. Ah, look! Here comes an audience now. A busload of Russian tourists has wandered into the park. I’m sure they would love to hear us perform! Excuse us, Padre Flavio. It is time for us to work.’
Giuseppe grabbed Freja by the hand and swept away to greet the crowd. ‘Ciao! Ciao, my tourist friends!’ he sang. ‘Welcome to Rome, my city, my home, the place of sunshine and music and love! So beautiful, I must sing about it right away!’
Tobias ran forward, grabbed the mother-of-pearl handle on the organ and began to crank it around and around. The organ puffed once, wheezed twice, then sprang to life. Merry pipe music danced through the air, where it was soon joined by the high, sweet tones of Giuseppe’s voice.
At the end of the first line of his song, Giuseppe lifted Freja’s hand in the air, twirled her around, then swept her along in a light and pretty dance. The Russian tourists sighed and cooed with delight. Freja was confused by a rush of feelings — pride, embarrassment, happiness, fear.
Pazzo swayed back and forth on top of the pipe organ, his hands by his sides, his eyes cast heavenward in an angelic gaze. But as the second verse began, he pulled his lips back from his teeth, grimaced and started to kick Tobias in the side of the head with every turn of the handle. The crowd chuckled. Tobias cringed, but carried on.
Padre Flavio frowned. He ran his long, manicured nails through his slick hair. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slid them onto his face. He took one last long stare at Tobias, shook his head and stomped away.
Finnegan followed, slinking from tree to tree. Silently and with ninja speed, he lurched forward, nipped Padre Flavio on the bottom and retreated. The priest waved his fist in the air — perhaps at Finnegan, perhaps at Tobias — then disappeared through the park gates.
Freja hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath. But now it flooded out in a loud sigh of relief. She beamed up into Giuseppe’s wide, friendly face and whispered, ‘Grazie. Grazie. A million trillion grazie.’
Giuseppe nodded and smiled so that his cheeks plumped and his moustache stretched from ear to ear. Lifting the volume of his voice, he whirled the girl around and around to the piped music. Her feet felt as light as blossom petals caught in a spring breeze.
Around and around they danced, weaving in and out of the crowd. And before Freja knew what was happening, Giuseppe had passed her on to a new partner, a large, square Russian man. One by one, the people in the audience paired off and soon they were all spinning on the gravel paths, tottering at the edge of the lake, twirling over the grass, until the park was alive with melody, laughter, flitting feet and dizzy heads.
And the nastiness of the priest was almost forgotten.
CHAPTER 23
Little ears
That evening, Trattoria Famiglia was crowded and noisy. The regular customers had been joined by the Russian tour group from the Borghese Gardens. All thirty-six of them! The organ music, Giuseppe’s singing and the wonderful dancing had thrilled and delighted them. Rome had truly come alive! They insisted on buying dinner for the performers.
Freja, Tobias, Finnegan, Giuseppe and a Russian couple called Boris and Nadia sat at the table closest to the kitchen and the enormous painting of the Pope. They watched, half-scared, half-laughing, as Nonna Rosa blustered back and forth. She charged from table to table, slamming bowls of pasta in front of her customers. She groaned and clutched her aching back. She shouted and threw her hands in the air. Then she started all over again. The old woman loved to see business booming. She also loved to complain. Here, now, she had both and was glowing with happiness. Not even her scowling and cursing could hide the fact that she was having the time of her life.
‘Mangia, mangia! Eat, eat!’ Nonna Rosa bellowed. She barrelled towards their table, a large pot of pasta resting on her hip. She spooned orecchiette with tomato sauce from the pot, filling everyone’s bowls to the brim for the third time that evening. ‘Eat more pasta! Drink more wine! Dip your bread in more olive oil! Eat, eat! Before these loud, greedy Russians suck my kitchen dry!’
Nonna Rosa smiled and pointed her serving spoon at Boris and Nadia. ‘Not you,’ she explained. ‘Any friend of Freja’s is a friend of Nonna Rosa’s.’
‘But all the Russians are our friends,’ whispered Freja. ‘You see, Tobias cranked the organ and Giuseppe sang and we danced and then we got the Russians dancing and we all had so much fun. I danced with three different people, Nonna Rosa, and I wasn’t even scared. Well, maybe a little at f
irst, but then not so badly. It was lovely! The Russians liked me and they all said I danced like an angel.’
Nonna Rosa stepped back from the table and stared. ‘So many words, Freja!’ She smiled, her eyes soft and warm. ‘So many friends too. You are being a brave child, no? Like a true Roman girl — laughing, talking, dancing and enjoying yourself. You even look different today. What is that you are wearing in your hair? A wreath of tiny pine cones and twigs, no? Dashing and daring. Bravo! No more hiding behind the bushes or beneath the tables, you hear?’
‘Phooey!’ cried Enzo, squeezing in front of Nonna Rosa. He slid a tray full of drinks onto the table. ‘Move aside, you silly old woman, and stop boss-bossing the boots off the poor child.’ Enzo winked at Freja. He was enjoying the crowds and the arguing as much as Nonna Rosa. ‘Here, my friends — Italians, Russians, Englishes. Drink more meatballs! Eat more serviettes! Dip your sleeves in more olive oil!’
Nonna Rosa slapped the back of Enzo’s head. ‘Are you mocking me, old man?’
‘No! No!’ shouted Enzo. He waved his tray, now empty, in the air. ‘I am just trying to help these poor people out. Please. Everyone! Drink up before this grumpy old woman nags you to death!’
Enzo trudged back to the bar, where Pazzo the monkey was tormenting his friends. Nonna Rosa was right on his heels, badgering and bossing. Enzo looked back at Freja, rolled his eyes and used his hand to mimic Nonna Rosa’s mouth: ‘Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah!’
Freja giggled uncontrollably.
‘Wonderful!’ boomed Boris. ‘The girl, she laughs like a hen who is celebrating a golden egg.’
‘Exactly!’ cheered Tobias. He slammed his hand down on the table, toppling a glass of wine. ‘Hearing Freja’s laughter is a real treat! It makes you feel marvellous! Like popcorn popping in your heart . . . Like goldfish nibbling at your toes . . . Like jelly beans raining down on your head.’
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 13