The Apartment in Rome

by Penny Feeny

  Sullenly she retraced her route to the main road. In the distance she spotted a flash of red that might be Gina’s T-shirt, drawing closer. An arm waved, a voice called out; Sasha ran towards her.

  Gina was taking long impatient strides, her bag thumping against her hip. ‘Damn, I’m sorry!’ she shouted. ‘I should have remembered they’re shut on Sunday afternoons.’

  Sasha supposed it was nice of her to have turned back, though it was her fault Signor Boletti had dumped her out of his car in the first place. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you to get lost again so I can give you directions to Parioli if you like. Or you could call Bertie and get him to pick you up. He won’t be far off yet.’

  Sasha considered. She certainly didn’t want to struggle home on public transport – though at least when she got there she’d be able to log on and disappear into the virtual world of Facebook. Annoying as it was, she would have to ring for a lift. She flipped open her phone again and Renate’s response pinged into her inbox. They would be leaving the beach soon and taking the train to Ostiense. The prospect boosted her spirits.

  ‘That’s near here, isn’t it?’ she said to Gina.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The station for Ostia. I’m going to meet my mates there so it’s not worth going back to the Bolettis. If I could kill a little time, hang out with you for a bit longer…’

  ‘Come with me to the crypt, you mean?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Gina gave a quiver of irritation. ‘If you must. It’s a bit of a walk so we need to hurry.’

  She marched off, crossing onto the broad busy boulevard; Sasha kept pace. She could have said, No, she thought to herself. She didn’t have to do all this sighing, this martyr act, like her mother tried sometimes. In fact, both Sasha’s parents made a big deal about the lives they were responsible for – when they were only doing the job they were paid to do, after all.

  They passed under the railway bridge and on a piece of wasteland alongside the line she noticed an encampment of cheap nylon tents. From a distance the bright colours and billowing shapes could have been a flock of butterflies. As they got closer she could see that some of the tents were ripped and stained; there was a coil of sluggish smoke and a stench of burning plastic. Two men were shouting in an argument that seemed to be escalating; their fellow campers watched, cross-legged on the ground, in an aura of apathy. Afraid they would beg for money she didn’t have, Sasha stuck close to Gina. ‘It’s a bit scary round here.’ The wall opposite was sprayed with graffiti; discarded bottles and cans rolled in the gutter. Rubbish overflowed from a row of skips. A train gathered momentum along the tracks.

  ‘You’re getting a glimpse of the underbelly,’ said Gina. ‘It’s a different kind of grim. When I first came to live here all the shanty towns, tin shacks, cardboard shelters, whatever, were on the outskirts. The bits the developers hadn’t got to yet. They were mostly Roma, Kosovan Albanians and a few Africans in those days. Now there are so many of them, the migrants have moved into the centre. They spend all day looking for work or queuing for handouts, but they can’t find anywhere to live. Half the time they can’t move on either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s all down to something called the Dublin Regulation. You’re supposed to claim asylum in the first port of arrival, which for most of them is Italy. They wind up in detention centres where they’re fingerprinted and given temporary papers. The country can’t actually cope with the influx, but because they’ve been registered they get sent back if they try to move elsewhere. Guys have even set fire to their fingertips to destroy their prints.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And do they really have to sleep on the street?’

  ‘Scandalous, isn’t it? Worse than refugee camps in the third world. Would you believe the company who wants to develop the site has cut off their water supply? At least this might force the city’s hand. If they don’t find them accommodation, God knows what trouble will break out.’

  A few minutes later she added, ‘Right, we’re here. Be careful. These steps are steep.’

  They’d arrived at it almost without warning: an unassuming church with a Madonna lurching above the main entrance like a figurehead on a ship’s prow. Sasha followed Gina down a cast-iron spiral staircase into the gully of a basement area; then through a wooden door. There was no natural light in the crypt; fluorescent tubes swayed overhead, illuminating half-empty crates and cardboard boxes, bin bags of old clothes. Beneath the vaulted arches were spools of bedding rolled up like sausages. In a corner, a heap of clothing stirred: someone was sleeping. A group of young men seated around a large square table seemed to be learning English. Their teacher, a plump, fair-skinned woman, raised her eyes to Gina and continued the lesson without acknowledging her.

  ‘Here he comes,’ muttered Gina as a slight stooped figure detached himself from another small knot of people and approached.

  Sasha was unprepared for the fact that the Lion King was bald. She’d expected an impressive creature with a flowing mane, who could double up as a medieval king. Or Jesus. She almost said, ‘Are you sure this is the right guy?’ even though the long black folds of his soutane swished as he walked.

  In spite of his nondescript appearance he had an air of authority. He was speaking to Gina in Italian and Sasha couldn’t follow, but she got the impression he was angry in a quiet steely way. And she could tell that Gina was arguing, denying something. She shook her head, even stamped her foot. Words tumbled out of her in indignation and Sasha was surprised she would shout at a priest. Feeling awkward, like when she stumbled on her parents having a row, she wandered off. The underground air smelled musty and stale but it was deliciously cool. It made her think of diving into river water and swirling up the mud from its bed. A youth with a bandaged arm, the yellowing crepe matching the roll of his eyes, shouted at her as she passed. She’d no idea whether it was in greeting or anger.

  Then Gina caught up with her. ‘Come back, Sasha. Don’t intrude.’

  She’s been told off for something, thought Sasha, so she’s taking it out on me. ‘I’m not intruding!’

  ‘These boys don’t have any homes or any privacy. You must understand that, show some respect.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing any harm. What is it anyhow, this place?’

  ‘It’s Limbo,’ said Gina. ‘Better really if it were Purgatory. If your loved ones say enough Masses for you, you have a chance of getting out of Purgatory.’

  Sasha wasn’t stupid. She could see that it was a homeless shelter, that the occupants, like the men camping behind the station, were as hopelessly stranded as if they’d been washed up on some desert island. She knew how desperate people could be to reach what they believed was a land of opportunity. Once her father had had a stowaway on his plane: a man curled inside a suitcase who suffocated in the luggage hold. Corrupt baggage handling was suspected. There’d been an investigation but there was no conclusive evidence. Her father had been angry and shaken; tangential responsibility, said her mother – whatever that meant.

  ‘If the authorities believe these kids,’ said Gina, ‘they’ll treat them as minors and find them a place in a hostel, whatever. But it’s a lot less bother and expense, actually, to disbelieve them. Father Leone is trying to bridge the gap by providing this space. I need to have a word with him in private. There are issues we have to resolve over this project I’m working on. How far I take it, that sort of thing. It’s complicated… But it’s not like with Antonio. These guys aren’t pretending to be hotshot sportsmen flashing their studs. It’s a whole different ball game. I call them the Lost Boys.’

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t say this when we were still in the car,’ protested Sasha. ‘Why you let me think…’

  ‘Because I didn’t want Bertie to know where I was going. So you mustn’t tell him. Is that absolutely clear? He claims he doesn’t like riff-raff. He’d rather send them b
ack out to sea in a leaky boat and maybe take a few potshots while he’s at it.’

  ‘Why do you hang out with him?’

  ‘For one thing, I didn’t choose him as my landlord. He’s in a property consortium who bought out the previous owner. And two, I can’t afford to turn down work.’

  Sasha wasn’t convinced. Why would she give the guy a pet name if he wasn’t a friend, if their relationship were purely professional? Not that she could ask such a question. She tried another: ‘Couldn’t I stick around anyway? Maybe I could do something to help?’

  A pair of volunteers were sorting through the donated clothes. Sasha didn’t like the look of the job, but no one who’s mucked out stables could describe themselves as squeamish.

  ‘You’re a good kid,’ said Gina, which infuriated her. ‘But the Lion King’s got to take another Mass soon and this isn’t really the place for you. You’d be better going to find your friends.’

  Sasha responded stiffly, ‘Okay, I didn’t mean to hassle you. I’ll go.’ Perhaps, by the time she’d retraced her route, she’d have heard from Renate which train they were on.

  Gina nodded absently, but then looked concerned. ‘Are you sure you’ll find the way? This isn’t the most salubrious neighbourhood and you do stick out like a sore thumb.’ She fiddled with her phone. ‘Reception’s poor down here. Hang on a minute.’ She disappeared through the door and up the staircase, a streak of red.

  Sasha thought, why do I need an escort? Why do people always assume dreadful things are going to happen because you’re a girl? All the same, she was wary of taking a wrong turn, making a fool of herself again.

  When Gina returned she had a young man in tow. He seemed familiar but Sasha couldn’t place him until Gina said: ‘You remember Yusef? I started calling him Joe and he rather likes it so I expect you can do the same. He’s agreed to take you back to the Pyramid so you can meet your friends. Spend a few months living rough and you know your way around better than most of the locals – and that includes me.’

  ‘Ciao, Joe,’ said Sasha.

  The youth held out his hand. He was not much taller than her, which was good because she hated to be towered over. He moved with a delicate grace and would have been remarkably handsome were it not for the crook in his nose which gave him a piratical air. She wondered whether he found the memory of their first meeting as disconcerting as she did.

  ‘His Italian’s not bad,’ said Gina, ‘and he knows a bit of English, so you should be able to understand each other.’

  Joe was an odd mixture of the deferential and the streetwise. He treated Sasha with immense old-fashioned courtesy; helping her across the road as if she were blind or lame; he’d also curse and gesticulate at careless drivers, as excitable as any local.

  Sasha said, ‘Actually, Joe, I don’t want to get to the station yet.’

  ‘No?’ When he frowned his eyebrows met. It made him look as though he were thinking hard, as if the slightest deviation from his orders could have serious consequences.

  ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘It’s too early. I’m waiting for a text.’ A few metres ahead, a bar shimmered in the heat rising from the pavement. The two small tin tables under the striped awning were unoccupied; a gumball machine stood sentinel. ‘Why don’t we get a drink? Qualcosa da bere?’ When he hesitated, she added. ‘I have money. I’ll buy you one.’

  They sat with two Cokes poured over ice. ‘God, I get so thirsty here!’

  His skin was a deep glowing coffee colour. Next to his forearm, hers looked pasty and anaemic. When their hands touched by accident his flesh felt so hot she expected a scorch mark.

  ‘Da dove sei?’ she said, since it was what people asked her all the time, part of the currency of vocabulary in a place where so many people were in transit. She wasn’t being nosy.

  She asked her questions by degrees and by degrees he answered. He was from Afghanistan. He was eighteen. He’d left his country two years earlier, spent months travelling across mountains on foot, hiding in containers, clinging to the chassis of trucks, gambling with his life. He was applying for his official papers. He had no family.

  ‘What, none at all?’

  His eyes were extraordinarily large and luminous; she was afraid he might be about to cry. He’d been her age when he set out – she couldn’t imagine it. After fending for himself and depending on charity for so long, wouldn’t he have wept himself dry?

  With a circular sweep of his arms, he mimed an explosion, blew out his cheeks. ‘Not living,’ he said.

  And the horror and simplicity of those two words chilled her. She could only ask, feebly: ‘A bomb? But you survived?’

  ‘I was not there.’

  ‘God, that must have been so awful, to come back home and find…’ She sucked noisily through her straw as if the action could blot out such an atrocity. He didn’t say anything. The only way to break the silence was to change the subject. ‘Gina,’ she began. ‘E una buona amica?’

  It worked. ‘Come madrina,’ he answered, with a smile that sparkled.

  Relieved, Sasha pretended to click a shutter. ‘She takes your photograph for magazines?’

  The charming smile broadened. ‘Si.’ He squared his shoulders so she could see his pectoral muscles ripple under his shirt. ‘I make exercise,’ he said. ‘Is important. Also…’ He tapped his thigh and she remembered the scar she had seen there like a fork of lightning. ‘I walk. Always walking.’

  ‘Where do you live? Is it far?’

  He jerked his head, gesturing behind him. ‘I have room with Sami. Cognosce?’

  ‘Sami who was Caesar?’

  ‘Si.’

  Sasha drew up her legs, resting her heels on the lip of her tin chair and her chin on her knees. Was it peculiar to Rome, all this dressing up? Antonio and his football kit, Sami and the living statues in Piazza Navona, tour guides disguised as senators, Roman centurions presenting photo-opportunities, monks in cowled habits, priests in dog collars. Like the whole place was a stage or a filmset. And added to the mix were all these thousands of refugees desperate for new identities.

  The warmth of the afternoon folded itself around their bodies. The ice melted in their drinks. Joe said, ‘You are student, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘England is very fine country.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I want come to England. E migliore.’

  ‘Better for what?’

  ‘Per tutto, non? Everything. Every person have place to live, to work…’

  ‘No, not everyone has work. And, like, for me it’s really difficult. No one wants to employ you till you’re eighteen. And we live in the middle of nowhere, so all the kids who are nearer to town than me get any Saturday jobs going in the shops and stuff…’ She broke off; he’d probably only have caught half of what she’d said. ‘Plus you’d have to speak the language.’

  ‘When I have papers,’ he said, ‘I go to England, find job…’

  ‘One day,’ agreed Sasha, finishing the dregs of her Coke. ‘Yeah, you’ll get over to us. Course you will.’

  ‘Where is you?’

  ‘You mean where do I live? I’m in the country, outside Manchester.’

  ‘I can visit?’

  ‘Well, gosh, um…’

  ‘You live with family? Mother and father, tutte le due?’

  It was a harmless enough question but the context rendered it somehow momentous. Instead of saying ‘yes’, she let out a sob, which was all the more absurd because of course she lived with both her parents in the traditional nuclear unit and she’d never had anything awful happen to her, apart from a broken leg – even that hadn’t been so bad because the plaster cast and the crutches had got her loads of attention. However, she was miserably aware of the fragility of her family unit at this particular time – like a bubble too easily pricked.

  It was pathetic to come over so emotional in front of Joe after what he’d been through. He must think her a wimp of the first order. She could never have w
obbled like this in front of Renate and Ilse or any of the other language students; they were all so determined to get out there and have fun. It would have been different with Ruby, tough bossy Ruby, because she knew her so well.

  Joe took the initiative. First he patted her on the back. Then, tentatively, he put his arm around her and drew her closer. She was aware of a strong masculine smell and a scrape of stubble against her hair. She pushed him away. He pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and passed it to her. She dabbed her eyes and sniffed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It hits me sometimes, I guess. Feeling homesick.’

  ‘Homesick?’

  ‘It means…’ Sasha wondered how she might explain. A person who had no home couldn’t sicken for one, could they? It would be an insult. ‘My dog died,’ she said instead, which provoked a nostalgic yearning for the touch of a wet nose and the thump of a tail against her leg. She dug in her bag for a fresh tissue and found some loose coins which cheered her up. ‘Hey, but that’s enough whingeing. Why don’t we have a real drink?’

  ‘Cosa?’

  ‘Like a cocktail?’ She leaned from her chair and peered into the dim interior of the bar. The door was curtained with strips of plastic to keep away the flies. On the counter a dish of panini oozed yellow mayonnaise, on a shelf above stood bottles of obscure aperitifs and liqueurs. But what was she thinking? This was hardly the spot for cocktails. ‘No, bad idea. Forget it.’

  Her phone was ringing with the call she’d been waiting for. She moved away from the table to answer it. They were on the train, Renate told her – ‘the beach was so busy and the water so dirty, you would not believe it!’ – and would be getting in shortly.

  ‘I’m only five minutes away,’ said Sasha, pleased that for once she was in the right place at the right time. ‘I’ll come and meet you, yeah?’ As long as Joe pointed her in the right direction she wouldn’t need him any more. She could put their second mildly embarrassing encounter behind her. ‘That was my friend, Renate,’ she said. ‘We’re meeting outside the station.’