The route was a constantly changing landscape. After picking up the car at the Villa Borghese underground garage he had followed the distinctive green autostrada signs to head north on Via Salaria, the modern version of the Roman road named for the salt brought into Rome from the north. The traffic of the center lessened as the street got closer to the edge of the city, and eventually the tightly packed buildings gave way to open space. He swung onto the busy ring road that circled the city but almost immediately got off to enter the A1 autostrada, the highway linking Naples with Milan. Now the scenery turned agricultural. They entered Sabina, a section whose early tribes, more than two millennia ago, had been subdued and brought into the Roman sphere of influence. Rick had yet to meet a Sabine woman, but he spotted a couple of them driving along a dirt road as the highway began to climb into the hills south of Narni. The Tiber, working its way toward Rome, appeared and disappeared from view. A short tunnel, then a much longer one, caused Rick to turn on the headlights. Betta stirred and stretched her legs as the noise of the car engine bounced back off the walls of the tunnel.
“Rick, tell me more about this cousin of yours.”
He glanced at her and back at the road. Her smile always made him happy, even when it was a mischievous one. After numerous relationships, all of which had something hollow about them, he was still trying to discover a downside to spending time with Betta Innocenti. There were others who may have been as attractive, but Betta’s beauty was different, starting with her very short black hair and large green eyes. She had none of the pretentiousness of so many Roman women he knew, wasn’t afraid of saying what she thought, and certainly didn’t worry about what people thought of her. She had—he reached out of Italian and into Spanish—a healthy dash of chispa. It was that spark that placed her at the top of his list. That and her acceptance of his sense of humor.
“There’s not much to tell. I remember Fabrizio as a little kid. Kind of quiet, but that’s the way children are supposed to be in Italian families. The last time I saw him was just after my grandmother’s funeral, if I remember right. He was about ten. They came over to our apartment in Rome and we played with my Lego set. I’ve been meaning to get up to Perugia to see my aunt, but haven’t found the time yet. If I’m not successful in extracting Fabrizio, I may have to put it off even longer.”
The car emerged from the tunnel and sunlight poured back through the windows. The fields outside changed from dark green rows to a bright yellow carpet of tall sunflowers, their faces swiveled to catch the sun.
“Uncle Piero says that Fabrizio always asked about me, so I must have made an impression. As expected, I suppose; the little kid looking up to the high-schooler who then goes off to the university in America. Very exotic.”
“Those exotic qualities have always appealed to me too.”
“Thanks, Betta.”
After coming over a hill, they crossed the Tiber for the last time before slowing down to get off at the Orvieto exchange. The exit ramp led to the toll booths and then out to the street that would take them the final few kilometers to the city.
The Etruscans knew a good defensive position when they saw one. Orvieto sat at the top of what might have been called a mesa in Rick’s New Mexico, its rock outcropping guarded by cliffs that dropped steeply to the valley below. For millennia it was almost impossible to reach the city without the approval of its inhabitants, especially after thick walls were added to the natural defenses. Now drivers reached those city walls after navigating the steep winding road that covered much of the northern side of the hill, hoping to be fortunate enough to find somewhere to park in the twisting maze of narrow streets. But there was another way up to the town.
A couple minutes after leaving the autostrada they came to an irregular-shaped traffic circle where Rick turned off, following the P signs. A large parking lot spread out between the old railroad station and the elevated track of the high-speed trains. Rick found a space, and after locking the car, they rolled their bags to an escalator which took them under the old railroad station and out into a small square. A circular pool adorned the round piazza, its narrow jet of water bent by a slight southern breeze that swirled dust around the street. Beyond the fountain was a more modern station, with six glass gables projecting out from its single story to protect anyone waiting at the bus stop outside. FUNICOLARE was written in metal letters on the stone wall between the set of glass and metal doors.
Inside, a bored city employee took money at a ticket window and dispensed biglietti. Rick pushed euros under the glass and was rewarded with two one-way tickets and change. He turned back to Betta and noticed a digital number on the screen on the wall.
“Subito,” he called to her, “that one is leaving in one minute.” They ran to the turnstile, punched their tickets, and slipped into the red car just as its light began flashing.
“Perfect timing,” he said. They squeezed themselves and their bags next to the window while the car lurched upward. Thanks to the wedge-shaped base underneath the car, the cabin would remain horizontal as the chain running along the track pulled it up the steep incline. The car immediately emerged from the station and started up the hill, olive groves visible through the trees that lined the route.
Rick and Betta looked around and caught their breath. The car was almost full. At the far end a group of elderly Italian tourists chattered away while looking out the tall windows. The middle section held a family of five including a baby in a stroller, as well as two men Rick guessed were locals. The two talked and looked only at each other, which he took to mean they’d seen the view and didn’t need to check it out again.
Next to Rick and Betta stood three women whom he immediately pegged as Americans. Affluent Americans dressed in a certain way, Rick knew from observing so many tourists in Rome, and two of these three had money. Their cropped linen pants and loose tops were of light colors, indicating residence somewhere warm, and expensive, like Florida or Southern California, but a silver and turquoise belt on one said the Southwest. Their tans confirmed it. The third, a woman about Rick’s age, was dressed more modestly, like most tourists her age. Her two older companions wore stylish but comfortable sandals, while she had low-cut hiking boots. Boots wore her hair long and tied behind, while one of the sandals women kept hers shoulder-length and brown, and the other in sandals had short, spiked hair that was vaguely blond. Were the two in sandals divorcees? Or—since he guessed their ages to be hovering on one side or the other of sixty—widows? The third, the younger woman, had to be a relative, and in fact there was a resemblance between her and one of the other women. As he continued to analyze the three, a guidebook clattered to the floor.
“Francine, how can you be so clumsy?” said Shoulder-Length Hair.
Spiked Hair bent down to pick up the book, but Rick reached it first and handed it to her. “Oh, thank, you,” she said. Then, a pained look on her face, she turned to the woman who had berated her. “Or I should say—?”
“It’s grazie, Francine. How long is it going to take you to get it?”
“You’re very welcome, Francine,” said Rick.
“You speak English very well,” she said as she grasped the book. “Where did you learn it?”
“I lived in the States a few years.”
“I don’t even notice an accent. Whoops.” The car veered slightly as it switched to one of the double tracks that allowed the two funicular cars to pass each other. She smiled when Rick grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. The younger woman watched but said nothing.
“Back off, Francine,” said Shoulder-Length Hair. “He’s with that girl, and she’s half your age.”
“You’d better hold on.” Rick pointed to the bar that ran under the window. He moved back to the corner where Betta had been observing the scene.
“Some of your connazionale?”
“They are. And I can never turn down an opportunity to practice my Engli
sh.”
“I didn’t need any English to understand what was going on with those three. The tone of voice and body language are enough.” Betta nodded at the one with the shoulder-length hair. “That woman is a witch.”
“A witch is supposed to be old and haggard, like the Befana.”
“She’s old, all right, and remember that the Befana brings toys to children. She looks like she would be more into getting gifts than giving them.”
The car darkened as they entered the tunnel under the fortress guarding the promontory on the eastern side of Orvieto. A moment later the car slowed and arrived at the station. The doors slid open and everyone filed out. The station, a twin of the one below, opened out on a wide piazza where a small bus waited, its driver watching the people climb on, filling its seats and aisles.
The woman Betta had described as a witch pushed her two compatriots to the front of the line. “Girls, if you just stand around being polite, the Italians will fill this bus and we’ll be left on the curb.”
“But Mom, that would be—”
“Move it, Gina, this isn’t the line at Starbucks in Santa Fe.”
The comment got a smile out of the third woman, but she too did as she was told. The three squeezed to the back of the bus and found seats.
By the time Rick and Betta had studied the signs and realized it was their bus, the driver waved them away to indicate he was full. Get on the next one, his bored expression told them. The bus pulled out with their fellow funicular riders. The younger woman stared from the window and noticed Rick, her expression changing to a weak smile.
Rick took the handle of Betta’s suitcase. “Let’s enjoy the scenery while we wait for the next one.”
They walked past the arched fortress gate toward a weather-stained statue and reached what Italians call a belvedere. The ride up, enclosed as it was with trees and other vegetation, had not given them a sense of how high they had risen from Orvieto Scalo, which made what they saw more impressive. The valley they had driven through spread out below, bisected by tiny twin ribbons of highway and railroad, and dotted with factories and other buildings. It was a view seemingly made for pleasure, but its original purpose was purely defensive. A force of any size coming from north or south would have been spotted easily by sentinels posted on the ramparts of the fort, giving the town time to prepare for battle. These days, the invading hordes bent on plunder were armed not with swords and lances, but cameras and euros.
Rick and Betta enjoyed the landscape in silence until he noticed another B line bus rolling into the space at the funicular station. They hoisted their bags on board and settled in the back. Soon another funicular load streamed out of the doors of the station, piled on, and they were on their way. The bus nosed out of the piazza and up a street which narrowed as it climbed before rolling into an even wider square three minutes later. They got off and faced the most spectacular cathedral facade in Italy.
The Gothic front of the Orvieto Duomo was an architectural triptych full of spires, statues, and arches. Its most striking feature was the number of colorful mosaics which filled every flat space, their bright figures contrasting with the white of the carved marble. Like all Gothic architecture, everything pointed up, reminding the faithful of the final prize, though it was difficult for Rick and Betta to keep their eyes off the art which ran from bottom to top. They walked slowly to the opposite end of the piazza where a long bench ran along the wall of the building. Squeezing between two groups of aging Italians, they sat on the stone with their bags between their legs.
Rick pressed his head back to get the maximum effect. “Even if there were nothing behind it, and the inside were bare, this is worth the trip to see.”
“Ah, Rick, but there is more inside, including one of the gems of the Rinascimento.”
“We will see it tomorrow.”
Clumps of tourists gathered around the square staring either at the facade or at the page in their guidebooks that described it. Among them were the three women from the funicular. Francine was deep in her guidebook, reading aloud while her two companions craned their necks at the spires. Shoulder-Length Hair held her hands up as if to isolate one section, but suddenly her face darted from the church to a far corner of the square. Rick watched her say a quick word to the other two and rush toward that corner, leaving her friends shaking their heads. She ran toward someone walking alone out of the square and immediately became lost behind a group of tourists. Rick returned his attention to the cathedral.
***
Rhonda ran through the tourists toward the man, his back to her. Suddenly she had the thought that she was mistaken, that it was not who she thought she’d seen. She stopped, and just at that moment the bell at the top of the clock tower struck the hour with a deep, metallic ring. The man stopped and turned to look up at the round face of the clock high above the square. He scowled at the clock and then at his own watch, then quickly walked off. Rhonda stared at his back.
“Everything will be all right, Rhonda. We must do this, for the cause.”
“I’m frightened, Luca.”
“I told you she shouldn’t have come along,” said the other man under his breath. “You should have left her back in Orvieto.”
Luca glared at him and turned back to Rhonda. “We’ve planned everything to the last detail. Nothing can go wrong. You’ll see. Trust me.”
She looked between the faces of the two men, wanting to believe that what they were doing was the right thing. “You’ll be careful?”
“Of course,” Luca answered.
While she watched, the two men slipped around the corner and disappeared from sight.
Yes, Rhonda thought. It’s you. And thanks to my research, I know where to find you. Her muscles stiffened and her hands tightened into fists.
When Rick moved his eyes back to the square, a tour leader holding an umbrella led her group toward the cathedral entrance and he saw the American woman in the distance, standing stiffly alone. The person she had rushed to see was nowhere in sight, and Rick guessed he had gone down one of the streets that led off the piazza.
The woman walked slowly back to join her companions who were studying the cathedral. Even from a distance Rick could notice a difference from how she’d looked when she was in the funicular and afterward getting on the bus. Seeing that person on the square had given her a jolt, but he couldn’t decide if it was anger or pleasure. Perhaps a bit of both.
“It’s in three parts,” said Betta.
Rick took his attention from the woman. “What?”
“The facade, it’s in three horizontal parts. Built at different times You can see the style change as the cathedral progressed over the centuries, but despite that, it all goes together quite well.”
“Yes. Yes it does.” He got to his feet. “Shall we go to the hotel? It’s up this street, if I got the directions right. We’ll come back here tomorrow.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and took the handle of Betta’s suitcase. Its wheels rattled over the cobblestones as they walked toward the Hotel Maitani.
Chapter Three
The location of the hotel could not have been better, only a few steps from the cathedral up a narrow street. Though the furnishings were mid-twentieth century, one could sense that the building had been used as an inn for much longer. It had likely undergone at least one renovation, but was getting close to needing another. Rick hoped that when it happened they would keep the marble floors, wood paneling, tall mirrors, and overstuffed chairs. Too many hotels became modern, only to find that the modern of that moment had too soon become the seedy and kitschy of the next. There was something comforting about out-of-fashion décor in hotels, a statement that they were comfortable in their own skin. The same could have been said of the hotel staff. The desk clerk had a wrinkled face under thinning gray hair and wore the traditional black suit over a white shirt and dark tie. Rick was relieved that there was
no bell boy to help take their bags to the room, fearing another septuagenarian. They took the elevator to the second floor and found their room.
Betta separated the curtains of the room’s only window and opened it to find a view of another building on the other side of a narrow alley. “Not much of a view,” she said, “but at least it shouldn’t be noisy at night.” She kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the bed. “I think I may rest my eyes a bit before going out to explore the town.”
Rick pulled his laptop from the bag, set it on the narrow desk, and plugged it in. “I’ll check my e-mail and be on my way.”
She bent her elbow and propped her head in her hand. “You’ll do fine, Rick. Your uncle would not have asked you to do this if he didn’t think you could convince Fabrizio.”
“My uncle is a realist in his police work, but that doesn’t always extend to his views about this nephew’s capabilities. I hope I don’t let him down.”
***
Uncle Piero’s directions were written at the bottom of a street map of Orvieto, with a yellow crayon line marking the route from the hotel to the palazzo. It was typical of his uncle’s thoroughness. Rick looked up at the street marker on the corner building and back down at the map, realizing that without it he would have had a devil of a time getting to where Fabrizio was staying. As in so many post-Roman Italian towns, the streets of Orvieto seemed to have been laid out by an evil madman, peppered with twists, narrow alleys, and dead ends. Stone houses, two- and three-storied, lined the cobblestones, their wood front doors right on the pavement. Who needed sidewalks when everyone walked anyway? Look around and you’re in the thirteenth century. He loved it.
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