Gonzalo stepped in. “It’s quite all right, Signor Montoya is aware that the count was a colorful character, aren’t you, Signor Montoya?” The butler had apparently decided to jump into the game with both feet.
“Yes, Gonzalo, certainly. I’d like to hear about him, warts and all.”
One of the men, who had been quiet up to then, cleared his throat. Three of the others, who were about to make a contribution, stopped in deference and waited for him to speak. Whereas the others wore jackets and sweaters, and went tie-less, this gentleman had a suit and tie, though in contrast to Gonzalo, the colors were subdued. His hair had left him years earlier, and his squinted eyes were barely visible through thick glasses. When he finally spoke he sounded like someone on the TV true crime shows, whose face is blocked out and voice electronically modified to hide his identity. Everyone leaned closer.
“Signor Montoya,” the man began, “Count Zimbardi was a man of many facets, a man who lived different lives at the same time. He was of noble blood, and did not try to hide that fact, not that he could if he’d wanted to. He was the count and that was that. But he wore his nobility with a certain reluctance. I thought he wished he could shed it, like changing out of a tuxedo into something more casual, but keeping the formal wear hung in the closet for when needed. Here he insisted we call him Umberto, didn’t he?”
The others at the table nodded, but kept silent. Rick noticed that the drinks were getting low, and hoped that the protocol didn’t require another round. The man took a drink from his glass and continued.
“It is true that the count enjoyed a wager of any type. Alas, it cannot be said that he was skilled in games of chance; he was always certain that the next wager, unlike the last, would bring the expected good fortune. It was a trait which earned him many friends, and not only here at Il Tuffo. But he had other interests, as you may know. History was his passion.”
Smiles and nods from the audience around the two tables.
“So he did have his serious side,” the man continued. “While he never talked about it directly, there were hints that he was a music lover. One night, after several rounds from Gilda, he mentioned a harp teacher. We found it curious that he would be taking harp lessons, but why not? It was just before he was found dead. Ironic, isn’t it?”
At first Rick didn’t understand the irony, but when several of the group looked heavenward, he got it.
“So, in many ways, the count was a complicated man, Signor Montoya, though that could perhaps be said of any of us. He had his failings, but who can claim not to have failed many times in the journey that is life? No, what is more important are a man’s qualities. The count’s were numerous, and it is those that we will always remember. He was descended from a long line of Roman nobility, something that would have ruined many lesser men. So he was Count Zimbardi, and it is by that title that most people in Rome will remember him. But to those around this table, Signor Montoya, to those of us who called him a friend, that man was simply…Umberto.”
There was not a dry eye in the room. Even Gilda was wiping back tears with her rag.
Rick heaved a sigh and ordered another round.
Rick and Gonzalo stood at the corner just down from Il Tuffo, unbothered by automobile traffic since the street was too narrow for it. A gaggle of young tourists speaking some Scandinavian language shuffled past them, looking for one of the main streets, which this one wasn’t. One of them spotted Gonzalo’s outfit and said something to the others, eliciting some laughing. Fortunately, Gonzalo didn’t notice.
“That was not the count that I had pictured when I read his journal, Gonzalo. Betting on horses? He had mentioned the card games, but I had no idea that he was such a serious gambler. And harp lessons? What was that about?”
The butler, as he had throughout the session in the bar, remained unperturbed. Rick decided that perturbation was something foreign to the butlering profession, even when a butler was on his day off.
“Often people are not what they seem, Signor Montoya,” he said, brushing something from his red jacket to support his point. “The count was a complicated man. I was aware of his penchant for making the occasional wager, including that he frequented the race track, though I believe he kept that activity from the countess. I recall that the person with whom he placed his bets showed up at the bar one evening. A most unsavory fellow named Rospo.” He shook his head, about the most emotion he had shown all evening. “The harp lessons? I recall overhearing him mention to the countess that he was considering taking music lessons, but didn’t realize he had decided to follow through. It was one evening after dinner. He was sipping his bourbon and reading Il Giornale, and she was watching a telenovela. When he told her, she laughed, saying music lessons would be foolish at his age.”
That sounded like the countess, Rick thought. “What was his reaction?”
“I believe he said ‘It’s now or never, cara.’ He always called her cara.”
A gust of wind blew around the corner like a New Mexico dust devil, swirling dirt and paper scraps around their legs before moving down the street in search of others to annoy. Gonzalo brushed himself off.
“I must be on my way, Signor Montoya. It was a pleasure to see you. Do you think something you heard tonight may be of some help to the police in finding who was responsible for Count Zimbardi’s death?”
“I hope so, Gonzalo. I’ll report it to the commissario in charge of the case, the one who sent me to do the translation of the count’s papers. By the way, I read something today about someone named Girolamo Syms-Mulford. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Yes. Signor Syms-Mulford called frequently. Since I usually answered the phone I know his voice, but I never saw the man at the Zimbardi residence. He was at the count’s funeral, but I was not introduced to him.”
A butler would not be introduced to any of the Zimbardis’ circle of wealthy friends, even at a funeral. Rick extended his hand. “Gonzalo, my thanks for helping me with the group in there. Let’s hope that it is helpful to the police.”
“I certainly hope it is.” He shook Rick’s hand, turned, and walked away.
Rick pulled out his phone to see if he’d missed any calls, noticing the hour. It agreed with what his stomach was telling him, that it was dinnertime. A nice bowl of pasta and a glass of wine was just what he needed, and he could digest what he’d heard from the card players along with the food. But where? He was close to the river, so he decided to cross it at the Ponte Sant’ Angelo and walk into the Borgo, a grid of streets between the castle and the Vatican, where he was sure to find a simple trattoria. After a few turns from one small street to another, he toyed with the idea of asking directions, but was saved from the humiliation when he heard the roar of traffic along the Lungotevere. He followed the noise and went from a narrow alley with no cars to a three-lane street teeming with them. He ran across just as the light was about to change, speeding up the last few feet as the drivers began revving their engines. He stopped to catch his breath and looked at the Sant’ Angelo bridge, its five arches—massive and delicate at the same time—supporting a pedestrian passageway guarded by Bernini’s angels. To the right the former mausoleum of the emperor Hadrian, transformed over the centuries into the pope’s fortress and now, like so many of the city’s landmarks, a museum. Everything was lit from below, including the giant dome of Saint Peter’s looming in the distance.
It all reminded Rick why he had moved back to Rome, and also that he was a long way from Albuquerque.
He crossed the bridge, glancing down at the river running darkly and silently below. On the other side, in the shadow of the castle, the street had been widened into a virtual piazza. A large tourist bus was parked on the Tiber side, its engine humming in neutral, and he could see the guide standing inside next to the driver, gesturing at the castle. Moving closer, he could see the people in the seats looking out the windows as the man talked.
Suddenly the door of the bus opened and he heard a voice.
“Hey, cowboy.”
Giulia stepped out of the bus while the guide continued his presentation, and Rick watched her descent, again marveling at the change from high school.
“Ciao, Giulia. Another chance encounter, like in the pub?”
“I’m good, but I’m not that good, Rick. Do you always wear cowboy boots now? I hadn’t noticed them yesterday.”
“I noticed what you were wearing.”
“And if I’d known I was going to run into you again, I would not have been in uniform.” She had on a white blouse under a blue jacket that matched her skirt. A name tag on her lapel included the name of the company: Livingston Tours S.A.
“I’ve always been attracted to women in uniform.”
She saluted, then took his arm and walked him toward the wall overlooking the river. Her thumb jerked back toward the bus. “He’ll be talking for a while about the castle so we have time to chat. And, fortunately, it looks like he’s going to work out. I came along to see how he was doing. I like to keep an eye on my guides, since they are the face of the business.”
“This is the replacement you were talking about last night?”
“No, no, that job is still open. It’s a daytime tour guide I need, for the main city monuments. ” She was still holding his arm. “You know, Rick, I was thinking after I saw you last night—”
“I’ve been thinking as well.”
“Really? Would you want to fill in for that guide? Just until I get someone permanent.”
Rick sighed. They were clearly thinking of different things. Did she really want him to work as a tour guide? Is that why she appeared in the pub? Giulia had not changed from her high school persona—all business, all the time. What a waste.
“Let me think about it some more. I’ve got all sorts of things going at the moment. Finding an apartment, making contacts for my translation business, getting my papers, settling in. You know how it is.”
She turned when she heard the bus driver tap on the horn. “Of course, I understand. We still have to get together to catch up. You have my card.”
“Yes, we’ll have to do that.”
“Got to go, the tour is on a strict schedule.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and ran to the bus door. Taking the front seat, she looked out the window at Rick standing on the sidewalk. He looked taller than she’d remembered, and his shoulders seemed broader. His hair was longer and more fashionable than in high school. And those cowboy boots definitely added flair. Yes, the years had improved Rick Montoya.
“Everything all right, Giulia?” asked the driver.
She watched Rick wave as the bus started toward the Vatican.
“Everything’s fine. Except I’m an idiot.”
Rick pushed open the door to be immediately overcome by the odor of stale beer and fried food. After his encounter with Giulia he’d decided that his appetite wasn’t what he thought it was, so a beer and some pub fare would be enough. He’d crossed back over the river, managed to find his way to O’Shea’s, but now his nose was telling him that it might not have been the right decision. Too late. Art was sitting at one of the tables, spotted Rick, and waved him over. He was dressed in his same post-work attire: dark suit, white shirt, striped tie loosened at the knot.
“Don’t you have a home?”
Art pointed to the closest screen. “And miss this baseball game? No score in the bottom of the eighth. Very exciting.”
Rick took a seat at the table. “I don’t remember you following baseball.”
“I’ve taken up our national pastime recently. To keep ties with my native country outside the football season. I’m finding more to the game than I thought. Strategy.”
Rick got Guido’s eye and pointed to Art’s beer. The bartender nodded and pulled a glass off the shelf.
“I always thought it was a guy trying to hit a ball with a piece of wood.” The beer arrived and he took a sip. “I just ran into Giulia.”
“Another chance encounter?”
“This time it really was by chance.” He told Art about the conversation in the shadow of the castle.
“Ouch. The woman is clueless about the important things in life. I guess that’s why she’s successful in business. Reminds me of my boss, though Giulia is much better looking than my boss.” Art waved his hand as if brushing away the thought. “But enough about that topic, what else is happening in the life of Riccardo Montoya since I saw you last night?”
“I was almost pickpocketed on the bus, and some old lady accused me of being a tourist.”
“The two incidents were related, I trust?”
Rick nodded and took a longer drink of the beer. It should have curbed his appetite but it had the opposite effect. He looked around to see if the night’s menu was written on a board somewhere. It wasn’t.
“She must have spotted your cowboy boots,” Art said. “They’re not in fashion here yet.”
“Correct. Also today, my uncle roped me into helping him with an investigation.”
“Really? The cop picks some rube, who almost gets mugged on the bus, to help him solve a crime? Sounds like nepotism run amok, even for this town.”
“It actually made sense. At least initially, when he asked me to translate some journals written by the victim. Now he wants me to start interviewing people. But I have to say, I’m fascinated by it.”
“Was the victim pickpocketed on a bus?”
“No, murdered. On the Ponte Fabrizio.”
Art squinted as he delved into his memory bank. “I think I saw that on the TV crime news. A couple weeks ago, wasn’t it? Some big shot.”
“A count.”
“An accountant? Then he must have been a big shot.”
“No, Art, a count. As in nobility.”
“Aha. Well, I don’t know any noble accountants. Ignoble is the term that comes to mind when describing my profession. So who did him in?”
“That’s what my uncle is trying to figure out. Listen, Art, let’s move from the crime pages to the real estate section for some upbeat news. I looked at an apartment today, owned by a distant relative, and it’s perfect. Near Piazza Navona, one bedroom, not too noisy, view of the rooftops. I’ll probably move in a day or two.”
“The cop will be glad to be rid of you.” Art had apparently decided that “the cop” was the appropriate way to refer to Rick’s uncle. “Can’t say I blame him. What cop wants some hayseed tourist who can’t keep from getting pickpocketed living under the same roof, relative or not? It’s a bad reflection on him.”
Rick looked up as a loud group burst through the door. He guessed Australians, from their accents, and regulars, since Guido immediately began pulling cans of Fosters from the refrigerator behind the bar. “Rattle your dags, Guido,” one of them called out as they tromped to a table in the far corner and took it over like they owned it. Art didn’t notice the commotion. He was glued to the screen, where the game had moved into the top of the ninth, still scoreless.
Rick glanced up and then back at his friend. “Let me ask you something, Art. I found out today that the count was taking harp lessons.”
“So you think he had some premonition about dying?”
“We’ll likely never know that, but what I need to find out is where to track down his teacher. How can I get a list of harp teachers in Rome? There couldn’t be that many.”
Art extended both his hands, pointing two index fingers at Rick. “You, my friend, are in luck.” He shifted to turn the fingers toward a nearby table. A man a few years their junior was scribbling on large sheets of paper and neglecting his glass of red wine. He wore a sweater that was too heavy for the season, and sported round glasses with bright red rims. Behind the glasses, and below a disheveled head of hair, was a face that belonged in a Botticelli painting.
“Al Firestone,” said Art, with a touch of awe in his voice.
“Am I supposed to know who he is?”
“Of course not.” Art leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Al is in Rome on a music scholarship, he studies at the conservatory.”
“So he may know about harp teachers.”
“Perhaps, but his renown here at the bar is for his technique with the Italian ladies. Even though he’s been here six months, he doesn’t speak much Italian. But since he knows his music, he uses musical phrases when he meets Italian girls. Because musical terminology is really Italian, it works. Of course his good looks don’t hurt.” Art shrugged.
“I don’t get it.”
“Here’s an example,” Art’s brow furrowed in thought as he tried to think of one. “A girl walks up to him and says, ‘Ciao, come stai?’ Al gives her his forlorn look and answers, ‘Allegro, ma non troppo.’ The lady’s heart melts, and proceeds to comfort him. He asks her if she’d be interested in a bit of capriccio andante. One thing leads to another, and before you know it they’re back at his apartment where he gives her a glass of wine and suggests an opera affetuosa. That leads to a scherzo adagio, which before you know it culminates in a crescendo fortissimo.”
“Bring down the curtain,” Rick said. “I don’t need to hear about an encore. What I need is a lead on harp teachers.”
Art picked up his glass. “Let’s ask.”
When they reached the other table, Al Firestone looked up. “What’s going on, Art?” He shuffled the papers, which were musical scores, and pushed his pen to one side. Rick and Art took seats.
“Al, this is my old friend Rick Montoya who just moved back to Rome.”
The two shook hands. “My pleasure, Rick. What brings you back?”
“Seeking my fortune. I’m a translator and interpreter and thought Rome is a good place to work. Art tells me you are the pub’s resident musician.”
Roman Count Down Page 8