Just South of Rome (5 page)

‘
Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

Ah, ah, ah, ah …’

And I’d have to go back to my nodding. Finally, the sounds faded to the hiss of the speakers and I realised that it was over.

I applauded. There was nothing else I could do, they were all waiting expectantly. ‘Very good, Rosella, what a pretty voice you have.’

‘You think?’ she asked, breathless with excitement.

‘Yes. Very pretty.’ The sound system was making some ugly noises and Umberto left to rescue the CD. ‘Do you sing songs in Italian?’ I asked, trying to make it sound innocent.

‘Oh no,’ the answer was most definite, ‘is not fashionable.’

‘You take this,’ Umberto was back, thrusting the CD into my hands. ‘You take this and you make Rosella a star in the Sydney radio,
si
?’

I looked into his beaming, asinine face. It was in full contortion, eyebrows and moustache working overtime and, again, I wanted to punch him. But then I looked at
Rosella, the breathless expectation, the pathetic hope in her eyes. And I knew I couldn’t make a scene.

‘I’m going to London.’ I handed the CD back to Umberto.

‘You take it to London.’ He thrust it at me once again.

‘I don’t know anyone in London.’ This time I placed the CD on the table in front of Rosella. ‘I wish you every success with your career, Rosella.’ I knew I had to leave before my temper got the better of me and I let Umberto know what I thought of him in no uncertain terms. But, as I rose to leave, I saw the shadow of disappointment in Rosella’s eyes. I couldn’t leave her like that.

‘You have a very pretty voice, Rosella.’ The shadow departed, she glowed once more. ‘And you have the looks to go with it too.’ I smiled. ‘Goodnight.’ As I left, she radiated happiness, it was that easy. Bloody Umberto, I thought, how dare he delude her with such false hope?

I was still angry when I got to my room. A hot shower before bed, I decided.

Naked, I stepped into the bathroom and fumbled for the light switch. There it was. I flicked it on. But there was no light. Instead, an animal scream ripped the air. Dear God, what had I done? I groped about frantically in the dark, trying to turn off the hideous noise. I hit the light switch by mistake. Thank heavens, at least I could see. The noise was coming from above, a high-pitched, pig-like, angry squeal. Then I saw it. The extractor fan churning and screaming like something demented.

I found the switch and turned it off. I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, heart pounding. Just the fan, that’s all, I told myself, just the fan. Then I pulled the shower curtain around me and turned on the taps.

The pressure was useless but at least the water was good and hot, and I must have stood there for a full ten minutes waiting for my shattered nerves to settle.

I was so tired that it was only when I turned off the shower that I realised I was standing ankle-deep in water. I pulled aside the curtain. The bathmat was floating. The whole bathroom was flooded and water was starting to seep over the doorstep into the bedroom.

Wet and desperate, I ran around collecting all the bath towels and handtowels I could find and, when I’d dammed up the bedroom door, I realised I hadn’t left one with which to dry myself.

The flannel. There was a dry flannel sitting beside the washbasin. I waded through the bathroom and back and, when I’d dried myself with the flannel, sat down on the bed and wondered whether to scream or sob.

I was tired and defeated and sick to death of the Hotel Visconti. I couldn’t take any more. I’d book out first thing in the morning, I had no other choice.

Then I thought of Stefano. I’d been so looking forward to tomorrow evening …

No, damn it! I wasn’t going to let Umberto and his rotten hotel win. I’d wait until everyone was at breakfast, then I’d sneak out and explore the town. I’d sit in a chic little outdoor cafe and have hot bread rolls and cafe latte and, by the time I got back to the hotel, if they hadn’t fixed my shower, I’d demand another room, Umberto’s ‘Venezia design’ suite if necessary.

Furthermore, I’d dress for dinner. My designer-label, pin-stripe power suit that made my legs look fantastic, and I’d order my steak and my wine and …

Battle plans laid, I went to bed and slept like a baby.

A noise woke me. It reverberated through the room. Thunder? The floorboards seemed to be shuddering. A minor earthquake? Where was I? Morning light filtered through the wooden shutters. Yes, of course, I recollected, the insufferable Hotel Visconti. Then I heard the women’s voices and realised it was the Americans thundering down the stairs.

The bathroom had more or less drained itself during the night, but still I had to splash my way across to the basin in order to wash. I dressed and waited until I was sure they were all at breakfast, then quietly I stole downstairs.

There was no-one in sight. Good. The sounds of healthy eating from the dining room. The scrape of spoons in bowls, the clatter of cups on saucers. I halted momentarily at the reception area. Annita was there, but she was engrossed with her mobile phone and gave me only the briefest of nods as I walked purposefully out the main doors.

It was a grey day, not cold, but the threat of a storm imminent. I turned right and strode down the hill towards the town, spirits lifted, glad that I hadn’t succumbed to last night’s frustration. I was looking forward to exploring Genzano di Roma.

Not far from the Hotel Visconti I passed another villa. Beyond its huge wrought-iron gates was the stone statue of a woman, her strong, splendid face gazing up at something she was holding aloft in her right hand. As the hand itself was missing, one could only guess at the object of her attention. Weeds and wildflowers had successfully found their way through the many cracks in the paving stones of the circular driveway and, here and there, the outer layer of the villa’s walls had crumbled away to expose vulnerable patches of white plaster beneath the terracotta stain. The whole was surrounded by a tumble of overgrown gardens where the hardiest of weeds and vines vied for survival. There was no sign of human presence, all the windows were cracked or broken, and I presumed the
place was derelict. The sight of such picturesque decay was somehow sad. This was once the grand part of town, I presumed. The nobility had lived in these wealthy villas on the hill.

As I neared the main town square, the shops and cafes I passed were drab and listless. Business was slow. It was now nine o’clock in the morning, but there were surprisingly few people in the street.

Then I arrived at the piazza, the hub of the town. Of course, I told myself, this was where the action was.

It was a big, open square surrounded by outdoor cafes, with public benches and tables in the centre, a gathering place for the people of Genzano di Roma. To the left, another main street, to the right a park, and ahead, the wide road that led up the rise to the church.

Half a dozen young people were lounging at the curb side as I rounded the corner into the square. The boys wore leather jackets and leaned carelessly against lampposts. One of them sat astride his motorbike, nonchalant, arms crossed, the bike declaring him the alpha male. The girls, overly made-up, thrust their young breasts out under tight sweaters and, hands tucked in back pockets of tight jeans, shifted their weight from one high-heeled boot to the other, tough and cool, yet sexy and appealing. It seemed a complicated business to me, and very early in the day to be playing such games. They couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen – didn’t they have anything better to do?

People were sipping coffee in cafes, sitting chatting on benches and generally wandering about the piazza, but there was no bustle, no sense of the energy I’d come to expect from Italian meeting places. The town seemed languid, and I thought that perhaps, if there really was nothing better to do, the girls were right to play their image games. At least they had the stimulation of performance and flirtation.

I sat at a table observing the scene, had a very pleasant cafe latte and a hot bread
roll with jam, and then set off up the road to the church. A slow, fine drizzle was starting to fall, but I refused to be daunted.

Although simple and basic in design, the church was attractive. Furthermore, it appeared to be the one building in town that didn’t need either major restoration or at least a spit and polish. It gleamed pristine white in the sunlight that filtered through the gathering grey clouds. The wide expanse of steps leading up to its front doors was fastidiously swept and, inside, the burnished wooden pews and railings glowed with the love of devoted parishioners.

Beyond the church was the old quarter of Genzano di Roma. A mass of little laneways, buildings crammed together, steps leading to mysterious places. For me, the backstreets of a town always beckoned, but I reluctantly decided against further exploration. The rain was more than a drizzle now, heavy weather was setting in. I must get back to the hotel.

Forty minutes later, when I arrived at the Hotel Visconti, I was soaked.

The main doors were closed and, I discovered, locked. I tried my room key. It didn’t fit. I rang the bell, which didn’t appear to work, and bashed on the doors for a full minute or so before giving up. Damn it, someone must be in there! I walked around the side of the house, through the gardens, to the terrace and tried the doors to the dining room. They too were locked. I peered through the glass, tapped loudly, yelled loudly, and still no-one appeared. I circled around to the rear of the house where I presumed I would find the servants’ and tradesmen’s entrance, not bothering to duck for cover – by now I was saturated – and found a door surrounded by garbage bins. It was unlocked. I sighed with relief, opened it and stepped into the kitchen.

‘Anybody there?’ I called out. I didn’t want them to think I was a burglar. No answer.

‘Hello?’ Through the swinging doors to the dining room, into the bar, then the
reception area. All deserted. The television set in the small reception lounge was on and a cartoon was playing.
The Bugs Bunny Show
, I noticed.

I was dripping pools of water and starting to feel cold, so I ran up the stairs to my room, stripped and dried off, thankfully noting that the bed had been made, fresh towels supplied and the bathroom cleaned up. I wondered if the drain had actually been unblocked. I doubted it.

When I’d dressed, I returned to the reception counter. There must be somebody about, surely, I thought as I pressed the bell repeatedly. There wasn’t. I sat in the lounge and picked a magazine up from the coffee table. There was a fascinating article that I presumed to be about sex from the graphic pictures displayed, but I couldn’t read it because it was in Italian. I watched Bugs Bunny. He was in Italian too.

Then I noticed the open door at the far end of the lounge. Where did that lead? I wondered, and got up to explore.

It was a small, messy office. Umberto’s I assumed. The portrait of the woman in Edwardian dress that hung on the wall above the desk simply had to be his aunt. In the corner was an old-fashioned safe. The keys were in the lock and the door wide open. Inside, bound with elastic bands, were messy wads of money, together with boxes that I could only presume contained valuables.

Quickly, I closed the door, ducked back into the lounge and resumed my seat in front of the television, heart thumping a little. What if someone had come in and thought I was robbing the place! But as I sat mindlessly watching Bugs Bunny, I couldn’t help thinking, What if I
was
a thief? I could have cleaned out that safe, headed off in my car and be miles away from the Hotel Visconti before anyone was the wiser.

This really is the most insane place, I thought, as an Italian Daffy Duck screamed abuse at an Italian Bugs.

It was an hour before Annita arrived.

‘
Buongiorno
,’ she said, taking off her wet plastic headscarf, her hair beneath immaculate, ‘I thought you had gone out for the day.’

‘Only for a walk,’ I answered, ‘and when I came back the doors were locked, I couldn’t get in.’ I waited for an apology but it wasn’t forthcoming.

‘Ah, but you did, didn’t you. That is good.’ Before I could answer she continued pleasantly, ‘The dining room is not open for lunch, but I can prepare for you some sandwiches, or a chicken salad.’

I realised that there was nothing to be gained by complaining and that it was well after lunchtime and I was very hungry. ‘Sandwiches would be fine, thank you.’

‘I shall bring them to the bar in twenty minutes.’ She picked up her mobile phone and marched off to the kitchen.

I sat in the bar reading my
History of the National Theatre
, which I’d discovered in a Paddington second-hand bookstore, and exactly twenty minutes later Annita arrived with a huge tray of what she called sandwiches. They weren’t really sandwiches at all, not Australian sandwiches anyway. They were crunchy, white bread rolls stacked with ham and cheese and tomatoes and basil, and they were absolutely delicious.

‘I make some for myself too,’ she said, lifting two of the rolls onto a side dish. ‘I may join you?’

‘Yes, please do.’ I was surprised. Her smile was friendly and for the first time I sensed warmth beneath the efficient exterior. It had probably always been there, I supposed, but not evident because the poor woman was too busy running the place. It was quite obvious that Annita was the only sane person in the Hotel Visconti.

‘I am going to have a beer,’ she said, crossing to the bar. ‘You would like one?’

‘Oh. Yes. Thanks.’ I normally didn’t drink alcohol during the day. Even one glass
made me want to sleep away the afternoon, but what the hell, this was a holiday. Besides, it was the convivial thing to do, and I was interested in finding out a little about Annita.

She poured us both a beer and joined me at the table. ‘I do not put this on the bill,’ she said and smiled conspiratorially. I smiled back, I liked the woman.

We toasted each other with our beers and dived into the sandwiches. She ate vigorously and healthily, and I liked that too.

When I complimented her on the food, Annita nodded. ‘Yes, it is very good,’ she agreed and we munched together companionably.

‘How long have you been at the Hotel Visconti?’ I asked when I’d finished my first bread roll and decided that I couldn’t possibly manage another.

‘Four years. I like it here.’ She took a swig of her beer and picked up her second sandwich. The woman could certainly eat.

‘You work very hard.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled as her jaws worked overtime. ‘What would Umberto do without me, eh?’ My consensus was so obvious that she hastily added, ‘Oh, I do not mind,’ in case I had misunderstood. ‘Umberto, he is so …’ She searched fondly for the right words. ‘Innocent … so … naive. He was left the villa by his aunt, and he knows nothing of hotels.’ She shrugged modestly. ‘I help him as much as I can.’

I decided it was better not to voice my views of her employer. Neither ‘innocent’ nor ‘naive’ were words I would choose to apply to Umberto.

‘Have you lived in England?’ I asked, safely changing the subject. When she looked quizzically at me, I added, ‘Your English is perfect, I wondered whether perhaps –’

‘Ah. Yes …’ She took another large bite of her sandwich and kept talking. She was one of those women who could do so with style. ‘Many years ago I was hostess for Alitalia. It was necessary that I speak good English.’ Then she added, as if for my instruction, ‘The
hostess is now called “air steward”.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I was senior hostess,’ she continued. ‘I was in charge of the cabin crew, I was very good.’ It was no boast, simply a statement, and I wasn’t in the least surprised. It certainly explained her air of authority.

‘Why did you leave?’ I asked.

She put down the remains of her sandwich and, in the silence that followed, finished chewing, swallowed, leaned across the table and announced solemnly, ‘I was hijacked by terrorists.’

I didn’t know what to say. ‘Really?’ I managed.

‘Yes.’ She was staring steadfastly at me and I found myself, mesmerised, staring back. ‘Terrorists hijacked our aircraft. I was kept hostage for three days. It was terrible.’

Again, I didn’t know what to say, but my eyes remained locked with hers.

‘They let many people go, but not me. The pilot and the co-pilot and several of the crew, they would not let us go. They kept us prisoner. For three days and nights.’

I waited with bated breath for her to continue, but she looked away, glancing towards the door, as if she feared someone might overhear, and when her eyes returned to mine, they held a haunted look. ‘For a whole year after, I had therapy,’ she whispered and again she glanced away, this time in all directions, clearly fearing the walls may have ears, ‘and now my personality is different.’ When she looked back the haunted look had gone and there was sheer madness in her eyes. ‘I like the Hotel Visconti. Here is safe for me.’

We sat in silence for a moment. Then she rose smartly from the table. ‘You do not want another sandwich?’ I shook my head. ‘I will clear the table.’ The madness had vanished as quickly as it had manifested itself and, within seconds, Annita had efficiently cleared the table and disappeared.

I took the glass of beer up to my room, lay on the bed and tried to read
The History of the National Theatre
, but couldn’t. In no time at all, I was sound asleep with Annita’s hooded eyes burning in my brain. ‘Now my personality is different,’ she kept telling me over and over. ‘I like the Hotel Visconti. Here is safe for me.’ It wasn’t a very restful sleep.

It was dusk when I awoke. I looked at my watch. Hell, twenty minutes to get ready for Stefano and I wanted to look my best. Dare I risk the shower? Yes, damn it.

The shower hadn’t been fixed and three minutes later I stepped out onto the soggy bathmat. Oh well, what did I expect?

I applied a rather good stage make-up. A little more ‘eyes’ than usual – Italians liked ‘eyes’, didn’t they? – and a lipstick a little bolder than my normal choice, one I kept for making that ‘special impression’. I fluffed out the hair, donned the pinstripe suit with the miniskirt and checked that my one and only pair of silk tights was ladder-free. Yes, thank goodness.

The little gold earrings, the high-heeled black courts, a quick check in the full-length mirror on the wall and, yes, I decided, that was about as good as it got. For me, anyway.