Page 58 of The Crimson Lily
Oh, man! First Rome, now the Vatican. Where am I going next? I look out of the window, only to realize we’ve been driving in circles.
“Is this how you have all your meetings?” I joke, pointing at us going for another round, a little cheeky smile on my face.
Giovanni laughs. “If only!” he exclaims exaggeratedly.
I like Giovanni. He’s the sort of man who’s instantly likeable. He genuinely seems like a nice guy, the criminal allure notwithstanding. I wonder, for a brief moment, what his life looks like. Is he a full-time black trench coat wearer with leather gloves? Does he do something else on the side? Does he have a family?
We spend the next few hours driving around Rome after I insist on taking a different route to at least see other parts of the city. Giovanni finds my vain attempts at pronouncing the names of each monument particularly amusing. My Italian is terrible. His English, however, is almost always spot-on. This makes me even more curious to know what kind of man he is.
After our endless ride, I discovered that Giovanni Senatore has experience in international trade, that he learned English at a very young age, that his father’s out of the picture, and that his mother is the only family he has. Giovanni was not hesitant to share this information with me. He was actually enthusiasticabout it. Definitely a talker. He said nothing of his criminal affairs, but I didn’t ask either.
“What’s the contact’s name?” I wonder as we reach a familiar boulevard. I figure I’d better get a real name instead of thinking of the woman I’ll meet tomorrow asthe contactall the time.
Giovanni clears his throat. “Her name is Chiara Zanetti,” he replies. “She’s a reporter for some art magazine.”
“Why will she only talk to me?” I ask again. I really need to know. The curiosity is killing me.
He exhales deeply. I’m sure he knows the answer but hesitates to tell me. I think he gives in when we lock eyes and mine are too piercing for his own good.
“Because you both have the same enemy,” he concedes. “William de Loit, the man who hides within the walls of Rome.” He says that last part in such a mysterious tone, like the start of a mystery thriller in which we’ve been cast as main characters.
A few houses later, I recognize the large building and the American flag. My hotel is just at the end of this street. The car pulls over at the Grand Hotel Flora, and Giovanni signs that this is my cue to leave.
“I’ll be picking you up tomorrow at 9:00,” he announces. “Buona sera, Liliana!”
I wave at him and watch the car leave beyond the arched gate. I have a strange sentiment that settles in me at this moment. An intrinsic feeling of loneliness, as if the rest of the day is entirely up to me and me alone. Maybe I’m just really tired. I check my phone: It’s almost 6 p.m. I get back to my room—I mean, mypresidentialsuite—and immediately jump into my pajamas. A comfy T-shirt and blue yoga pants. I throw myself on the bed, pondering whether I should go back out to get dinner or if I’ll just order room service. Who am I kidding? Room service it is. Let’s see if Rome’s hotel has betterpenne arrabiatathanParis’s. The answer is: most definitely. We are in Italy, after all, the award-winning country of pasta cuisine.
I spend the rest of the evening in front of the flatscreen TV, watching Animal Planet and eating pizza with Italian bread. Yes, I opted for pizza in the end, which is delicious. The cheese—mmm, divine! The juicy artichokes and cherry tomatoes are just perfect. I chatted with Béatrice and with Priya, who didn’t miss the chance to ask me about the tall, handsome, tenebrous man who got me an Indian-style soymilk latte yesterday. Eventually, I gather the might to text the only number I have from Maksim. I’m not even sure if he still uses it, but I tell him I met Giovanni and that I’ll be meeting this Chiara Zanetti person tomorrow. He doesn’t respond.
I brush my teeth standing in front of the living room window, looking at the piece of the arched Roman gate that I now know is called Porta Pinciana. I spend a minute gazing upon this monument, so modest yet so full of history. I can picture armored soldiers, horse carriages, peasants, and commoners passing through the gate, like a glimpse into the distant past. Far ahead, the hues of the sunset reach my eyes. It is splendid. I inhale deeply to savor the moment, with tears of I’m-not-sure-what glazing my eyes. Now I finally understand why people take pictures and selfies all the time. I must say, judging by my social media profile now, and even in my previous life, I never really was that kind of photo-snapping person, unlike many other millennials. But as I look over the skyline of Rome smoldering under the sinking sun, I realize that such moments deserve to be captured and fastened in eternity. However, I can’t bear to tarnish this wonderful view with my cheap phone equipped with a good-for-nothing camera.
16
This morning, I realized that 9:00 for Giovanni tends more toward 9:30. I made a naggy comment about it; since I’m apparently important, I might as well be cheeky about it.
It’s a ten-minute drive from the Grand Hotel Flora to the first glimpse I catch of the Vatican’s wall. We drive along the tall block of bricks that surrounds Vatican City until we reach a small square. I spot the white gate topped by Roman statues that announce Musei Vaticani in big Latin letters. The bowler-hatted driver pulls over, and Giovanni steps out first, then lets me out of the car.
There are already some tourist stands buzzing on the square by the gate that sell little Vatican trinkets, miniature Roman busts, and even hats. I’m curious to see if I can get something, maybe for Priya, but I don’t linger too long. Giovanni is patiently waiting for me to follow him. He stands there, by the side of the road, in his jeans and black trench coat. He’s combed his hair today the same way he did yesterday, and his eyes are dark brown in the morning light.
“We can get you a fridge magnet later if you want,bella,” he says with a smile.
I giggle and purse my lips. “I think we can find something better than a magnet!”
He laughs, telling me about how tourists always fall for these stupid gadgets while Rome’s treasure is actually the food—that people would do better spending their time appreciating their stay than wasting it finding something to bring back home. Memories should be made, not bought! Those are his words.
We swoosh through the official entrance, not through the adorned gate. Giovanni takes care of the tickets, says a few cheerful words to the young man behind the counter, and in the Vatican Museums we are. It’s rather busy for a Monday morning in the middle of winter, but then again, this is Rome, and tourism in Rome doesn’t have a calendar.
It’s obvious that we are on a tight schedule. We pass the alley of ancient sculptures without looking at them. We hop from hall to hall like rapidly bouncing balls. Giovanni paces ahead, and I do my best to keep up, asking myself why this man is in such a hurry and remembering that he was thirty minutes late to pick me up.
There are statues, paintings, Egyptian vases, and more statues flashing around my entire field of vision. Something about this place feels familiar yet absolutely forgotten. I’ve been here before, I remember that, but there is something else. A feeling, a tickle that makes me wonder what there is about this place that I can’t recall.
And now it hits me.
My heart stops because I’m not walking behind Giovanni anymore. I am following a man with red hair and mutton chops. It’s no longer winter, and we are no longer in 2023.
The sun rains down between statues of gods as William de Loit, who turns back to me and smiles, addresses me with his gravelly voice. “Isn’t it just marvelous, Lili?”
It’s summer 2016. I’m in the Sala della biga, and William is with me.
