The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,14
evening stroll.”
How long had they been eating? Hours, Faith knew, but the time was stretching out even further, and despite the meal she had just consumed, she realized there was still space for gelato, even a doppio, two scoops and yes, one would definitely be nocciola—hazelnut.
They strolled out into the night. The street was starting to get crowded, and Faith was reminded that Italians ate late. Freddy led them to the commemorative plaque, and they stood quietly in front of it for some minutes before he linked an arm through each of theirs, moving them back the way they’d come. He pointed out a small stone arch leading to an alley to the right of the restaurant that he told them would take them on the kind of pleasant wandering he espoused—“where way leads on to way.” Faith thought again of all the footsteps they were following in Rome.
“But,” Freddy added, “not tomorrow. Having forbidden you the more conventional tools of travel, I’ve made arrangements for you to go to the Borghese, where you will gaze upon Berninis, Caravaggios, and all manner of gorgeous things. Paolo has the information. It was too late for me to get you to the Sistine Chapel with a small group, and I forbid you to go any other way. In any case, you will love the Borghese. Mostly I go to be thrilled by the sublime Pauline herself, so erotic, that lusciously smooth marble.”
Faith had seen pictures of the statue of Pauline Borghese, Napoleon’s sister. She was reclining seductively, half nude on her Empire marble chaise longue. Tickets to the Galleria Borghese had to be purchased at least several days in advance, and she wondered how Freddy had managed it.
“You strike me as good walkers, but not fanatics—no jolly hockey girl thick ankles on you, Faith my love. So you might have a leisurely breakfast—the hotel lays on quite a nice spread—and walk to the museum and gardens. You’ll bump into a number of famous sights unless you’re careful. Afterward you can have lunch at ’Gusto—very chic, but very good, it’s near the Ara Pacis—then make your way to the Forum. I know you want to see the Colosseum, my little Daisy, and thankfully that kind of Roman fever—malaria—is not the kind of danger it once was. Not to say there aren’t others . . .”
Before he could elaborate, if he was, they were at the Pantheon, dramatic, impressive in the long floodlight beams, all Freddy had promised. They stood for a while in the center of the square by the fountain, gazing at the front before walking completely around the exterior, the massive dome looming over them, omnipresent. Afterward, he led the way to the gelateria, which had a long line of customers whose happy chatter in several languages sounded like flocks of various kinds of birds, among them the passionate couple at the table next to them in the restaurant.
As they reached the Corso Vittoria Emanuele, Faith thought she would always remember this moment, like those “store of memories” Freddy had mentioned. She had a store of them as well. She assumed most people did. Flashes of intense, perfect happiness that existed in one’s mind as if they were being relived that instant. This flash was the three of them standing perfectly still, waiting for the pedestrian sign to change while the traffic whizzed by in front of them. Their gelatos were gone, but the flavor lingered, and above, the Roman night hung suspended, a canopy of light and dark.
When they got to the Campo de’ Fiori, she remembered to ask Freddy about the large bronze statue, even more forbidding at night.
“Ah, Bruno. Reduced now to a convenient meeting place. We say, ‘Meet me at Bruno’ and everyone knows where to go. You must be familiar with the Dominican supposed heretic Giordano Bruno, Tom.”
Tom nodded. “Was this where they burned him, then?”
“I’m afraid so. Rather a popular spot for public executions, those highly popular precursors to the horrid reality shows on the telly, or melees at soccer games, that captivate audiences now. The market didn’t move here until the mid-nineteenth century. Before then it was in the Piazza Navona. Bruno was put to death in 1600. Poor man. He’d spent most of his adult life outside Italy, where his ideas about an infinite universe and other things such as the solar system met with more favor than here. Anyway, he thought the madness of the Inquisition had subsided and came back. Homesick,