The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,17
sort of View-Master, those funny contraptions she’d had as a kid with reels of Disney’s Snow White plus things like the pyramids and shots of the Amazon that had been in a drawer at her grandparents’ house. She’d been astonished to discover they were still made when Ben had received a SpongeBob one some years ago.
But it was the perfect image, she thought. Click, and it was the walk to the Borghese, window-shopping on the Via Condotti, elegance she could never afford even with a stronger dollar, then click and they were stopping to climb the Spanish Steps. Click, the small Keats-Shelley Memorial House museum that clung to one side. They stood in the tiny room where Keats had died so young and looked out the window as he had, gazing at the boat-shaped fountain in the Piazza di Spagna he was said to admire for its lion heads at the prow and stern. Since the train to Tuscany didn’t leave until after lunch the next day, they had decided to go to the English cemetery in the morning to see both Keats’s and Shelley’s graves—Keats with the sole identification: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
Another click brought the Borghese, the gardens and the museum itself. The Berninis seemed to breathe, even tremble, Proserpine forever seeking to free herself from Pluto. In the next picture they were sharing a mound of mouthwatering fritto misto at ’Gusto followed by an equally outstanding crunchy, thin-crusted pizza covered with cherry tomatoes, black olives, tomatoes, arugula, and two kinds of cheese—Parmesan and fresh mozzarella. Faith had had to wander in the adjacent emporio with its array of cookware and cookbooks. Tom had suggested a cab back to the hotel, what with the wine at lunch and what with . . .
And then back to the views. Ancient Rome at last. The cab driver, Stefano, had proved to be an accidental tour guide, providing a running commentary on everything they passed, interjecting his own description of his native Roma: “We are a historic lasagna!” Really quite an ideal way of thinking about the layers and layers that made up the Eternal City, the people, the food. Faith resolved to write a postcard to Freddy with the metaphor. And then, click, there was the Colosseum (“When it falls, so will Rome,” Stefano had quoted the old saying, adding that it was publicized now to discourage people from chipping away at it). Click: wildflowers growing in the Forum next to pieces of the grandeur that once was there, scattered about like a child’s discarded building blocks. A final shot: dinner at a place that looked and smelled good from the outside, proving even better. And now the question.
“Happy?” Tom said again, muffling his wife’s obvious reply with a long kiss.
A kiss that was abruptly interrupted by the sound of people running. Faith broke away from Tom to look. There were two people, and one appeared to be chasing the other. They were racing across the piazza toward the fountain just in front of the Fairchilds. Tom grabbed his wife back and folded her in his arms, pulling her out of their path. The second figure gained on, then tackled the first. Faith watched, aghast as the two were locked together in a violent embrace, thrashing about on the hard cobblestones. Suddenly there was a single shout, an exclamation almost of surprise. Tom and Faith stood frozen, staring. What had come before had occurred with stunning speed and now time briefly stopped. One person got up; the other didn’t. Faith buried her face back against her husband’s chest, afraid to look.
And then speed again, the noise of racing footsteps, but only one pair. She lifted her head and caught sight of the fleeing figure. It was a man. Young. A face like the faces they had been seeing astride scooters, sitting in caffès, on the sidewalks all day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except what had just happened, she was sure, wasn’t ordinary at all.
The person on the ground was trying to sit up. The face was in the shadows, but as they went to help, they could see it was also a man, dressed from head to toe in black.
Not quite to toe. His shoes were brown. Well-worn desert boots. Faith knew those shoes. Knew the man.
It was Freddy—and he was clutching at the handle of a knife that had been thrust into his body just below his heart.