The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,5
There was a bit more salt in his rusty brown hair, but he was as lean as ever, despite being what her aunt Chat called upon meeting him, “a big, hungry boy.” During the early days of their marriage, Faith had been astounded at how fast milk and other staples of Tom’s diet ran out. Now she had two of these boys; Ben had inherited both his Dad’s metabolism and food preferences.
She slipped from between the sheets and got dressed. One of the things Faith had also noted from the hotel’s Web site was its rooftop terrace. She left a note about her whereabouts on her pillow, grabbed the key, guidebook, the small travel journal her sister had given her, and a bottle of water before tiptoeing out the door. A silent exit wasn’t necessary, as her husband routinely slept through major thunderstorms and only awoke if one of the children or Faith sneezed, but she felt it was more dramatic—and Rome was drama personified, or whatever the term was for places. As she climbed the stairs across from the elevator, assuming they would lead to the terrace, she thought of all those Hollywood extravaganzas—Ben Hur, Spartacus, and Cleopatra (where there was as much drama on-screen as off). They might be cheesy, but they were fun to watch.
The rooftop terrace was not a terrace but a roof, an extremely large one surrounded by a low wall and iron railings. It was the top of not only the former monastery but also of the buildings immediately adjacent, creating a flat open space that extended almost back to the Piazza Farnese. Faith leaned over the railing and peered down to the narrow street. She could see some children kicking a ball around one of the fountains and the corner of the newsstand next to a caffè. Two priests were strolling slowly toward the piazza; their long, dark, well-tailored robes seemed a cut above the similar garb she’d noted on American priests. Cassocks by Armani?
The rooftop area that belonged to the hotel had been outfitted with several small tables and chairs. They would have been at home in a garden—white-painted ornamental cast iron and, like the hotel keys, not going anywhere.
Planters overflowed with several kinds of geraniums, ivy, and bright ruffled petunias. She smelled jasmine and located a wall of it screening a small canvas swing for two. The perfect spot to toast their arrival once Tom woke up, Faith thought. They might be able to pick up a bottle of something at the small grocery store they’d passed near the Campo de’ Fiori.
She went over to the opposite side of the roof and looked down at her palm trees. Someone had placed large terra-cotta pots of small lemon and orange trees in a row in front of the wall as an additional barrier. The nearby elevator shaft had been disguised by a trompe l’oeil espaliered orchard with small birds. The fresco was faded and peeling, which, for Faith, added to its charm. She walked to the far end of the roof.
It was impossible to sit still when there was so much to see—domes and steeples piercing the Della Robbia blue sky; a glimpse of the Tiber; the large formal garden that belonged to the French embassy; balconies, some strung with wash, all with pots of flowers; and open windows revealing someone reading at a desk, a small kitchen with just a hand stirring a pot visible, and a cat asleep in the middle of a sun-dappled bed. Seagulls circling overhead made her think of their cottage on the coast of Maine, but these cries were different. Laughing gulls with Italian accents? There were no additional barriers here aside from the railings, broken in spots, and she drew back hastily.
Returning to the table where she had left her things, she drank some water. It was a warm day, not hot. Perfect weather. Perfect setting. She heard the door from the stairs open and turned, expecting to see Tom, but it was another man, who immediately said “Buon giorno” and lifted the Panama hat he was wearing. He was carrying two books and after Faith returned the greeting, he walked toward the jasmine-sheltered swing. Passing her table, he paused and picked up her guidebook.
“British or American?” he asked.
“American. And yes, I’ve never been to Rome before.”
He laughed. “Then please allow me to give you an essential piece of advice, admittedly cribbed from E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View, and urge you to