The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,7
Trollope.”
Faith was enjoying herself very much. All these literary allusions. As an English major she’d pictured herself married to someone who would read what she read and they’d sit sipping sherry in front of the fire, discussing books while little Elizabeth (Pride and Prejudice) and little Nicholas (The Great Gatsby and Nickleby) slept in their wee trundles overhead. Thank goodness she had met Tom instead, and while they shared some of the same tastes in reading, they had totally avoided tweeness.
Still it had its attractions. Just as she was about to ask Freddy for his own vita, the door from the hotel opened and this time it was Tom, followed by a member of the hotel staff bearing a tray with a bottle of Prosecco in an ice bucket and several little bowls with olives, nuts, and some sort of Italian Chex Mix equivalent. Faith jumped up and hugged her husband in delight.
“Ah, the bridegroom cometh,” Freddy said, standing also.
“Tom, this is Frederick Ives. Freddy, this is my husband, Tom Fairchild.”
“I think we need another glass if you would, Antonio,” Tom said, putting his hand out to greet his wife’s new companion, who immediately shook it heartily, saying, “I would not dream of intruding. You are obviously a man of exquisite sensibilities, and priorities. I envy you this moment in your maiden Roman Holiday. First times are rare in life.”
Tom laughed. “That’s exactly how I feel. La dolce vita.” The men exchanged looks, and it was Faith’s turn to laugh. Schoolboys, both of them.
Freddy picked up the books he hadn’t opened. One was a small notebook; the other was a copy of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair.
“I would be honored if you would be my guests for dinner tonight at an hostaria not far from here. I selfishly want to watch your enchanting wife’s face as she tastes their carciofi alla giudia and your nice one, too, Reverend Tom, when you drink the golden Frascati from my friend, the owner’s, private source in the Alban Hills.” He paused and then added in a surprisingly intense voice, “I don’t know when I will be in Rome again, and I won’t be here long this time.”
The Fairchilds accepted his invitation. Nine o’clock at Hostaria Giggetto on the Via del Portico d’Ottavia. Their host would meet them there.
Antonio was opening the door for Freddy when Faith realized she had an unanswered question.
“But what do you do? You never said.”
“Oh, I write guidebooks. Ciao.”
CHAPTER 2
Excerpt from Faith Fairchild’s travel journal:
Know I will have neither the time nor the inclination to keep this systematically, so I’ll just write down some things to remember—especially food and people like Freddy Ives, although I doubt I’ll be running into anyone else like him on this trip or, in fact, ever. As soon as I started to write in here, I immediately heard Freddy’s voice quoting Oscar Wilde’s Gwendolen and why she kept a diary, “One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” I doubt very much that I will have anything sensational to write about. Being off the leash is sensational enough.
Freddy definitely brings out the reader in me, maybe because he looks a little bit like Peter O’Toole in “Mr. Chips” and I’m making a separate list in the back of this journal of books I need to read or reread when I get home, that place across the pond, which seems very far away right now. Pause to gaze out window. This journal is turning more into stream of consciousness than anything else.
Called to tell Pix we’d arrived safe and sound. She put the children on and I doubt they miss us, which is only fair, as I don’t miss them—at least not yet. Ben wants us to bring him back a Vespa (as if) and Amy is 6 boxes away from selling the most Girl Scout cookies in her troop and would we buy some more? Am picturing self as old lady surrounded not by stacks of newspapers like the Collyer brothers, but stacks of Tagalongs and Thin Mints. Tom did not get on, as he unfortunately found out what the roaming charges are before we left home, so no calls to chat with anyone. Had to tell Hope not to phone unless dire emergency and bad haircut does not count.
We had a picnic lunch in the Piazza Navona, which we found by chance thereby reinforcing the Freddy Method of sightseeing. On the way we came across a street lined