The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,8

with wonderful antiques shops, the goods all beyond our reach with the terrible exchange rate. Cannot do the math in my head, so am counting the euros as dollars but not mentioning this system to Tom. At a panetterria nearby we bought three yummy panini: proscuitto crudo with fresh mozzarella, artichoke fritta—eggy and still warm—and one with roasted vegetables drizzled with truffle oil and sat to eat on a stone bench by Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers facing Borromini’s Church of St. Agnes in Agone (want to remember at least some of what we’ve seen). A guide was describing the piazza in English to a small group of sturdy-looking travelers. Judging from the prevalence of Birkenstocks with socks, as well as fanny packs worn on tummies and men wearing those polo shirts with penguin logos (what brand is this anyway?), I pegged them as Americans. Maybe shoes and dress are still clues. Elder Hostel or some other similarly educational program? The guide was giving them their money’s worth and I decided it wasn’t cheating to eavesdrop. The fountain’s four rivers are the Nile, symbolizing Africa; the Danube, Europe; the Ganges, Asia; and the Rio de la Plata for the Americas. The Plata’s muscular arm was said to have been raised to protect the giant from the collapse of Borromini’s facade, and the Nile was similarly posed, covering his eyes in disgust. A bitter Baroque rivalry, literally carved in stone! Unfortunately the guide added that the fountain was completed before Borromini even started the church, so no dis intended. I was hoping she’d be leading them to a Caravaggio next, but they were headed for the Pantheon. At least we knew the direction to go, but we ended up sitting and people watching instead.

Then we needed coffee and then we decided to go back to the room again, and then . . . Now I’m waiting for Tom to finish his shower, so I can get ready to meet Freddy for dinner. Am feeling festive, so will wear only posh frock I brought—a jersey Eileen Fisher pale gray number with a cropped sweater in the same color that I adore. It’s so light it feels like a cobweb, with tiny crystal beads like dewdrops. Something Titania would wear. Feel as if I am being possessed by Victorian lady novelist, or teenage girl. Oh Freddy, what are you doing to me? This journal is going to be one of those things I burn before my children pack me off to a home. Too embarrassing.

We are going to the restaurant by way of the Pantheon. Or that’s the plan anyway. I have the feeling this is going to be one of those things like my never having been to the top of the Empire State Building despite every intention. Tom’s done finally—and another note to self: have never met a woman who couldn’t get dressed to go out faster than a man. More later. Feel as if we have been here for a week at least. Could it be only last night we were at Logan?

“You’re not tired?” Tom asked. “You didn’t sleep at all today. I did and I’m still feeling a little bushed.”

They were walking along the Tiber. The night was warm and lights from the bridges and buildings on both sides of the river reflected up into the sky, still dusky blue.

“I may not sleep until we get back on the plane if the rest of the trip is like this,” Faith said. “I don’t want to waste a moment. I remember feeling this way when I was a teenager. I could stay up all night and my eyelids never drooped the next day. Remember that bumper sticker Samantha Miller had on her car when she was in college—‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’?”

“I do, and I also remember thinking it was pretty extreme. I prefer Millay and the image of burning a candle at both ends to give off a lovely light. But, wife o’ mine, this is your trip. Sleep or don’t sleep, whatever your heart desires.”

“I’m looking at it,” Faith said, and they stopped to kiss. She hoped this would get to be a habit while they were in Italy. They certainly weren’t going to be able to do it on Aleford’s Main Street. Millicent Revere McKinley, the embodiment of the defunct Bostonian Watch and Ward Society, would come flying from her little clapboard cape strategically located by the town green and throw a bucket of water