embassy,” Joe said furiously, and whirled and walked away. Behind him, the girl shrugged.
“ Che posso fare ?” she said, and picked up her magazine.
We took my bags through customs without incident.
Outside, the sun was slanting lower off the ranks of farting buses and snarled taxis. It seemed that every horn on every vehicle in Rome was there, and blaring. I looked at my watch. Nearly four. The party began at seven, and we had no idea where it was, except somewhere in Trastevere. We were to call Colin and Maria at the Forrests’ when we got in, and they would give us directions.
“Joe, wait,” I called after him, as he snatched up my baggage and strode toward the cab stand.
“What?” It was a sharp bark.
I felt a surge of sharp irritation, followed by a slower, deeper tide of hurt. Joe very seldom snapped at me. And I was just as tired and hot and exasperated as he was, and nibbled ragged by the tiny teeth of the not-quite-quelled fear to boot; he knew that. But the two flushes 80 / ANNE RIVERS SIDDONS
faded. I might not have a pretty dress to wear to the party, but I had clean clothes, enough of them to last me through Italy. Joe had nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, catching up to him, “but we’re going to have to cash a traveler’s check before we can even get a cab. Don’t you remember, you said we’d do it here? Your book says there’s a booth by the doors to the taxi stand.”
We looked. There was indeed a booth for the changing of currency and the cashing of traveler’s checks. One booth, with one attendant in it.
As we started over, a massive black-clad nun herding a phalanx of Asian schoolgirls descended upon it and began an involved operation in which each child, giggling, went shyly up to the window in turn and presented a handful of documents and stood back, finger in rosy little mouth, as the attendant examined each documents with the steely scrutiny of a Siberian border guard. I felt tears spring into my gritty eyes and heard Joe say something swift and horrible under his breath.
I counted.
There were thirty-two of the Asian children.
When we reached the pavement outside at last, it was five-thirty, and the first fresh breath of the air of the Eternal City smote my face and neck like the belch of a blast furnace.
Wordlessly, we crawled into the first cab in the line and Joe said, “Hotel Cavalieri Hilton, per favore .”
“I don’ go up there,” the driver said, not looking around, not even looking up from the exquisite buffing he was giving his fingernails.
“Up where ?”
“Up there. Up the mountain,” the driver said, gesturing contemptuously.
HILL TOWNS / 81
Joe fished in his pocket and thrust a handful of bills through the Plexiglas shield that ostensibly protected the driver from the barbarian likes of us. I could not see what they were, but the digits were not single ones.
The driver grunted, pocketed the bills, clashed the taxi into gear, and we roared out into the river of traffic toward Rome.
I remember everything about my first glimpse of it, and nothing. The careening, squealing, honking, shouting, pounding, brake-screeching trip took fully an hour and three-quarters, and I got no single clear vision of Rome in all of it. Later we learned that Leo—the name of our driver, posted on the filthy Plexiglas that separated us; Joe said he was sure it was an alias—had without doubt taken us via as long a route as possible. I don’t doubt that. Romans can smell vulnerability on stranieri as wolves can blood. And then, of course, we had hit the villainous Roman evening rush hour head on. And Monte Mario is a long way from Fiumicino.
About as far, in fact, as it is possible to get and still be in Rome. But still, it is a long time to spend in a car and not remember one clear scene, one heart-stilled vista, one breath-snatching frozen moment.
But impressions were another matter. After all this time, and after all the country we have traveled since that
“ Che posso fare ?” she said, and picked up her magazine.
We took my bags through customs without incident.
Outside, the sun was slanting lower off the ranks of farting buses and snarled taxis. It seemed that every horn on every vehicle in Rome was there, and blaring. I looked at my watch. Nearly four. The party began at seven, and we had no idea where it was, except somewhere in Trastevere. We were to call Colin and Maria at the Forrests’ when we got in, and they would give us directions.
“Joe, wait,” I called after him, as he snatched up my baggage and strode toward the cab stand.
“What?” It was a sharp bark.
I felt a surge of sharp irritation, followed by a slower, deeper tide of hurt. Joe very seldom snapped at me. And I was just as tired and hot and exasperated as he was, and nibbled ragged by the tiny teeth of the not-quite-quelled fear to boot; he knew that. But the two flushes 80 / ANNE RIVERS SIDDONS
faded. I might not have a pretty dress to wear to the party, but I had clean clothes, enough of them to last me through Italy. Joe had nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, catching up to him, “but we’re going to have to cash a traveler’s check before we can even get a cab. Don’t you remember, you said we’d do it here? Your book says there’s a booth by the doors to the taxi stand.”
We looked. There was indeed a booth for the changing of currency and the cashing of traveler’s checks. One booth, with one attendant in it.
As we started over, a massive black-clad nun herding a phalanx of Asian schoolgirls descended upon it and began an involved operation in which each child, giggling, went shyly up to the window in turn and presented a handful of documents and stood back, finger in rosy little mouth, as the attendant examined each documents with the steely scrutiny of a Siberian border guard. I felt tears spring into my gritty eyes and heard Joe say something swift and horrible under his breath.
I counted.
There were thirty-two of the Asian children.
When we reached the pavement outside at last, it was five-thirty, and the first fresh breath of the air of the Eternal City smote my face and neck like the belch of a blast furnace.
Wordlessly, we crawled into the first cab in the line and Joe said, “Hotel Cavalieri Hilton, per favore .”
“I don’ go up there,” the driver said, not looking around, not even looking up from the exquisite buffing he was giving his fingernails.
“Up where ?”
“Up there. Up the mountain,” the driver said, gesturing contemptuously.
HILL TOWNS / 81
Joe fished in his pocket and thrust a handful of bills through the Plexiglas shield that ostensibly protected the driver from the barbarian likes of us. I could not see what they were, but the digits were not single ones.
The driver grunted, pocketed the bills, clashed the taxi into gear, and we roared out into the river of traffic toward Rome.
I remember everything about my first glimpse of it, and nothing. The careening, squealing, honking, shouting, pounding, brake-screeching trip took fully an hour and three-quarters, and I got no single clear vision of Rome in all of it. Later we learned that Leo—the name of our driver, posted on the filthy Plexiglas that separated us; Joe said he was sure it was an alias—had without doubt taken us via as long a route as possible. I don’t doubt that. Romans can smell vulnerability on stranieri as wolves can blood. And then, of course, we had hit the villainous Roman evening rush hour head on. And Monte Mario is a long way from Fiumicino.
About as far, in fact, as it is possible to get and still be in Rome. But still, it is a long time to spend in a car and not remember one clear scene, one heart-stilled vista, one breath-snatching frozen moment.
But impressions were another matter. After all this time, and after all the country we have traveled since that
Similar Books
