over the business?”
“That was before she came to Rome. She loved it here. And she was in love. I’m glad she had this time, glad she had an Italian lover. Every woman deserves at least one Italian lover. My mother had one.” And he knew that Elizabeth had had one too, and in retrospect he was glad. Why not? He reached for her hand.
“You’ll do fine,” she said.
The family kept Guido busy. Hildi’s brother, Jack, wanted justice or vengeance. He wanted the driver of the hit-and-run car hunted down and crucified, but it wasn’t going to happen. They stood at the scene of the accident, at the end of Ponte Garibaldi, with a policeman and with Checco. They looked up and down the one-way street along the Trastevere side of the river. Witnesses? Jack had read too many detective novels and thought there had to be someone who’d noticed. They could do a door-to-door. But all the old women who sat by their windows all day twitching their curtains would have been in bed at two o’clock in the morning.
Louisa wanted to have Hildi buried in the Protestant Cemetery with Keats and Shelley and Joseph Severn andJohn Addington Symonds, but this would be difficult if not impossible. “It’s not really the ‘Protestant’ cemetery,” Guido explained. “It’s really the ‘non-Catholic’ cemetery, for non-Catholics only, and (a) Hildi was nominally a Roman Catholic, and (b) she did not have an Italian identity card.” Elizabeth wanted cremation, but this too presented difficulties. They would have to prove that cremation was in fact what Hildi herself had wanted. It could be done, of course. Guido could manage the paperwork, the affidavits, which would have to be notarized or authenticated. Simon and Elizabeth would have to testify under oath that their daughter had expressed a strong desire to be cremated.
About twenty people gathered in the camera ardente at Ospedale Fatebenefratelli, where Hildi’s body was on display in the fiberglass casket that she would be cremated in. Guido had put up notices at the consortium office where Hildi had worked, outside her old address on Via della Luce, and outside her most recent address, where she’d been living with Checco in Piazza de’ Renzi. It was awkward at first. People didn’t know whether to speak Italian or English. Simon and Jack were the only ones who didn’t know Italian. Checco’s sister, Marina, was the only one who didn’t know English.
Checco sat by himself with his head in his hands. His sister released her Seeing Eye dog, Bruno, who went around the room sniffing everyone, introducing them to one another. And then he went to Checco and sat with him. The body had not been embalmed, but it had been refrigerated and was still presentable.
Checco had moved to the casket and, in spite of Bruno’s ministrations, was struggling to hold himself together. Simon recognized the signs and went to him, put his hand on hisshoulder. Touched him. The two of them stood by the cremation casket, as if they were guarding it. Simon, in undertaker mode, adjusted Hildi’s hands. Checco moved as if to stop him but then put his hands over his face again.
Simon was glad to get a glimpse into Hildi’s life in Rome. Glad that there were people here, so far from home, who had loved her. Not just Checco and his sister, but friends from work, from the consortium, from her old neighborhood on Via della Luce, who spoke to Louisa in Italian. A Dutch opera singer, Italian neighbors, the woman from the mask store, Maddelena. Hildi was leaving a trail of friends behind her.
There was nothing to eat or drink, nor was there any service, but friends got up and spoke, mostly in Italian, which Simon was able to understand—the feelings if not the words. Louisa and Jack sat together. Simon and Elizabeth sat with Checco, who had assumed the role of chief mourner. Simon comforted him but did not give way himself till later. He touched Checco’s arm, and Elizabeth held his hand and spoke
“That was before she came to Rome. She loved it here. And she was in love. I’m glad she had this time, glad she had an Italian lover. Every woman deserves at least one Italian lover. My mother had one.” And he knew that Elizabeth had had one too, and in retrospect he was glad. Why not? He reached for her hand.
“You’ll do fine,” she said.
The family kept Guido busy. Hildi’s brother, Jack, wanted justice or vengeance. He wanted the driver of the hit-and-run car hunted down and crucified, but it wasn’t going to happen. They stood at the scene of the accident, at the end of Ponte Garibaldi, with a policeman and with Checco. They looked up and down the one-way street along the Trastevere side of the river. Witnesses? Jack had read too many detective novels and thought there had to be someone who’d noticed. They could do a door-to-door. But all the old women who sat by their windows all day twitching their curtains would have been in bed at two o’clock in the morning.
Louisa wanted to have Hildi buried in the Protestant Cemetery with Keats and Shelley and Joseph Severn andJohn Addington Symonds, but this would be difficult if not impossible. “It’s not really the ‘Protestant’ cemetery,” Guido explained. “It’s really the ‘non-Catholic’ cemetery, for non-Catholics only, and (a) Hildi was nominally a Roman Catholic, and (b) she did not have an Italian identity card.” Elizabeth wanted cremation, but this too presented difficulties. They would have to prove that cremation was in fact what Hildi herself had wanted. It could be done, of course. Guido could manage the paperwork, the affidavits, which would have to be notarized or authenticated. Simon and Elizabeth would have to testify under oath that their daughter had expressed a strong desire to be cremated.
About twenty people gathered in the camera ardente at Ospedale Fatebenefratelli, where Hildi’s body was on display in the fiberglass casket that she would be cremated in. Guido had put up notices at the consortium office where Hildi had worked, outside her old address on Via della Luce, and outside her most recent address, where she’d been living with Checco in Piazza de’ Renzi. It was awkward at first. People didn’t know whether to speak Italian or English. Simon and Jack were the only ones who didn’t know Italian. Checco’s sister, Marina, was the only one who didn’t know English.
Checco sat by himself with his head in his hands. His sister released her Seeing Eye dog, Bruno, who went around the room sniffing everyone, introducing them to one another. And then he went to Checco and sat with him. The body had not been embalmed, but it had been refrigerated and was still presentable.
Checco had moved to the casket and, in spite of Bruno’s ministrations, was struggling to hold himself together. Simon recognized the signs and went to him, put his hand on hisshoulder. Touched him. The two of them stood by the cremation casket, as if they were guarding it. Simon, in undertaker mode, adjusted Hildi’s hands. Checco moved as if to stop him but then put his hands over his face again.
Simon was glad to get a glimpse into Hildi’s life in Rome. Glad that there were people here, so far from home, who had loved her. Not just Checco and his sister, but friends from work, from the consortium, from her old neighborhood on Via della Luce, who spoke to Louisa in Italian. A Dutch opera singer, Italian neighbors, the woman from the mask store, Maddelena. Hildi was leaving a trail of friends behind her.
There was nothing to eat or drink, nor was there any service, but friends got up and spoke, mostly in Italian, which Simon was able to understand—the feelings if not the words. Louisa and Jack sat together. Simon and Elizabeth sat with Checco, who had assumed the role of chief mourner. Simon comforted him but did not give way himself till later. He touched Checco’s arm, and Elizabeth held his hand and spoke
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