When in Rome

The sudden discomfort of the park bench elicits more surprise than pain, but I cry out just the same shooting up from my anticipated resting spot. Jet-lagged and museum-weary I had neglected to look down. A small black Moleskine notebook with a gold fountain pen clipped to the cover now seems obvious. I look around for the owner. Most of the visitors have left, although a few remain on the benches bordering the tidy square that fronts the Borghese Galleries. The pathway leading into the wildly expansive public gardens is vacant. Rotating full circle, I see children lobbing acorns at protesting parakeets; a dog leaving a fresh lawn sculpture as its person chats obliviously on their phone; and a priest strolling in from the street, stopping to light a cigarette. For a moment he appears to be watching me, yet he looks away as our eyes meet.

Checking the bench for further implements, I sit. The pages of the notebook crackle as I fan them for clues: Dates from the past year; sketches of buildings; geometric shapes connecting streets to landmarks; a list of names all crossed out except for one; numbers impeccably aligned in columns; and a ticket for the Borghese cloakroom.

I can see that the main entrance at the top of the stairs is secured, while the office door at ground level is ajar. Hurrying across the pavement, I spin Italian phrases in my head. The ability to spontaneously gather thoughts, conjugate verbs, and produce something reasonably correct in this beautiful language still escapes me. I sound more like a sputtering old farm truck than the well-tuned Alfa Romeo of a natural speaker. I’m sure the attendant will not be pleased to see me again, the “stupida turista” with the regrettably “sconveniente” oversized backpack, this time past closing. I knock and step inside, “Scusi, Signora.” Her eyeroll speaks a universal language.

Before I can explain my intention to have the notebook placed with the item represented by the claim ticket in my hand, she snatches it away curtly requiring me to, “Stay there,” just inside the open doorway. Following some rummaging and mumbling, she returns with an old leather attaché case. Pushing it into my chest, I’m forced to grab hold of it with both arms as I stumble backwards past the threshold.

“No, no, no. Non e mio. I found…”

Slam!

As I fruitlessly continue to knock, the clouds open up. With the galleries and offices locked tight, I resign myself to having my plight go unheard. I stuff the case into my now “conveniently” oversized backpack and high-tail it down the empty tree-lined pedestrian street. Outside the gates I take a right. There’s one remaining taxi on the street at the end of the restricted parking zone, thus my rental car should be directly in front of it. The smell of tobacco and the burn of an unyielding gaze grab my attention. It’s the priest I saw earlier. I keep moving, pushing the key fob button to confirm the Fiat I’m approaching is indeed mine. I hop off the sidewalk then round the car. Opening the driver’s side door, I side-eye the priest still watching me. His head-to-toe black garb a shadow under the vendor’s blue tarp sheltering white buckets of brilliant sunflowers. He flicks his cigarette butt to the curb and signals the taxi driver. I shove the backpack ahead of me into the passenger’s seat and slam the door.

The windows fog as I turn the key and switch on the defrost fan. I shake off the rain along with an unsettled feeling and examine the newly acquired collection in my pack: The vintage attaché case is cracked and weathered; its brass mechanism locked. A relatively new notebook, filled by an artist’s hand, shows the wear of inclement weather and coffee cups. I pull the cap from the fountain pen, the gold-plated nib a bit scratched as well as curiously dry, no doubt an heirloom.

As I consider the conundrum of the collection pushing against a carefully planned schedule, my head begins to spin, this time in English: ‘I’ll have to backtrack to the Borghese tomorrow before leaving Rome, but they don’t open until 9 a.m. Surely, someone will be looking for …oh shit. Today is Sunday, the Borghese is closed tomorrow. I don’t have time for this. I have to be at the attorney’s office in Perugia at 11:30 a.m. Buying a fixer-upper in remote Umbria with friends seemed like a good idea at the time, yet I’ve spent the past year operating in the red. My Cloud storage is full of unfinished thus unpaid projects. Maybe it’s my head in the clouds that is the real problem here. Investing an additional $20,000 right now for upgrades…oh, what was I thinking! Okay, take a deep breath, exhale slowly. You can do this. Get checked into your room and eat something wonderful. Everything always works out for you. It will all be fine.’

The fog clears and I pull away from the curb the first chance I get. The light atop the taxi goes dark and pulls out after me, in front of aggressively honking traffic. “Turn left at Via Giacomo Puccini… then turn right on Corso d’Italia.” Computer-generated attempts at Italian street pronunciations always make me laugh, “Me too, Google Maps, me too!” and soon I’m heading back past the Borghese, north toward my hotel in a better mood.

I have one of eight basic bedrooms above a neighborhood ristorante. It’s just one night so there’s no sense spending time and money I don’t have in the splendor of central Rome. Carlo shows me to my room and I tell him I’ll be down for dinner soon. Flopping myself into the wingback chair to change my wet shoes, thoughts of the Umbrian stone house give me pause.

I wake with a start realizing I’ve dozed off. The dinner crowd and kitchen crew ramping up a friendly cacophony draws me downstairs. Carlo’s eyes narrow as he purses his lips and taps his watch, followed by a hearty laugh, “I joke-o!” His lyrical Italian-sounding English is charming, “Come, I seat you!” Leading me past the tables full of family and friends in spirited conversation, we snake our way through the young and hip crowd in the bar to the unadorned half table in the back near the kitchen. ‘Ah, the single life.’

Carlo is a kindly gentleman, maybe in his sixties, proficient at handing out menus, pouring wine, and double-kissing cheeks without missing a beat. He brings a half carafe of the house “vino rosso” and I read the specials of the day from the sprawling chalkboard above the bar. I know instantly I want the Bruschetta con Bufala e Carciofo. There’s nothing like a fork-tender Roman artichoke on cheesy garlic toast drizzled with fresh olive oil - the kind that would come from a neighbor’s boss’ uncle’s ancient grove not far from here.

After a few heady mouthfuls I set the wine aside to wait for my food. The airline’s cappuccino and biscotti served on approach to Rome earlier today is but a distant memory. I open the notebook and slip the fountain pen in my bra so as not to lose it. Diving into the pages a few of the words jump out at me: regalo ‘gift’, penna ‘pen’, chiave ‘key’, tesoro ‘treasure’ …

“So, we meet again, mia cara!” Startled by the tobacco-infused whisper, my chair tips sideways. I catch myself against the brick wall with my right arm, while my left hand remains steadily pressed into the notebook on the table. The stranger plants himself in the oak and rush seat opposite me. The light from the votive candle makes his face look like a giant dried apple stuck between two boney branches draped in black. The familiar cleric collar bunches up to his ears as he leans in to be heard. “You have something I want, mia cara.”

I intentionally slow my breathing and stare him down. My gaze turns to the notebook and knowingly back to him. A wisp of his grey comb-over falls onto his sweaty forehead as he nods, then leans back into the chair. I wish he’d stop calling me ‘my dear.’

“Is it yours?” I demand.

“That is not your concern, mia cara.”

“Ah, ciao Padre. We need un altro glass…” Carlo interrupts.

“No!” I insist in concert with the “Sì” from across the table, only too late. Next thing I know, Carlo’s back pouring my stalker a glass of wine, then darts off again.

“Who are you?” “Why are you following me?”

“You have many questions, mia cara, as do I.” He takes a sip of my wine. His thick accent adds to the mystery, “How is it that you have my colleague’s notebook?”

“I found it.”

“You just happened to find it?”

“Yes, it was on the park bench when I sat down.”

“Allora, I guess my business is with you now.” The priest looks around and pulls a thick envelope from inside the dark folds of his cassock. He discreetly fans a stack of $100 bills making sure to watch my reaction. He places the envelope on the table and slides it into checkmate position. “Twenty. Thousand. Dollars.” Each word a sentence in itself.

I laugh nervously. He looks around again.

“Take it or leave it, mia cara.” Less endearing than before, “The notebook is worth nothing to you and can only bring you trouble.”

My aversion to trouble, coupled with a need for liquidity, convince me wholeheartedly. I cautiously lift my hand as he advances the envelope and we seize each other’s offerings. While tucking the notebook into his sash I swiftly shove the money deep into the shoulder bag resting on my lap.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, mia cara.” The priest lingers to throw back the remaining wine from his glass. He stands and lights a cigarette.

Raising my glass, I lie and say, “the pleasure is mine, Padre.” I watch him turn to go, but curiosity gets the best of me. “Wait!”

He stops.

“You haven’t answered my questions. Why is this notebook so important?”

He returns to the table and in a low voice explains, “It contains the notes of Professor Rossi, on sabbatical from the Università per Stranieri in Perugia. He spent months deciphering clues in hopes to find his grandfather’s attaché case, rumored to be hidden in Rome since 1945. Last week the good professor went missing and a former student of his, an American, called me to say he had the notebook. He stipulated a finder’s fee and I arranged to meet him today at the Borghese - a public location. I feel it is best not to put too much trust in such a character, wouldn’t you agree, mia cara?”

“What’s significant about the attaché case?”

“It is said to contain certain secrets of ancient treasures and, how do you say, …alchemy.” His eyebrows raise, along with my suspicions.

I had considered telling him I have the case up until his own words about trusting ‘such a character’. I end the conversation wishing him good luck. “In bocca al lupo, Padre!” An idiom that means, 'Into the wolf’s mouth,' seems especially appropriate now.

He gives the standard reply, “Crepi il lupo.” 'May the wolf die.'

A shiver courses through my body as the bell on the door clangs and a hurried shadow blurs past the large picture window. I feel the envelope in my bag and exhale slowly. Retrieving the fountain pen and carefully taking it apart, my hunch is affirmed. Out drops a small key, about the size of the keyhole on the attaché case inside my backpack waiting for an early morning road-trip to Perugia. I have a feeling the real adventure is just beginning.

Carlo returns with my food and a hint of concern. “Tutto bene, signora?”

“Sì, Carlo. Everything is just fine.”