Just South of Rome by Judy Nunn

cracks in the paving stones of the circular driveway and, here and there, the outer layer of the villa’s walls had crumbled away to expose vulnerable patches of white plaster beneath the terracotta stain. The whole was surrounded by a tumble of overgrown gardens where the hardiest of weeds and vines vied for survival. There was no sign of human presence, all the windows were cracked or broken, and I presumed theplace was derelict. The sight of such picturesque decay was somehow sad. This was once the grand part of town, I presumed. The nobility had lived in these wealthy villas on the hill.
    As I neared the main town square, the shops and cafes I passed were drab and listless. Business was slow. It was now nine o’clock in the morning, but there were surprisingly few people in the street.
    Then I arrived at the piazza, the hub of the town. Of course, I told myself, this was where the action was.
    It was a big, open square surrounded by outdoor cafes, with public benches and tables in the centre, a gathering place for the people of Genzano di Roma. To the left, another main street, to the right a park, and ahead, the wide road that led up the rise to the church.
    Half a dozen young people were lounging at the curb side as I rounded the corner into the square. The boys wore leather jackets and leaned carelessly against lampposts. One of them sat astride his motorbike, nonchalant, arms crossed, the bike declaring him the alpha male. The girls, overly made-up, thrust their young breasts out under tight sweaters and, hands tucked in back pockets of tight jeans, shifted their weight from one high-heeled boot to the other, tough and cool, yet sexy and appealing. It seemed a complicated business to me, and very early in the day to be playing such games. They couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen – didn’t they have anything better to do?
    People were sipping coffee in cafes, sitting chatting on benches and generally wandering about the piazza, but there was no bustle, no sense of the energy I’d come to expect from Italian meeting places. The town seemed languid, and I thought that perhaps, if there really was nothing better to do, the girls were right to play their image games. At least they had the stimulation of performance and flirtation.
    I sat at a table observing the scene, had a very pleasant cafe latte and a hot breadroll with jam, and then set off up the road to the church. A slow, fine drizzle was starting to fall, but I refused to be daunted.
    Although simple and basic in design, the church was attractive. Furthermore, it appeared to be the one building in town that didn’t need either major restoration or at least a spit and polish. It gleamed pristine white in the sunlight that filtered through the gathering grey clouds. The wide expanse of steps leading up to its front doors was fastidiously swept and, inside, the burnished wooden pews and railings glowed with the love of devoted parishioners.
    Beyond the church was the old quarter of Genzano di Roma. A mass of little laneways, buildings crammed together, steps leading to mysterious places. For me, the backstreets of a town always beckoned, but I reluctantly decided against further exploration. The rain was more than a drizzle now, heavy weather was setting in. I must get back to the hotel.
    Forty minutes later, when I arrived at the Hotel Visconti, I was soaked.
    The main doors were closed and, I discovered, locked. I tried my room key. It didn’t fit. I rang the bell, which didn’t appear to work, and bashed on the doors for a full minute or so before giving up. Damn it, someone must be in there! I walked around the side of the house, through the gardens, to the terrace and tried the doors to the dining room. They too were locked. I peered through the glass, tapped loudly, yelled loudly, and still no-one appeared. I circled around to the rear of the house where I presumed I would find the servants’ and tradesmen’s entrance, not bothering to duck