Just South of Rome by Judy Nunn Page A

for cover – by now I was saturated – and found a door surrounded by garbage bins. It was unlocked. I sighed with relief, opened it and stepped into the kitchen.
    ‘Anybody there?’ I called out. I didn’t want them to think I was a burglar. No answer.
    ‘Hello?’ Through the swinging doors to the dining room, into the bar, then thereception area. All deserted. The television set in the small reception lounge was on and a cartoon was playing. The Bugs Bunny Show , I noticed.
    I was dripping pools of water and starting to feel cold, so I ran up the stairs to my room, stripped and dried off, thankfully noting that the bed had been made, fresh towels supplied and the bathroom cleaned up. I wondered if the drain had actually been unblocked. I doubted it.
    When I’d dressed, I returned to the reception counter. There must be somebody about, surely, I thought as I pressed the bell repeatedly. There wasn’t. I sat in the lounge and picked a magazine up from the coffee table. There was a fascinating article that I presumed to be about sex from the graphic pictures displayed, but I couldn’t read it because it was in Italian. I watched Bugs Bunny. He was in Italian too.
    Then I noticed the open door at the far end of the lounge. Where did that lead? I wondered, and got up to explore.
    It was a small, messy office. Umberto’s I assumed. The portrait of the woman in Edwardian dress that hung on the wall above the desk simply had to be his aunt. In the corner was an old-fashioned safe. The keys were in the lock and the door wide open. Inside, bound with elastic bands, were messy wads of money, together with boxes that I could only presume contained valuables.
    Quickly, I closed the door, ducked back into the lounge and resumed my seat in front of the television, heart thumping a little. What if someone had come in and thought I was robbing the place! But as I sat mindlessly watching Bugs Bunny, I couldn’t help thinking, What if I was a thief? I could have cleaned out that safe, headed off in my car and be miles away from the Hotel Visconti before anyone was the wiser.
    This really is the most insane place, I thought, as an Italian Daffy Duck screamed abuse at an Italian Bugs.
    It was an hour before Annita arrived.
    ‘ Buongiorno ,’ she said, taking off her wet plastic headscarf, her hair beneath immaculate, ‘I thought you had gone out for the day.’
    ‘Only for a walk,’ I answered, ‘and when I came back the doors were locked, I couldn’t get in.’ I waited for an apology but it wasn’t forthcoming.
    ‘Ah, but you did, didn’t you. That is good.’ Before I could answer she continued pleasantly, ‘The dining room is not open for lunch, but I can prepare for you some sandwiches, or a chicken salad.’
    I realised that there was nothing to be gained by complaining and that it was well after lunchtime and I was very hungry. ‘Sandwiches would be fine, thank you.’
    ‘I shall bring them to the bar in twenty minutes.’ She picked up her mobile phone and marched off to the kitchen.
    I sat in the bar reading my History of the National Theatre , which I’d discovered in a Paddington second-hand bookstore, and exactly twenty minutes later Annita arrived with a huge tray of what she called sandwiches. They weren’t really sandwiches at all, not Australian sandwiches anyway. They were crunchy, white bread rolls stacked with ham and cheese and tomatoes and basil, and they were absolutely delicious.
    ‘I make some for myself too,’ she said, lifting two of the rolls onto a side dish. ‘I may join you?’
    ‘Yes, please do.’ I was surprised. Her smile was friendly and for the first time I sensed warmth beneath the efficient exterior. It had probably always been there, I supposed, but not evident because the poor woman was too busy running the place. It was quite obvious that Annita was the only sane person in the Hotel Visconti.
    ‘I am going to have a beer,’ she said, crossing to the bar. ‘You would like