flowers, a house phone, and copies of today’s newspapers.
I stared longingly at that phone; it was the answer to my prayers. But between me and it was a long stretch of corridor with many doors, plus the elevators waiting to spring unwary guests and shock them with the sight of me, half naked and looking like the Phantom of the Opera.
There was nothing else for it. I adjusted my towel turban, gripped my robe around me, and sped barefoot down the corridor. I glanced warily at the elevators as I grabbed the phone and dialed. I told the man who answered that I had locked myself out of my room and could he please send someone up with a key immediately, it was urgent. He said, “ Sì, signora, right away.” I heaved a sigh of relief. And then the elevator pinged.
Horrified, I sank into one of the little silk chairs next to the console, grabbed a newspaper, and held it up to my face. I crossed my legs and prayed that whoever it was would not even notice a barefoot, half-naked woman in a green face mask with eyes like those proverbial holes in the snow and a dangling towel turban, pretending to read a newspaper in Italian.
I heard the doors slide open and someone step out. The doors slid shut, and still the person did not move. I looked down under the newspaper and saw a pair of feet in expensive brown suede loafers and yellow socks. It was a wonder the face mask didn’t crack right off my face, my skin was so hot from the terrible blush.
“By the way,” his amused voice said, “you’re reading that paper upside down.”
I lowered the paper and glared at him. “I locked myself out, that’s all,” I said in a dignified tone. “I’m waiting for the bellboy to bring me a key.”
He was grinning at me now. “Better keep that robe closed,” he said. “It’s kind of chilly with this air-conditioning.” And then he turned and walked off down the corridor. I could hear him laughing all the way.
I sped back to my door, grabbed the Bellini, and took a gulp, cowering in the corner until my savior appeared with the key. He was politer than Michelangelo; he did not even look at me, let alone laugh. And then I was safe inside, rinsing off that stupid mask that hadn’t removed a single wrinkle, let alone snapped my pores shut, and, damn it, my eyes were still bloodshot.
I flung myself onto the sofa and slurped up that Bellini. I prayed I would never see that self-satisfied jerk again. I’d had it with Rome and smart-asses from Long Island.
Chapter Eleven
That night we had dinner at Il Volte on the Via della Rotonda, a smartly casual trattoria with a busy outdoor terrace bordered with greenery and soft lamplight.
It was a hot night, and the purple sky was studded with stars. People thronged the streets, escaping their hot apartments, carrying bright-eyed babies, whisking small children from under the wheels of noisy little Vespa motor scooters, sipping wine in cafés, eating gelati , talking loudly on cell phones, embracing friends, kissing in doorways. Being Romans.
Tables were crammed close under the blue awning, and there was music in the air and the smell of pizza margherita, a waft of garlicky clam pasta, the cool taste of white Frascati wine, and a bubble of laughter from a wedding group at the long table next to ours.
The bride was English, beautiful in a skintight white lace dress. Her flowing veil, a cloud of tulle and lace, cataracted carelessly over the terrace. Her new husband was Irish, pink-faced and with his jacket off and his collar unbuttoned against the heat. He had his arm around her shoulders, and there it stayed all night. I watched them with wistful memories of my own long-ago wedding day when, at the last minute, even I had not wanted to be there.
The wedding party was a mixture of European nationalities, and they were laughing, feasting, drinking champagne, having a great time. I caught the bride’s eye and lifted my glass to her. “Good luck,” I called, and she gave me a glowing smile
I stared longingly at that phone; it was the answer to my prayers. But between me and it was a long stretch of corridor with many doors, plus the elevators waiting to spring unwary guests and shock them with the sight of me, half naked and looking like the Phantom of the Opera.
There was nothing else for it. I adjusted my towel turban, gripped my robe around me, and sped barefoot down the corridor. I glanced warily at the elevators as I grabbed the phone and dialed. I told the man who answered that I had locked myself out of my room and could he please send someone up with a key immediately, it was urgent. He said, “ Sì, signora, right away.” I heaved a sigh of relief. And then the elevator pinged.
Horrified, I sank into one of the little silk chairs next to the console, grabbed a newspaper, and held it up to my face. I crossed my legs and prayed that whoever it was would not even notice a barefoot, half-naked woman in a green face mask with eyes like those proverbial holes in the snow and a dangling towel turban, pretending to read a newspaper in Italian.
I heard the doors slide open and someone step out. The doors slid shut, and still the person did not move. I looked down under the newspaper and saw a pair of feet in expensive brown suede loafers and yellow socks. It was a wonder the face mask didn’t crack right off my face, my skin was so hot from the terrible blush.
“By the way,” his amused voice said, “you’re reading that paper upside down.”
I lowered the paper and glared at him. “I locked myself out, that’s all,” I said in a dignified tone. “I’m waiting for the bellboy to bring me a key.”
He was grinning at me now. “Better keep that robe closed,” he said. “It’s kind of chilly with this air-conditioning.” And then he turned and walked off down the corridor. I could hear him laughing all the way.
I sped back to my door, grabbed the Bellini, and took a gulp, cowering in the corner until my savior appeared with the key. He was politer than Michelangelo; he did not even look at me, let alone laugh. And then I was safe inside, rinsing off that stupid mask that hadn’t removed a single wrinkle, let alone snapped my pores shut, and, damn it, my eyes were still bloodshot.
I flung myself onto the sofa and slurped up that Bellini. I prayed I would never see that self-satisfied jerk again. I’d had it with Rome and smart-asses from Long Island.
Chapter Eleven
That night we had dinner at Il Volte on the Via della Rotonda, a smartly casual trattoria with a busy outdoor terrace bordered with greenery and soft lamplight.
It was a hot night, and the purple sky was studded with stars. People thronged the streets, escaping their hot apartments, carrying bright-eyed babies, whisking small children from under the wheels of noisy little Vespa motor scooters, sipping wine in cafés, eating gelati , talking loudly on cell phones, embracing friends, kissing in doorways. Being Romans.
Tables were crammed close under the blue awning, and there was music in the air and the smell of pizza margherita, a waft of garlicky clam pasta, the cool taste of white Frascati wine, and a bubble of laughter from a wedding group at the long table next to ours.
The bride was English, beautiful in a skintight white lace dress. Her flowing veil, a cloud of tulle and lace, cataracted carelessly over the terrace. Her new husband was Irish, pink-faced and with his jacket off and his collar unbuttoned against the heat. He had his arm around her shoulders, and there it stayed all night. I watched them with wistful memories of my own long-ago wedding day when, at the last minute, even I had not wanted to be there.
The wedding party was a mixture of European nationalities, and they were laughing, feasting, drinking champagne, having a great time. I caught the bride’s eye and lifted my glass to her. “Good luck,” I called, and she gave me a glowing smile
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