If Only Page 5

  Then her father saying, ‘First I’ve heard of it!’

  Letty can still remember the invisible flames of Frances’s wrath flaring across the table, and not understanding why her mother was cross with him.

  And so the three of them had come to Rome. They’d visited Ostia Antica, where the first of Caroline Lawrence’s books was set, and taken a fast train to Naples to spend a rushed day in Pompeii, where the characters lived in another of the stories. She remembers turning pirouettes on the stage in the theatre there, imagining she was Flavia Gemina, the books’ heroine.

  ‘Is that how you got into Latin?’ Alf asks.

  ‘Yes, my uncle taught me.’

  Alf lets out a little laugh.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘No, it’s just that I was thinking in class today, you know when we were learning the words for relatives? Lo zio, wasn’t it, for uncle? I was thinking, why are we learning this? Whoever talks about their uncle? And’ – he looks at his phone – ‘now less than three hours later, here we are talking about your uncle!’

  At the Sunday lunch following their return, when they were describing what a brilliant time they’d had, Letty had mentioned the sign in Pompeii that said Cave Canem – Beware of the Dog!

  And Rollo had said, ‘Why don’t I teach you Latin?’

  And even though Frances had bought her every subsequent Caroline Lawrence book as soon as it came out in hardcover, those stories were quickly replaced in Letty’s affection by the tale of Aeneas and his adventures, written by Virgil, whose words Rollo taught her to decipher using the rules of grammar and a vast dictionary, which was far more enthralling than reading something everyone else could read in English.

  Alf smiles at her. She notices that his eyes are deep brown, not blue. With his blondish hair, it’s a striking combination. As they amble in no particular direction, the silence between them is comfortable. Part of her nags that she ought to find an excuse to get away from him, but mostly she’s quite enjoying the company. She’s spent a lot of time on her own during the week, trying to think things through, yet nothing has become any clearer.

  ‘Should we be trying to speak Italian?’ Letty asks.

  ‘No offence,’ says Alf. ‘But we’re not really good enough to say anything interesting, are we? I mean, I’ve known you a week and all I know is that your favourite colour is black.’

  ‘I only said that because most of my clothes are black. I haven’t had a favourite colour since I was little.’

  ‘When it was . . . ?’

  ‘Pink, obviously,’ says Letty.

  He smiles at her.

  ‘Have you seen Santa Maria Antiqua?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Letty.

  ‘I think you’ll like it,’ he says, turning towards a church that backs on to the Palatine Hill.

  ‘How long have you been a tour guide?’ Letty asks. ‘I thought you were a waiter.’ It sounds as if she’s accusing him of lying.

  ‘I’m a man of many talents,’ he says with a broad smile. ‘I followed a few of the tours round, you know? I thought, how hard can it be?’

  Letty can’t imagine how anyone could have the self-confidence to show people round the Forum, unless they were a classical scholar.

  ‘What people like are stories, you know, that bring it alive for them,’ says Alf, as if he’s read the expression on her face. ‘People like you who know about stuff don’t take tours, do they?’

  It’s true, Letty thinks. Her family wouldn’t have dreamed of taking a tour. Frances always had a guidebook. Ivo preferred to wander alone, ‘soaking up the atmosphere’, he called it. Letty was somewhere in between. She was fascinated by the history that Frances was reading out, but she also liked to stay a while in places, let her imagination roam, trying to imagine what life would have been like in the past. Ivo got bored easily. He said it was a nightmare sightseeing with Frances, because it was as if she wanted to own everything. She retaliated that if you’d grown up working class, you didn’t take foreign holidays for granted, as he did. Ivo said she always had to have the last word, and Frances said actually he wanted to have the last word himself, so why was it so objectionable for her to? At which point, Ivo usually gave in, catching Letty’s eye and shrugging in a gesture of exasperation. It was all good-humoured sparring, but holidays were never that relaxing.

  The church is unusual because, unlike most churches that were built on ancient sites, this one was buried by an earthquake and was untouched by Renaissance or Baroque architects and artists, so that the frescoes that remain in the apse come directly from the Byzantine era. The air inside is cold and smells slightly of the brick that has been hacked away in the recent excavation.

  There are a couple of steps leading up to a small chapel to the right of the altar. Faded fragments of ancient wall paintings are visible, but Letty cannot see quite why Alf was so eager for her to see it until, suddenly, the chapel becomes dark and from some hidden 3D technology, the walls light up with the Roman mosaic that would have adorned the original temple. And just as she is taking in this virtual spectacle, the patches of fresco start to expand into complete early Christian paintings, with inscriptions showing that a thousand years ago this was a place where people came to be cured of their ills by prayer.

  In the coolness of the chapel, with the soft rhythm of the commentary and colourful saints emerging from the walls around her, the frown that always seems to be stretched across Letty’s forehead relaxes, as if she herself has come as a pilgrim and found balm for her troubled mind.

  Alf smiles at her as they emerge from the dimness of the church into the golden sunshine of late afternoon, but does not say anything, as if he knows that she needs time and peace to process the experience.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Letty. ‘That was absolutely fascinating.’

  ‘Prego!’ he says.

  They both stop walking, as if unsure what happens next.

  ‘Don’t you have to work?’ she asks.

  ‘No, but if you’d rather I left you . . .’

  ‘I’m quite enjoying my own private tour!’ she hears herself saying.

  ‘I’m glad!’ he says. ‘The Palatine?’

  He indicates the route with a bow and an exaggerated flourish of his arm, like a bestockinged courtier in the presence of royalty.

  ‘I like it up here,’ Alf says, as they wander through the Farnese Gardens. ‘When the tours have gone, I sometimes come up here for a think.’

  About what, she wonders, but doesn’t ask, as it would be an intrusive question.

  The afternoon sun is mellow, and the air that separates them feels softer somehow. There is no need to fill it with talk.

  Alf leads her over to a viewpoint where they can see the whole of the Forum and Rome beyond.

  A large seagull swoops, hovers, then perches on the wall in front of them.

  Alf takes a picture of it.

  ‘The seagulls here look different from home,’ he says.

  ‘In what sense?’ Letty asks.

  ‘Like they own the city,’ says Alf.

  ‘You’re right. They are kind of imperious. Julius Seagull,’ she suddenly says, laughing.

  ‘Hey, can I borrow that for my post?’ he asks.

  ‘Prego!’ she says.

  He taps the words into his screen, then posts the image.

  ‘Can you speak Latin?’ he asks, as they mooch on.

  ‘It’s not really a spoken language.’

  ‘What if you bumped into an Ancient Roman?’

  ‘I’d probably be as useless as I am with contemporary Romans.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Why do you study it?’

  ‘I like working the language out. It’s almost mathematical.’

  ‘That’s a reason to like it?’

  She laughs.

  ‘For me, yes. And obviously I like being able to read the literature as it was written,’ she says. ‘Because you und
erstand that they were just like us in so many ways.’

  ‘Who’s your favourite Roman writer?’ Alf asks.

  She wonders if he is really interested or whether he is humouring her.

  ‘Catullus,’ she answers. ‘He was a poet.’

  She remembers the thrill of reading him for the first time, and how there was one poem that seemed to sum up how she felt, speaking to her across time.

  ‘What sort of poems?’

  ‘Love poems,’ Letty says. Then, feeling slightly embarrassed, she hears herself babbling, ‘There’s this poem called “Odi et amo”. It’s only two lines long, but it says everything I feel about love, somehow.’

  ‘Amo is “I love”, right?’ Alf says. ‘Same as Italian.’

  ‘And odi is “I hate”,’ she says. ‘Odi et amo,’ she recites, translating as she goes. ‘I hate and I love. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Perhaps you’re asking why? Nescio. I don’t know. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior. But it’s the way I feel and I am torn in two.’

  In the silence that follows, Alf stares at her, and she feels that in her enthusiasm for her subject she has revealed too much about herself.

  ‘Excrucior,’ she says briskly, like a schoolteacher. ‘It literally means “I’m on the cross”. Crucifixion being a common method of elimination in those days, as we know.’

  And then she walks on, slightly ahead of him now, feeling the colour in her face.

  What possessed her to quote that poem to him? Letty asks herself. Now the space between them feels all jangly again.

  In the Palatine Museum there is a set of wings, in marble, that must have been attached to some figure that no longer exists. Victory, she thinks. Or Cupid?

  Alf asks her to take a picture of him in front of it, so that, when she lines up the shot carefully, he appears to be wearing a winged helmet, like the gods’ messenger Mercury.

  ‘Would you like me to take one of you?’ he asks, as she hands him back his phone.

  ‘No thanks,’ she says. ‘I’m not usually keen on having my photo taken.’

  ‘Shame,’ he says. Then, almost under his breath: ‘Because you are very beautiful.’

  She spins.

  ‘What am I supposed to say to that?’

  Why can’t she just say thank you like anyone else would?

  ‘Sorry. I was out of order,’ he says, holding up his hands as if to defend himself.

  ‘It’s just that people say it to me all the time, especially in Italy.’ She tries to dial down her frustration. ‘People don’t usually comment on your appearance, do they? Not people in bars and things, anyway.’

  ‘It’s just what Italians do,’ Alf says. ‘I don’t think it really means anything apart from trying to brighten your day.’

  He looks at the screen as his phone buzzes with a notification.

  Now that his eyes are lowered, she thinks it is he who is beautiful. With his wavy hair framing a face with strong cheekbones, a long straight nose and a square chin, he could actually be the model for a classical statue. Because his face is usually animated, talking or laughing, she hasn’t quite seen how sculptural it is when still.

  Should she tell him? she wonders. To even things out? Or would that make her seem even more odd?

  The bell is ringing to say that the Forum is closing.

  ‘So, where are you heading?’ he asks, as they walk towards a different exit he knows that leads onto the road between the Palatine and Caelian hills.

  ‘I’m staying near Porta Maggiore,’ she tells him.

  ‘So, you can get the number three tram from here,’ he says, pausing for a moment at the stop.

  And then he’s gone, strolling off down the hill, and she watches him, now talking on his phone.

  6

  Weekend

  ALF

  Alf always meets his flatmates after they finish work on Friday. There’s a bar in Testaccio where the students drink. Alf doesn’t know why that’s the one they choose, since they’re always complaining about their job – teaching English as a Foreign Language – but it has a deal on cocktails early in the evening, which is probably reason enough. The first people he spots are Mike and Sally. Mike’s brooding over a tall glass of beer while Sally’s chatting brightly, holding a glass of Coke, or probably a Cuba Libre, trying to cheer him up. Mike is always morose. Alf doesn’t know what a nice person like Sally is doing with him. It seems more like a habit than a relationship to him. Alf sometimes wonders if Mike resents him being there, but Sally has reassured him that no, Mike’s always like that. He resents everyone, she said laughing, as if it’s an endearing side to his character.

  Alf says hello to them.

  Sally says, ‘She’s over there!’

  Gina is sitting on a semicircular banquette with a group of Italian lads drinking Aperol Spritz. She’s telling them the story about when they went to see Roma play, and how a loose ball coming from the foot of Daniele De Rossi flew into the stands and hit her on the head, so, technically, she headed a ball from De Rossi!

  The Italians love that. He recognizes the look that passes between them as Gina drains her glass. He’s seen it often enough amongst his mates. They think she’s an easy touch, possibly worse. He feels a pang of protectiveness.

  Gina looks up and waves him over.

  ‘This is Alf,’ she says.

  He notices that they say ciao to him, recognizing him as somebody of their own age and status, rather than buona sera, which he thinks they would probably say to Gina.

  ‘Don’t you ever learn?’ he says to Gina as he sits down next to her.

  ‘Jealous?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ he says, giving her a quick kiss.

  He doesn’t like the bitter taste of Aperol.

  ‘I thought it would be good practice for you to talk to these guys,’ she says, as if she’s arranged this for him. She’s started doing that a lot recently, making out that the stuff she does is all for him. Maybe she always did and he never noticed before.

  Gina tells her students that they should speak to Alf in Italian now, not English.

  ‘I don’t get paid for overtime,’ she declares.

  They ask him where he is studying. Does he like it? And then he has run out of things to say because he’s not going to ask how old they are, what they do in their free time, or how many brothers and sisters they have.

  He feels depressed at his lack of progress. The cost of his lessons is eating into his savings, but after a week, he doesn’t feel he’s learned anything.

  ‘Can we go eat?’ he asks Gina, wanting to get out of the bar. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘My boyfriend is very hungry!’ Gina tells the boys.

  Alf’s not sure whether there’s a double entendre in Italian, but there’s a lot of nudging and smiling knowingly at him.

  Perhaps it’s just that they fancy her, Alf thinks, as they say their goodbyes. Why wouldn’t they? Gina is very pretty and bubbly. All his mates thought he’d struck gold. And so did he, he reminds himself.

  ‘Let’s walk, shall we?’ Alf says, when they leave the bar. ‘Shoes OK?’

  Gina, who is self-conscious about being small, often wears shoes with heels that are impractical on Rome’s cobblestones.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Gina says, looping her arm through his.

  It’s a joke between them that Alf behaves like the one who is older. He has never lost his credit card or his phone or his keys. If they go on a train, he holds the tickets. He doesn’t get drunk. Petite and blonde, Gina doesn’t even look that much older than him.

  They cross the river and wind their way towards a pizzeria they have eaten in before, which isn’t too expensive, unlike some of the tourist traps in Trastevere.

  ‘Outside or inside?’ he asks Gina, hoping that she’ll say inside. You never see Italians eating outside, especially in April when they still consider it cold. But Gina likes to.

  ‘I want to feel I’m in Italy,’ she says, scraping a chair across the cobbles.

 
; It makes you look like a tourist, Alf wants to say. But isn’t that what they are? He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.

  He orders a napoletana; she takes an age to choose between a quattro stagioni and a capricciosa.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks Alf.

  ‘Up to you,’ he says.

  He’s learned not to decide for her, because nine out of ten times when the food arrives she’ll say, ‘Oh, I wish I’d had the other one now,’ even though, with a pizza, there’s barely any difference.

  He orders a beer. Gina orders a half carafe of white wine.

  Italians always drink beer with pizza. It’s one of their things. If you ask an Italian why, they don’t know the answer. It doesn’t matter that Gina prefers wine, he tells himself. It’s a free country.

  They’ve been together almost a year now, the longest relationship he’s ever had, and maybe this is what happens when you’re with someone a long time. Little things that used to be cute start to grate. When you know what someone is going to say before they say it, that’s a sign of closeness, isn’t it? Not boredom.

  ‘This is nice,’ Gina says, leaning forward. ‘Just the two of us for once.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  Because Mike and Sally were in the flat first, it’s like their territory, even though he and Gina are paying half the rent. It was good of Sally to offer them the spare room because it’s cheap and Testaccio is a cool place to live, but it’s a small room, so Alf often has to leap over piles of Gina’s clothes to get to the bed. The flat’s on the interior of the building, so there’s virtually no light. And he never feels quite comfortable in the communal kitchen-diner.

  Sally and Gina were best friends at uni. It was Sally who got her the job. They get on really well, but Mike, not so much.

  Alf’s gran Cheryl says that there are two types of people in life, radiators and drains. Mike is a definite drain.

  Sally’s a radiator. He used to think that Gina was too. Recently, he’s not so sure. He’s not even sure what he is now, although he once was Blackpool’s brightest radiator – according to his gran, anyway.