Roman Holiday - PicFic Tuesday, 2/23/16
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section7mfuMy descriptions of Rome may contain “much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate.” Thank you for your suspension of disbelief.
“La Bocca Della Veritá, ladies and gentlemen, otherwise known as the Mouth of Truth.” The tour guide raised his voice to be heard over the group’s babble. “This first century carving is believed to represent an ancient river god.”
Further down the portico, April Dancer leaned against a pilaster and adjusted the settings on her Leica. She peered through the viewfinder at her companion. “Stand still, and I’ll take your picture.”
Faustina Pemberley paused long enough to smile for the camera, then resumed her pacing. “I'm giving this ten more minutes. If you want to see a manhole cover, we have plenty of them back in New York.”
“Not like this,” April said, replacing the lens cap. “And I believe it was part of a fountain.”
“Dieci minuti.” Faustina made an emphatic Italian gesture.
“Darling, don't be so impatient. Shelley will be just as dead when we get there.”
“At least he won't bite your hand off. That's an incident report I don't look forward to writing.” When April looked at her quizzically, she continued, “We lie all the time. Occupational hazard.”
“Audrey Hepburn lied, and nothing happened to her.” April made a face as Faustina pulled her sleeve over her hand and waved it at her. “Don't be ghoulish. But I’ll promise not to risk it if we can skip the Cemetery. We could throw coins in Trevi Fountain instead.”
“I have better uses for my lire, thanks. If I wanted to live out a movie, I'd go wading in the Fountain and not with you.” She consulted her watch. “Nine minutes.”
April was no longer listening. She directed Faustina's attention to a nearby archway. A young woman hovered there, looking harried and distressed. Though clothed head to toe by the city’s finest boutiques, she lacked the bella figura of a native Italian. She peered over her shoulder, then scurried to the back of the tour group, whose guide was still waxing eloquent about the famous Roman marble.
April shook her head. “Poor lamb.”
“American lamb with Italian trimmings,” Faustina observed. “And she's drawn out a wolf.”
A man sauntered into the portico, smoothing his oiled hair, and the agents frowned in distaste. His once-fashionable suit had seen too much wear and too little laundering. Scanning the space with a predatory leer, he spotted the young woman standing nervously at the rear of the tour group. She stepped further away as he closed in and was cornered between the tourists and the wall. He braced his arm against the bricks and loomed over her, murmuring with a suggestive, yellow smile. She cringed and shook her head. When she turned her back to him, pretending to listen to the tour guide, he pressed himself against her.
April bristled in anger. “I could start screeching in Italian and hit him with my purse.”
“I think our lamb would find a scene just as distressing, or she’d have asked someone for help by now.” Faustina untied the scarf from her hair and draped it over her discretely drawn Special.
“Are you going to dart him?” April asked with relish.
“No, I want to have a quiet chat with our Lothario.”
“Then I’ll flush him out,” April declared and strode toward the tour group. “Darling, there you are. I’ve been looking absolutely all over for you.”
She barreled between the young woman and her assailant. The man staggered back and came to an abrupt, wide-eyed halt. Faustina stood behind him, her Special in his back. She addressed him sotto voce in Italian. “What you are feeling is the muzzle of a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Very unpleasant having something unwanted pressed into you, isn't it? I assure you that mine is bigger than yours and considerably more powerful. Now you’re going to leave here and find someplace to take a nice cold shower. Keep your suit on. From the smell, I'd say you’ve both gone too long between washings.” Faustina wrinkled her nose at his pungent aroma. “Nod that you agree.”
The man began to spit curses, then stopped with a squeak as she jammed the pistol harder into his spine. He nodded.
“Run along now, pig.” The man darted for the archway, then turned and glared at Faustina venomously. She drew back her scarf a fraction, the light winking off the end of her Special. The man swallowed, and with a few explicit hand gestures, fled.
After a quick glance around, Faustina holstered the pistol inside her jacket and covered her hair with the scarf. Whistling jauntily, she went to join April and the stray lamb. The young woman was staring open-mouthed at the modishly-dressed stranger who talked as if she were her dearest friend.
“He’s gone,” Faustina said, interrupting April’s chatter.
“Good riddance.” April put her arm around the young woman's shoulder and led her away from the tour group. “Sorry if I startled you, but we thought you could use a bit of help. That’s Faustina, and my name’s April. What’s yours?”
“Ruth Ann.” The young woman looked around the portico and back at the two agents. “He followed me for blocks. How did you get rid of him?”
“You have to be very firm with his type, even if it causes a scene.” April turned to Faustina. “You were very firm with him, weren’t you, darling?”
“Oh, yes, he got the point,” she said with satisfaction. “Ruth Ann, what are you doing wandering Rome by yourself?”
“Harold said I should go with a tour,” she confessed miserably, “but I had such a nice time shopping yesterday that I thought I'd be fine sightseeing on my own.” She began to open her purse. “Do you think I could join in with your group? I'd pay full price.”
“We’re not with the tour,” Faustina said, and Ruth Ann looked at her in curiosity. “We came to Rome on business, um, investigating an insurance claim.”
“Yes, for the Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange,” April said, then continued hurriedly before Ruth Ann could pursue the topic. “You’ve had a very trying day. Why don’t we call you a taxi and send you back to your hotel?”
“By myself?” Ruth Ann paled.
“Would you rather call Harold to meet you here?” She looked at the diamond on the young woman’s left hand. “Is he your fiancé?”
She nodded and looked anxiously out at the street. “Dr. Harold Ryerson. He's at a medical conference. I’m afraid I can't remember the name of the hospital.”
Faustina said, “Our office can figure that out. I’ll go make the call.” She left, twirling her communicator between her fingers.
As they waited, April instructed Ruth Ann in the fine art of an elbow jab and a commanding ‘Alt!’ The tour group finally moved on, and the two women were examining the legendary carving when Faustina returned to say that Harold would be there shortly.
“I loved this part of Roman Holiday,” Ruth Ann said. She held out her hand, then pulled it back nervously.
“There's nothing to be afraid of. See?” Faustina placed her hand inside the marble mouth.
“But what if you tell a lie?”
“Yes, darling, say something ridiculous,” April said archly. “Like, ‘I’m a spy.’”
Faustina rolled her eyes and announced in ringing tones, “I'm a spy.” After a moment, she smiled reassuringly. “See, there’s no reason--” Suddenly, she gave a strangled yelp and drew back her arm. There was nothing at the end of her sleeve but empty air.
Ruth Ann shrieked in terror and promptly burst into tears. April patted the young woman soothingly on the back and eyed Faustina in reproof.
“She said she liked that part,” Faustina said defensively.
They had finally managed to calm Ruth Ann when Harold arrived. Upon seeing him, the overwrought young woman threw herself into his arms with a fresh bout of tears. Harold thanked them over the head of his sobbing fiancée, then shepherded her away to a waiting taxi.
"I'm no longer in the mood for the Cemetery,” Faustina announced. “Drinks on the Via Veneto?”
“Darling, you read my mind.”
They took a few quick pictures with the Bocca Della Veritá, then stepped out of the portico into the afternoon sunlight. As they crossed the Piazza to their rented scooter, Faustina said, “Don't look now, but our oily friend is back.”
April pretended to take pictures. Turning around, she spotted Ruth Ann’s assailant straddling a moped. He threw his cigarette aside and headed toward them. “So he is, darling. And I believe he means to have words with us.”
“Well, I'm certainly not in the mood for that.” She tossed a set of keys to April. “You drive.”
They dashed to the Vespa and hopped on. Seeing their intention, the man ran back to his Corsarino to give chase.
April pulled out onto the Via del Teatro di Marcello and careened though the traffic. The Corsarino soon caught up with them, endeavoring to run them into the Fascist architecture flanking the road. “This will be close,” April yelled. She increased throttle and squeezed the Vespa between a converging Fiat and Lancia, both determined to occupy the same lane. The Corsarino veered wildly to the left to avoid a collision and fell behind.
Faustina twisted around, attempting to aim her Special. “I can't get a clean shot.”
“I doubt Venerdi or Waverly would approve of our peppering rush hour with sleep darts.”
“That never stops the boys.”
“No, but I like to think we have more decorum.” April steered them toward the sidewalk, challenging a Lambretta with the same idea. The other scooter lost its nerve, and April surged ahead, while Faustina traded exuberant insults with the driver.
They rounded the Piazza Venezia, running the gauntlet of automobiles, buses, motorcycles and motorini. “Can you pass me your purse?” Faustina called over the cacophony of engines and honking horns.
April let go of the left-side handlebars and swung her bag back. “Got an idea?”
“Only if you can't shake him. Northwest corner, Piazza di Trevi.”
“Hold on.” April made a hard right and plunged into the narrow neighborhood streets. With no regard for traffic patterns, they wound through the district at breakneck speed. Pedestrians, street vendors, and café dwellers dove aside at their advance and hurled angry invectives in their wake. Through it all the Corsarino remained hard on their tail.
Faustina held on with one hand and searched April’s purse with the other, digging past a Special and many of its accessories. “Mary Poppins!” Faustina exclaimed. “Did you fit the whole armory in here?”
“I like to be prepared.”
Faustina whooped in triumph. “That's what I was counting on.”
They raced down the Via Poli, a sliver of the Piazza di Trevi just visible ahead. As they reached the Palazzo, Faustina untied her scarf and let it go. Like a large silk butterfly, it fluttered into the face of their pursuer, and the Corsarino slowed as its rider furiously attempted to pull it off.
“Down to the Fountain,” Faustina yelled. The Vespa burst into the Piazza, tourists scattering before it. April took them plunging down the steps, clearing a path. As the Corsarino rounded the Palazzo, Faustina hurled a capsule, and a cloud of smoke erupted.
The Vespa skidded to the right at the last possible moment. Their pursuer, enraged by the scarf and blinded by the smoke bomb, braked too late. The Corsarino hurtled down the steps and struck the edge of the Fountain, flipping its rider up and into the water.
Assured that their oily friend had survived his much-needed bath, Faustina fished some lire from her pocket and handed one to April. They tossed the coins over their shoulders into the Fountain. Then, as sirens wailed in the distance, April drove them back up and out of the Piazza, Faustina waving victoriously to the chaos behind them. “Ciao!”
“La Bocca Della Veritá, ladies and gentlemen, otherwise known as the Mouth of Truth.” The tour guide raised his voice to be heard over the group’s babble. “This first century carving is believed to represent an ancient river god.”
Further down the portico, April Dancer leaned against a pilaster and adjusted the settings on her Leica. She peered through the viewfinder at her companion. “Stand still, and I’ll take your picture.”
Faustina Pemberley paused long enough to smile for the camera, then resumed her pacing. “I'm giving this ten more minutes. If you want to see a manhole cover, we have plenty of them back in New York.”
“Not like this,” April said, replacing the lens cap. “And I believe it was part of a fountain.”
“Dieci minuti.” Faustina made an emphatic Italian gesture.
“Darling, don't be so impatient. Shelley will be just as dead when we get there.”
“At least he won't bite your hand off. That's an incident report I don't look forward to writing.” When April looked at her quizzically, she continued, “We lie all the time. Occupational hazard.”
“Audrey Hepburn lied, and nothing happened to her.” April made a face as Faustina pulled her sleeve over her hand and waved it at her. “Don't be ghoulish. But I’ll promise not to risk it if we can skip the Cemetery. We could throw coins in Trevi Fountain instead.”
“I have better uses for my lire, thanks. If I wanted to live out a movie, I'd go wading in the Fountain and not with you.” She consulted her watch. “Nine minutes.”
April was no longer listening. She directed Faustina's attention to a nearby archway. A young woman hovered there, looking harried and distressed. Though clothed head to toe by the city’s finest boutiques, she lacked the bella figura of a native Italian. She peered over her shoulder, then scurried to the back of the tour group, whose guide was still waxing eloquent about the famous Roman marble.
April shook her head. “Poor lamb.”
“American lamb with Italian trimmings,” Faustina observed. “And she's drawn out a wolf.”
A man sauntered into the portico, smoothing his oiled hair, and the agents frowned in distaste. His once-fashionable suit had seen too much wear and too little laundering. Scanning the space with a predatory leer, he spotted the young woman standing nervously at the rear of the tour group. She stepped further away as he closed in and was cornered between the tourists and the wall. He braced his arm against the bricks and loomed over her, murmuring with a suggestive, yellow smile. She cringed and shook her head. When she turned her back to him, pretending to listen to the tour guide, he pressed himself against her.
April bristled in anger. “I could start screeching in Italian and hit him with my purse.”
“I think our lamb would find a scene just as distressing, or she’d have asked someone for help by now.” Faustina untied the scarf from her hair and draped it over her discretely drawn Special.
“Are you going to dart him?” April asked with relish.
“No, I want to have a quiet chat with our Lothario.”
“Then I’ll flush him out,” April declared and strode toward the tour group. “Darling, there you are. I’ve been looking absolutely all over for you.”
She barreled between the young woman and her assailant. The man staggered back and came to an abrupt, wide-eyed halt. Faustina stood behind him, her Special in his back. She addressed him sotto voce in Italian. “What you are feeling is the muzzle of a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Very unpleasant having something unwanted pressed into you, isn't it? I assure you that mine is bigger than yours and considerably more powerful. Now you’re going to leave here and find someplace to take a nice cold shower. Keep your suit on. From the smell, I'd say you’ve both gone too long between washings.” Faustina wrinkled her nose at his pungent aroma. “Nod that you agree.”
The man began to spit curses, then stopped with a squeak as she jammed the pistol harder into his spine. He nodded.
“Run along now, pig.” The man darted for the archway, then turned and glared at Faustina venomously. She drew back her scarf a fraction, the light winking off the end of her Special. The man swallowed, and with a few explicit hand gestures, fled.
After a quick glance around, Faustina holstered the pistol inside her jacket and covered her hair with the scarf. Whistling jauntily, she went to join April and the stray lamb. The young woman was staring open-mouthed at the modishly-dressed stranger who talked as if she were her dearest friend.
“He’s gone,” Faustina said, interrupting April’s chatter.
“Good riddance.” April put her arm around the young woman's shoulder and led her away from the tour group. “Sorry if I startled you, but we thought you could use a bit of help. That’s Faustina, and my name’s April. What’s yours?”
“Ruth Ann.” The young woman looked around the portico and back at the two agents. “He followed me for blocks. How did you get rid of him?”
“You have to be very firm with his type, even if it causes a scene.” April turned to Faustina. “You were very firm with him, weren’t you, darling?”
“Oh, yes, he got the point,” she said with satisfaction. “Ruth Ann, what are you doing wandering Rome by yourself?”
“Harold said I should go with a tour,” she confessed miserably, “but I had such a nice time shopping yesterday that I thought I'd be fine sightseeing on my own.” She began to open her purse. “Do you think I could join in with your group? I'd pay full price.”
“We’re not with the tour,” Faustina said, and Ruth Ann looked at her in curiosity. “We came to Rome on business, um, investigating an insurance claim.”
“Yes, for the Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange,” April said, then continued hurriedly before Ruth Ann could pursue the topic. “You’ve had a very trying day. Why don’t we call you a taxi and send you back to your hotel?”
“By myself?” Ruth Ann paled.
“Would you rather call Harold to meet you here?” She looked at the diamond on the young woman’s left hand. “Is he your fiancé?”
She nodded and looked anxiously out at the street. “Dr. Harold Ryerson. He's at a medical conference. I’m afraid I can't remember the name of the hospital.”
Faustina said, “Our office can figure that out. I’ll go make the call.” She left, twirling her communicator between her fingers.
As they waited, April instructed Ruth Ann in the fine art of an elbow jab and a commanding ‘Alt!’ The tour group finally moved on, and the two women were examining the legendary carving when Faustina returned to say that Harold would be there shortly.
“I loved this part of Roman Holiday,” Ruth Ann said. She held out her hand, then pulled it back nervously.
“There's nothing to be afraid of. See?” Faustina placed her hand inside the marble mouth.
“But what if you tell a lie?”
“Yes, darling, say something ridiculous,” April said archly. “Like, ‘I’m a spy.’”
Faustina rolled her eyes and announced in ringing tones, “I'm a spy.” After a moment, she smiled reassuringly. “See, there’s no reason--” Suddenly, she gave a strangled yelp and drew back her arm. There was nothing at the end of her sleeve but empty air.
Ruth Ann shrieked in terror and promptly burst into tears. April patted the young woman soothingly on the back and eyed Faustina in reproof.
“She said she liked that part,” Faustina said defensively.
They had finally managed to calm Ruth Ann when Harold arrived. Upon seeing him, the overwrought young woman threw herself into his arms with a fresh bout of tears. Harold thanked them over the head of his sobbing fiancée, then shepherded her away to a waiting taxi.
"I'm no longer in the mood for the Cemetery,” Faustina announced. “Drinks on the Via Veneto?”
“Darling, you read my mind.”
They took a few quick pictures with the Bocca Della Veritá, then stepped out of the portico into the afternoon sunlight. As they crossed the Piazza to their rented scooter, Faustina said, “Don't look now, but our oily friend is back.”
April pretended to take pictures. Turning around, she spotted Ruth Ann’s assailant straddling a moped. He threw his cigarette aside and headed toward them. “So he is, darling. And I believe he means to have words with us.”
“Well, I'm certainly not in the mood for that.” She tossed a set of keys to April. “You drive.”
They dashed to the Vespa and hopped on. Seeing their intention, the man ran back to his Corsarino to give chase.
April pulled out onto the Via del Teatro di Marcello and careened though the traffic. The Corsarino soon caught up with them, endeavoring to run them into the Fascist architecture flanking the road. “This will be close,” April yelled. She increased throttle and squeezed the Vespa between a converging Fiat and Lancia, both determined to occupy the same lane. The Corsarino veered wildly to the left to avoid a collision and fell behind.
Faustina twisted around, attempting to aim her Special. “I can't get a clean shot.”
“I doubt Venerdi or Waverly would approve of our peppering rush hour with sleep darts.”
“That never stops the boys.”
“No, but I like to think we have more decorum.” April steered them toward the sidewalk, challenging a Lambretta with the same idea. The other scooter lost its nerve, and April surged ahead, while Faustina traded exuberant insults with the driver.
They rounded the Piazza Venezia, running the gauntlet of automobiles, buses, motorcycles and motorini. “Can you pass me your purse?” Faustina called over the cacophony of engines and honking horns.
April let go of the left-side handlebars and swung her bag back. “Got an idea?”
“Only if you can't shake him. Northwest corner, Piazza di Trevi.”
“Hold on.” April made a hard right and plunged into the narrow neighborhood streets. With no regard for traffic patterns, they wound through the district at breakneck speed. Pedestrians, street vendors, and café dwellers dove aside at their advance and hurled angry invectives in their wake. Through it all the Corsarino remained hard on their tail.
Faustina held on with one hand and searched April’s purse with the other, digging past a Special and many of its accessories. “Mary Poppins!” Faustina exclaimed. “Did you fit the whole armory in here?”
“I like to be prepared.”
Faustina whooped in triumph. “That's what I was counting on.”
They raced down the Via Poli, a sliver of the Piazza di Trevi just visible ahead. As they reached the Palazzo, Faustina untied her scarf and let it go. Like a large silk butterfly, it fluttered into the face of their pursuer, and the Corsarino slowed as its rider furiously attempted to pull it off.
“Down to the Fountain,” Faustina yelled. The Vespa burst into the Piazza, tourists scattering before it. April took them plunging down the steps, clearing a path. As the Corsarino rounded the Palazzo, Faustina hurled a capsule, and a cloud of smoke erupted.
The Vespa skidded to the right at the last possible moment. Their pursuer, enraged by the scarf and blinded by the smoke bomb, braked too late. The Corsarino hurtled down the steps and struck the edge of the Fountain, flipping its rider up and into the water.
Assured that their oily friend had survived his much-needed bath, Faustina fished some lire from her pocket and handed one to April. They tossed the coins over their shoulders into the Fountain. Then, as sirens wailed in the distance, April drove them back up and out of the Piazza, Faustina waving victoriously to the chaos behind them. “Ciao!”
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