Mark Lee - The Canal House

We turned off the corso and entered the narrow streets of the old city. The tires bumped over cobblestones, and I felt like the buildings were moving closer and closer together, forcing us into alleyways not much wider than the car. Finally Daniel parked near some trash cans. We got out of the car, walked past a church and through an archway, and then we were standing on the southern side of Piazza Navona. People were sitting at outdoor tables and a small band was playing a waltz.

“Is there going to be food at this party?”

“Of course. It’s Rome.”

Daniel strolled over to one of the large buildings circling the piazza. A burly doorman with a squashed nose stood in front of a steel and glass door. He recognized Daniel and waved us inside. The elevator operator was a tough little guy and I could see a shoulder holster beneath his suit coat. He guided us into an elevator that looked like a birdcage and pushed down the lever. We went up slowly, the elevator squeaking and shivering, until we reached the top floor.

The Count’s coat of arms was hanging on the wall of the vestibule. I guess it was real and historical, but it looked like a plaster-of-paris movie prop. Pop music was blasting from a stereo inside the apartment and Daniel had to knock twice before the Sicilian maid answered the door. She smiled at Daniel, whispered something in Italian, and he gave her a few bills.

If I had come there alone I would have been tentative, cautious, trying not to knock anything over until I met the host. Daniel charged down the narrow hallway and led me into a dining room filled with antique furniture. Platters of fruit and vegetables were spread out on a central table along with plates of pastries and a giant clamshell filled with iced shrimp.

I grabbed a chocolate-dipped strawberry and stayed close to Daniel as we entered a living room filled with guests talking, drinking, laughing loudly. There was a pig’s head floating in a Plexiglas box in one corner of the room. Directly across from it, in the facing corner, was a billy goat’s head.

“What the hell is that?”

“Art. It just arrived a couple of weeks ago.”

A little brass plaque was mounted on the wall, midway between the two boxes. It gave the name of the artist and the title of the installation— Fama e Fortuna . “So which one is Fame and which is Fortune?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Nicky. Take your pick.”

As I followed Daniel through the living room, I realized that both women and men glanced at him as he passed. I remembered taking photographs of two British actors who found themselves in a play with a Siamese cat. Because the audience never knew what the cat was going to do, they ignored the actors and watched the animal move across the stage. Daniel’s body, the way he carried himself, had the same degree of unpredictability. There was a restlessness within him, an energy, that was barely contained.

Daniel and I passed through some French doors and stepped out onto the patio. Darkness. Stars. Directly below us was the piazza; the tourists and the waiters and the Italian schoolgirls linked arm in arm circled slowly around Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers. A three-quarter moon had risen above the city. It glowed with a soft gold-colored light, like an old Roman coin that had been pulled from the earth and placed on a black velvet cloth.

“You’ve brought a friend, Daniel.”

I turned away from the city and faced a dark-haired woman in her forties. A well-dressed older man stood next to her.

“Mr. Bettencourt is a fellow journalist.” Then Daniel introduced me to the Contessa Something or Other and her husband, the Count. Having listened to the Contessa shout and weep on Daniel’s answering machine, I had figured that they were lovers, but here she was, talking to us like we were guests at a family picnic. I realized why Daniel had dragged me to the party. If he had showed up alone, his affair with the Contessa would have been more obvious. I was camouflage in a new suit.

The Contessa had good cheekbones and a strong nose. She had probably been a great beauty ten years ago, but now she had one of those unnaturally smooth faces that comes from too much plastic surgery. Her eyes were focused on Daniel and when he lit her cigarette, she touched his hand and pulled the match a little closer.

The Count and I were both dressed the same way: two British gentlemen. While we stood on the patio, he checked out what I was wearing. He disapproved of the camera bag slung over my shoulder, but his eyes lingered on the lapels of the suit coat, my shirt collar, and the burgundy-colored necktie. When he nodded slightly to himself, I was pleased. If he was the fashion inspector, then I had just passed the exam.

“How fortunate that you’ve brought your camera,” the Count said. “Michael Cesare is our guest of honor tonight. He has come to Rome to sing at the Baths of Caracalla.”

I must have looked confused because Daniel provided a quick explanation. “Cesare is an opera singer. The Teatro dell’Opera has a summer season at the Roman ruins.”

The Count looked annoyed. “He is not just an opera singer. He is the most significant tenor of this new generation.”

“We have other guests of honor,” the Contessa said. “The Texans.” Her husband sighed. “Ahhh, yes. The Texans.”

“They look very lonely tonight.” The Contessa grabbed my hand and pulled me away. “Come with me, Signor Bettencourt. You must talk to them.”

She slipped her arm through mine like we were two schoolgirls down in the piazza. I turned my head and my lips grazed her hair.

“You are working with Daniel?”

“Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“We might be traveling to Africa to cover a story.”

Her arm tightened slightly. “He didn’t tell me this. He never tells me anything.”

I saw the Texans right away—two balding guys with their wives. They stood together in the middle of the living room like cattle facing a pack of dogs. They looked nervous and a little scared.

“Signor Garvey, Signor Price, this is Signor Bettencourt, an American news photographer.”

“Glad to meetcha,” said Price. Maybe the Contessa was right—the Texans were lonely—because everybody wanted to shake my hand. I met Tom and his wife, Arlene, Vernon and a woman whose name I immediately forgot. She was short, with big hair, and giggly.

The Contessa drifted away and talked to one of the servants. I chatted with the Texans. Vernon and Tom owned a motel chain called the Gold Star Inns. In the last few years they had bought controlling interest in a cruise-ship line and a resort in the Bahamas.

“Then Arlene here, she’s the reader, bought a couple of books about an American lady who lived in Tuscany. I didn’t think too much about them, either way, but Arlene said they’ve sold hundreds of thousands of copies.”

Vernon nodded. “I read the books and figured that lots of people would like to have the same kind of experience without the hassle. One of our attorneys got in touch with the Count and he started sending us faxes.”

“The Count is going to guide people around Tuscany?”

Arlene looked amused. “Of course not. He owns a village there.”

“An entire village?”

“The whole damn thing,” Tom said. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

“We figured that we’d put in some detached units there. Gut out the existing homes and install American plumbing, central heating, and satellite TV. Everything first rate. People could come for a week or two months.”

“Where would the villagers live?”

“We’ll keep ’em around, of course. They’ll be the employees. But it will be a controlled environment. No cars, just electric golf carts.”