Chapter 22 - Headless Poets

Image by Vincent Versluis from Pixabay

"Blast!" Gary hopped backwards, narrowly avoiding a run in with a cherry-red Vespa that cannoned across the pavement, leaving behind the oily stink of unburnt fuel. The streets heaved with pedestrians wearing oversized sunglasses, their noses glued to their smartphones while they slurped their double lattes or whatever it was people were drinking here.

This place was a health hazard.

Ike had dashed ahead with Boris, to secure a table before the after-office crowd descended on the trattoria. Here she was now, waving from behind an oversized cartoon figure of a female chef, wearing a bun, a green chequered dress and a wide grin, a chalkboard with the menu pressed to her painted bosom. Of which there seemed to be a lot.

A smiling woman, as buxom as the cardboard effigy (and presumably the model), guided them to their table in the open courtyard, placed next to a hand-painted fishing scene in garish colours. The soft tinkle of a fountain placed in the centre of the courtyard got drowned by the noise of scraping chairs, and rapid-fire Italian as more guests rushed in. At least, here on the far side, they would be out of the way, could discuss matters in private.

Gary's eye fell on Jon, thumbs busy pushing an electronic figure through a jumping game.

Maybe not.

He let the ladies chose the meal, they had eaten here already. Two sips of the ruby-red wine country wine, which proved to be remarkably good, mellowed his mood and his muscles relaxed. When the smiling waitress invited Jon and Boris to stretch their legs in the football pitch hidden behind the houses, they relaxed even more.

Still, some checks were required. "Are you sure it is safe?"

"Si, si Signore. All the children play there."

"I'm no child," Jon said.

"No, but you wanted to walk the dog. Now's your chance."

With a wink, the waitress unlocked a door nestled between the wine rack and plastic man-sized lemon tree. Through the opening Gary beheld a surprisingly large green space and a battery of balconies and porches where washing fluttered in the evening breeze. At its far end, gnarly olive trees seemed to live a somewhat limited life. They were enough to entertain the dog for a while, but Jon would get bored soon. Very soon. Yes, children were running around, playing football, but Jon abhorred any form of sports other than the walking he could do with his fingers. Nor did he speak Italian.

Gary waited until the tee-shirted back of his son bearing the inscription "Teens are on top" had disappeared before turning towards the ladies.

"We better be quick. Jon is the world champion in boredom."

"They all are at that age," Brigitte said. Then she fell silent and stared into her wineglass.

Gary knew what she saw there. Six years ago, her teenage daughter and only child died in an aeroplane crash. Not content with ending his own life, a suicidal pilot steered his charges into the flank of a mountain in the Alpes Maritimes. There had been no survivors, and Brigitte herself nearly didn't make it through the aftermath.

Lorna and Aline had come to the rescue like they did so often. With their help and the support of a therapist, Brigitte clawed her way back into life. Before, she had worked as an investment banker. Gary had seen the photos of Bri in a power suit, swinging her briefcase like a weapon and found it scary.

Afterwards, all that changed.

"Nobody to carry on after me. When I'm gone, it's finished. So, I need to live my life, while I'm here, non?" Brigitte had said.

She cashed in her money, trained as a coach driver — a childhood dream—and had the cosy thirty-seater LiteraTours coach built to her specifications. It was like a baby to her. If she ever caught whoever nearly wrecked it, there would be hell to pay.

"Can you put me into the picture?" Gary asked. " I'm still somewhat foggy about what made you think somebody might be trying to stop our tour?"

Ike threw a glance at her colleague and, when Brigitte remained silent, she swallowed the bit of Grissini she had been chewing on. She stretched out her index finger. "Firstly, there's this this problem with the restaurant. Someone cancelled the reservation at the restaurant in town, and we were forced to visit a place the hotel recommended."

"This one?"

"Na, way too small, though yes, it was recommended by the concierge when we were looking for a place that served a fast and decent lunch. This one was a good tip. About the other one, I'm not so sure. Everybody who ate the fish course suffered from stomach problems afterwards, me and Bri included."

"You reckon it might have been food poisoning?"

"Something of the sort. Not terrible, mind you. But it got the tourists into a grumpy mood, and we had to shift into overdrive to fend off the bad reviews. We made it eventually. But it was hard work."

As he bit into a piece of crusty white bread, a sudden revelation dawned on Gary. Because of Ike's hedgehog nature, it might seem unlikely but she was an excellent guide. She was intelligent and well-educated, yes, but that wasn't what made her so special. Her perseverance, her dogged will to carry things through no matter what debris the storm of life was hauling at her, did. And yes, if she wanted to, she could be as charming as she was formidable. Being built on Junoesque lines certainly helped . . .

A piece of the crust got stuck on his crown and pain zinged into his jaw.

"What's up?" Ike asked.

He rubbed his cheek. "Nothing you said. My dentist is a moron. Do you think the food poisoning was deliberate?"

Brigitte woke up from her trance and swapped a glance with Ike. They shook their heads in unison, one a blond mop, the other covered in gelled grey spikes. "No idea how it would have been achieved. Unless somebody was in cahoots with the hotel and that's too wild for me," Ike explained

"The cancellation strikes me sa bit odd. Somebody rang the restaurant to tell them we would not be coming. A man, they said."

"Not me, for sure." Gary took another piece of the bread, making sure to chew on the other side.

The waitress arrived, beaming, and deposited an antipasti platter on the table, heaped with culinary treasures. He spotted black olives in rosemary, fried aubergines covered in batter, marinated mushrooms, fish carpaccio glittering with dark green olive oil and so much more. Heady aromas wafted his way, and he took a deep breath in appreciation.

"Ah!"

"Oh yes. I wish I could beam this place home. Puts the pizzeria to shame. Hand me your plates, please." Ike started dishing out goodies.

Gary picked up his fork, then put it down again. "So, you're telling me some mysterious bloke cancelled the booking in the restaurant I found? That place is exceptional, they serve antique food Roman style."

"Said so in the programme." Ike speared a piece of fish, chewed and licked her lips. "That was part of the problem. The tourists felt they were missing out on something they had paid for. That other restaurant we visited had a lovely view of the Vatican, but somehow it didn't quite compensate them for the experience."

"Not sure if the rotted fish sauce would count as a treat," Brigitte said, wiped her lips on her napkin and took a sip of wine. "I'm talking about that stuff the toga brigade were so mad about."

"It's called Garum. You can still buy it and I must admit, I quite liked it. Spicy," Gary said, remembering the trial dinner he had spent lying on a couch, Roman style. "Different. At least they don't bother with authentic wine. Okay, forget it. We'll give it a bash with the next tour. So, we have a possible attempt to mess up the beginning of the trip. What else?"

Ike and Brigitte swapped another glance, then Ike popped an olive and Brigitte played with her tomato. "The second attempt—well, that's what I would call it—was a lot nastier. We were in the garden of the Villa Borghese, and somebody pushed the head off a marble statue. Lord Byron," she added, helpfully. "If that lump of rock had hit somebody . . ."

Gary caught himself masticating on a mushroom without tasting it. Such a shame. He concentrated, and a divine combo of Balsamic vinegar, garlic, herbs and mushroom tickled his tongue.

"If you ask me, Byron had a screw loose. But one would imagine, the head of a statue should be properly fixed to its torso?"

"One would indeed imagine that." Ike had affected a nasal tone and wrinkled her nose as if she found the smell of the scampi on her fork offensive.

That didn't seem to be the case for the pink shrimp vanished into her mouth after she finished speaking. She chewed and swallowed. "But apparently it wasn't. They had a mini earthquake here not so long ago. Oh, and a tourist spotted a man in the bushes behind the statue. Thought he might have been the gardener."

The earthquake he knew about. That it should have shaken a poets in his rocky shoes was news to Gary.

Brigitte slapped a hand against her forehead. "Dieux, I'm getting old. I took photos. Let me check."

She wiped her fingers on her napkin and rummaged through a handbag the shape and size of a bin bag. Only the colour was off. Hers was burgundy red and made of leather, not plastic. The phone came out, and she rifled through her photos.

"Colosseum, Tiber cruise, Domus Aurea, where is—ah here." She continued flipping, slower this time. "Hah! See this? Here's a man in the bushes."

She pushed the phone at Ike who stared at the picture. "Not really. There's an awful lot of leaves in the way. He doesn't seem to wear overalls though. It's all rather blurry."

"I was taking a photo of the scenery. I wasn't on the lookout for mysterious monsieurs lurking among the rhododendrons."

"May I?" Gary snatched the phone from Ike's hand. The picture, much magnified, was blurry indeed. But there was undoubtedly the upper torso of a man showing between the waxy green leaves. Together with something else. "What's that metal rod doing there?"

Ike leaned across. "Whoops. Well spotted your lordship. Looks almost like a flagpole, doesn't it? Certainly long enough to get at the statue. I herewith conclude that this chap was up to no good."

Gary stared at the face, peeping from the lower part of the bush, half hidden by the leaves. It had to be his imagination, but something about the features felt familiar. The back of his head tingled with dawning recognition. He knew that person. It was . . .

He checked again. Thinking about it, the face was way too unfocused to be recognisable. But something about the face, or in fact the whole scene rang a bell. Unfortunately, the brain chamber it tolled in was empty.

"Noticed something?" Brown flecks danced in the green ponds that were Ike's eyes.

"I thought I did. It'll come back to me. So, let's assume there is a man, and he caused trouble. He's not responsible for the accident in the catacombs, though."

Brigitte opened her mouth, but the waitress chose that moment to arrive and nod at their empty plates with satisfaction.

"Bene?"

"Yes, delicious," they chorused.

"The boy and the little dog, they are playing with the others. Shall I hold his pizza? It can be ready pronto when he comes."

"Oh please, do," Gary said, gratefully. That would buy them more time. "We'd like more water and wine if you don't mind."

She nodded and sailed off, a frigate powered by the intense aromas of a Mediterranean summer.

"You're trying to get me drunk. First the brandy, now this," Ike said. She was smiling though.

"No, I need your brain whirring and active."

"Mine is whirring all right," Brigitte said. "I'm wondering about the ladies."

The girls had toilets on their mind. "Which one? At the ministry or in the hotel?"

Ike tsked and emptied her water glass. "Neither. There's something you don't know yet."

"Oh, I don't? How would that be possible?"

"No time yet to tell you," Ike said with just a touch of impatience in her voice. "There was a second party down there in the catacombs yesterday. Three women, who were after something in the Vestal's grave. If you ask me, it was the scrolls."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.