Chapter 25 - Clued up

Photo by Jacob Owens from Unsplash

Only the three people Ike had already spotted from her perch formed part of the filmcrew. Plus the actors of course. That was assuming the glittery crowd were actors. If they were, they needed to try a tick harder.

The women stumbled over their hemlines, the men slopped about in buckled shoes, much to the disgust to the director who had emerged from the pine tree, his face an unusual shade of beetroot. No, the costumed lot had to be students or something. Doing it on the cheap, like most things these days.

"Ten-minute break, then we retake the scene. And again and again if you don't get it. Not good. Not good enough," the director yelled with a strong French accent and stomped the flattened grass like a petulant child.

Apart from the fantastic colour of his face, he seemed perfectly ordinary, a mid-sized man in a white shirt, sweaty rings under the armpits, wearing dusty black combat pants. The cameraman returned, grey defeat on his stubbly face that gave the impression he hadn't been getting a lot of sleep recently. His hapless minion had veered off, dumped her equipment and was sulking her way through a fag. Ike doubted either of them would be keen on a chat.

Brigitte proved her wrong.

She sauntered towards the director and the cameraman and clapped. "Ah, bravo, Messieurs. I have never seen a real film taken. That is so efficient what you are doing, non? Only the two of you handling this crowd?" A slim white hand arced through the air, framing the actors, now sitting on the lawn, chatting and smoking unfazed by the mini-volcano simmering next to them.

The director looked up. "Vous-êtes Française?"

"Mais oui!"

The director's colour faded as a smile surfaced through the clouds of his fury. A torrent in French burst from his mouth, a mad rush Ike's command of the language was too rusty to channel.

The cameraman tried to join but got in only a few words edgewise. With explanations that were heavy on the gestures (and the spittle, judging from the way Brigitte jerked back when the director opened his mouth) the man seemed pleased to vent all his spleens in one go.

Good job, Brigitte wasn't charging him by the minute. The torrent slowed, trickled and came to a halt. Brigitte jumped in, and this time Ike was able to follow what was being said.

No, they had noticed no monsieurs in the vicinity of the statue. No madames either. They didn't have time to see anything. Not when these imbéciles masking as actors were making life difficult.

No microphone poles missing either. The assistant was another imbécile and kept dropping stuff, but so far she had lost nothing. Not that they noticed anyway. What tour group? And when had that been? Three days ago? Ah, no, they hadn't been filming here.

Yes, Brigitte wasn't wrong. She had noticed a film team.

But not this one. This one was doing a commercial. The other one was re-filming Mastroianni's La Dolce Vita. The famous film from 1960 with Anita Ekberg in the Trevi Fountain.

Would Brigitte remember?

Brigitte did and Ike ditto.

For a moment, the director's eyes shone. Until the heat rose once more. The director of that outfit was yet another imbécile. He wasn't on a budget, oh no, not him. That chap could do what he bloody well liked. It was an image project, financed by Cinecittà, the old film studios in the outskirts of Rome. No money spared. Not like in this production where one was surrounded by imbéciles.

Present company excluded.

The director looked as if he wanted to kiss Brigitte's hands, but she glanced at her watch, gave him a dazzling smile and an apology. She didn't escape the hug and goodbye kisses, but she would be used to those. She was French, and that explained a lot.

###

Boris, when released onto the lawn on the other side of the hedge, didn't have tracking on his mind. He gave the bushes a disinterested sniff and a quick sprinkle before doing a repeat performance on the statue. When a foolish blackbird dared to land in his vicinity, the dog took offence, fired off a volley of barks and, when that didn't scare away the offender, he chased after it. The blackbird lifted aloft and gave the canine a piece of his own mind.

Renewed shouting and swearing from behind the hedge added to the racket, the imbéciles were on the move.

"That dog is useless," Ike said. "What about Cinecittà? How about if we get hold of that other film crew. Just on the off chance, they noticed something."

Brigitte unfolded a map of Rome, struggling with the rising wind.

"Uh, it's on the other side of the city. Half an hour by metro I would say. Better call them. The crew might be out filming."

"Good point." Ike fished her phone from her pocket, searched for the number and placed her call. Three "hold the lines" later she reached the PR lady of the film studios who was as polite as she was helpful.

"This morning, Signore Rovini is filming at the Trevi Fountain. Unlikely that he will have the time to talk to you. He will be back in the studios this afternoon. I could make an appointment for you if you liked."

Ike confirmed that she would like that very much, rang off and put Brigitte into the picture. "And now? No news from Gary and Jon, so I figure we have a bit of free time on our hands. How about some shopping followed by lunch?"

"Me, I like that programme. How about if we went to the Trevi fountain? The shop I wanted to show you isn't far from it."

###

Geographically, the shop was only two side streets removed from the Fontana di Trevi, but in reality, the antipodes were closer.

As Ike and Brigitte arrived at one side of the fake palace facade that served as the backdrop to the fountain, they hit busloads of tourists filling the street and spilling down the steps towards the semi-circular basin.

Tourists wearing shorts, tees and sunglasses despite the clouds the stiff wind had blown in.

Tourists in winter coats and woolly hats, eating ice cream.

Tourists accompanied by school classes in all sorts of outfits (mostly heavy on the jeans).

Guests of a gay wedding complete with a photographer taking photos of the bridegrooms.

And yet more tourists hailing from all over the world wielding selfie sticks, tourists on crutches, in wheelchairs and wearing leg braces.

And in the fountain, the film crew was shooting a buxom lady with long blond hair taking a bath among the rocks from where pink water bubbled and frothed, its roar bouncing off the houses lining the square.

Every so often, the policewomen milling about would blow their whistles and gesture at the visitors to remove their feet from the water, get off the ledge framing the basin, or stop whatever other misdemeanours the nosy throng might be guilty of.

There were too many of them to work out what was going on.

Brigitte shouted something and flailed her arms.

"What?"

"I said I wasn't expecting this to be so full!"

"The film shoot doesn't help. Let's get the heck out of here. If we steer clear of the steps, we should be okay."

"If you say so. We meet in the shop, in case we get lost."

Ike nodded, and Brigitte once more threw herself at the crowd.

A panting Boris in her arms (he had already got trodden on twice) Ike followed in her wake.

Miraculously, a grinning canine carried by a sweating woman worked as an icebreaker, and where the roaring crowds had been jostling and pushing her before, they now parted, taking snapshots as if the Corgi were some sort of celebrity.

Well, he was.

Make way for the Frankenstein monster!

Ike giggled.

The next moment, something hard rammed into her calves.

She felt herself grabbed by strong arms and relentlessly jerked towards the top of the steps.

With her arms full of Boris, she couldn't fight back, had nothing to hold on to but a squirming dog.

Her foot slipped off the top step, her balance was shifting and in slow-motion she was tilting forwards.

The roar of the crowd mingled with the water. Grey clouds boiled overhead. Then, her vision narrowed to a steep set of stone treads that led towards the water - a landing strip sure to break her neck.

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.