Chapter 26 - Gone for a swim

Picture is by Amy Humphries from Unsplash

"These funny brown things aren't real dormice, right?" Jon used two fingers to pull something squishy from the greasy paper bag the owner of the Roma Antica had pressed into his hands, examined it from all sides and dropped it back in. The restaurant now lay ten minutes, but only five streets behind them: Gary should have realised the uneven pavement would slow him down.

Jon, instead of chasing after the next thrill, hadn't opened his mouth once (until now), just kept plodding along. The phone stayed in his pocket, his mind elsewhere, presumably grappling with the chef's lecture on ancient foodstuff. The notion the victorious warriors of ancient Rome might have quaffed gross snacks like rodents and swan tongues seemed to have weirded him out.

Or perhaps it was the fact they had to make do without vital condiments such as Ketchup? At least the virtual reality gladiator fights sponsored by the restaurant had pushed the boy's buttons. Equipped with a pair of chunky glasses, he swaggered about, stabbing the air with fake swords, tridents and other modestly sharp instruments, oblivious to time. And his parent.

Which was good in a way as it freed Gary to recap the meeting.

"Yes, we get a call from somebody who says he with LiteraTours." The owner of the restaurant, once he had emerged from his kitchens, was middle-aged, mid-sized and non-descript, his most memorable feature a Hawaii shirt featuring pink flamingos on a teal background. The top three buttons gaped open, revealing a greying fuzz on the type of bronzed chest that owes its colour to the cancerous rays of a solarium.

"He very polite and say sorry, but he need to cancel. I not worry at the time." A shrug, palms turned up as if to say "not my fault".

"I understand. Anything you remember about the voice? Was it young, old, accented?"

"Si, si, accent. Like yours."

"A Brit you mean?"

The man nodded eagerly. When he smiled, a gold tooth glinted from the hinterland of his mouth.

"Si, like you. Speaks like in television. I like the BBC. Is very good. But is more. Man sounds so like you."

The man's hairy hands fluttered emphatically, stabbing the airspace in front of Gary's nose. It worked. He got the message. Not only had this anonymous person come across as educated but he had pretended to be him. If they needed any more proof that somebody tried to torpedo the tour here was it.

As to the who and why pink flamingo was less helpful. "He only say thank you and finish call," he said with a heavy shrug that must have had the joints screaming in their sockets. Suddenly, inspiration flickered in eyes so heavily lidded; the man looked half asleep. "That evening, the Signoras come."

"Ladies? You mean my colleagues, Brigitte and Ike?"

The man frowned and stretched out first one finger, then another one. He shook his head. "Three ladies."

That would indeed put the female combo Ike, and Bri encountered in the catacombs in cahoots with the anonymous caller. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Can you describe them?"

Flamingo shirt waggled a fat finger. "No, Signore. No time. Restaurant full. Three ladies. One also speaks like you. The other two smaller. Not speak."

Bingo. Ike had insisted one of the three trespassers in the catacombs must have been a Brit.

"You don't by any chance recall what they wanted?"

"No, not call. Come in person."

Give me strength!

"What I meant was, did they explain why they came? What they wanted?"

"Ah! Si, yes. Want to talk to lady tour guide. Miss Wasswass."

Okay, Wordsworth WAS hard to pronounce. Good job Ike wasn't around, the bit with the Miss wouldn't have gone down so well.

"Not happy when say tour not there. Will go to hotel, they say and go."

Which meant the three females knew where the group stayed. And the man had known about the reservation. Not good. Not good at all.

Just before the conclusion could retreat into Gary's grey matter, it got ambushed by the next thought. If the bloke were right, the three ladies hadn't known about the cancellation. Which meant they couldn't form part of the same sabotage team as the man.

Could there be two groups of people after them? The idea boggled a mind already spinning like a suicidal hamster in its wheel.

###

"Dad?"

Gary blinked, and the pink flamingos faded from his inner eye. The mad whirl slowed and morphed into the hum of the traffic. A Metro sign and a taxi stand swam into view on the other side of a street choc-a-block with the lunchtime queues. Exhaust stinks mingled with the pungent aromas of greasy fries, blocked gutters and the odour of hairspray escaped from the beauty parlour behind them.

What was Jon on about? Ah, antique delicatessen.

"No, they're not. Real mice I mean. It's some sort of sweetbread. Got to be. Should be safe to eat I would say." With relief, Gary noted a pedestrian crossing ahead. Drivers in Rome certainly took no prisoners.

Distaste seeping from every pore, Jon closed the bag on the fake mice and opened his mouth.

Gary was faster. "Come on, you can't be hungry. We only just had breakfast."

"That was ages ago! Two hours. I fought three lions in between."

"Virtual ones. If you don't like those cakes or whatever they are, you'll have to wait until we meet up with Ike and Brigitte. Now, hurry up, the light's gone green."

It went red again just as Gary reached the half-way mark of the crossing in Jon's wake. The cars revved, their engines growling like wild beasts. Sweat broke out on his back, glueing the shirt to his spine. He would have to shed that leather jacket pronto. Much too warm for the climate.

He sped up and made it to the curb just before the automobile stampede flooded the crossing among a cacophony of horns. Jon waited for him at the top of an escalator rumbling towards the lukewarm belly of the Metro.

"These steps run pretty fast. And they're rather steep. I can give you a hand, but I figure a taxi might be better."

The concern in his voice was belied by a toothy grin that would have made a card shark proud. Had the boy stumbled upon a "Parents 101" website somewhere? Unfortunately, he had a point. Gary caved in.

"It's a short trip. I hope the driver won't strangle me."

The driver didn't, but the measly fare didn't buy them either whole sentences or any kind of service beyond starting the car and pointing it at the traffic like a machine gun. A grunt and a nod when Gary dropped a polite greeting after worming his way onto the seat. Another grunt and a nicotine-stained finger stabbing the clock with the fare and another grunt when Gary dredged up a curt goodbye.

Gary of slammed the car door with a bang that ricocheted into the narrow lane they found themselves in. People strolled past them, headed towards the din of a large crowd. The driver started the taxi and shot around the pedestrians, scattering them like a flock of sacred geese, before rounding the nearest corner, one brake light flaring like the baleful eye of a Cyclops.

Then he was gone.

"What a charmer," Jon said.

"I told you we were too close to the Fontana di Trevi to make it worth his while."

"And? Took him ten minutes to get here. What's so important about that fountain thing, anyway?"

Gary hobbled along cobbles slickened by the passing of many seasons and uncounted feet.

"Brigitte sent a message. They discovered something that seems to be related to the fountain. It's also one of the major tourist attractions, and I want you to see it."

"Why? I can always check it out on the web. Less crowded."

A second later Gary had to concede his son might have been right.

The street had opened to a square overflowing with people, the origin of some, but not all, of the noise. From his left sounded the rushing and roaring of water that rolled against the houses facing the fountain. From there the noise bounced back to wash over the crowd, only to drown in their multi-lingual chatter.

"I can't see nothing," Jon said. "These people are in the way."

"Anything. If we move on a bit, you can climb on one of these bollards."

Gary decided it was a good job he towered over the vast majority of heads; bollard climbing was not an option right now. Plus, he had already visited the fountain. More than once. Even if he wasn't overly fond of baroque architecture—way too overdone—this specimen was a hoot.

For some weird reason, it reminded him of a triple-decker wedding cake moulded out of a creamy grey stone. A palace façade dropped into a mock ocean, complete with mythical figures, rocks and winged horses. The water was crystal clear and filled with the coins many hands had hurled into the basin, hoping to secure their owner's return to the eternal city.

In reality, all they did was secure the maintenance of this outrageous water feature.

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.