Chapter Eight
“I hope you like this,” I tell him when we’ve found a parking space. “It’s a bit quirky.”
“Quirky? From you? This should be interesting!”
“Very funny, come on.”
The Piazza Vittorio is on the largest of Rome’s seven hills, the Esquiline, but it’s not a very good neighborhood. Graffiti covers buildings, especially on the metal doors that slide down over closed storefronts.
“Are you sure about this? It seems a little sketchy here,” Luca says.
“Trust me.” We sidestep some trash and a man sleeping on the sidewalk.
“Rome is a lot dirtier than Paris.”
“Yes, but in Paris, no one will help you unless you speak perfect French. Here, anyone will help. Although, it’s safest to ask middle-aged or old women.”
“Noted,” Luca says dryly. Maybe it was a mistake to take him anywhere but Via Condotti, with its plastic designer stores.
We enter a small park with the brick ruins of what once was a towering villa surrounded by a high iron rod fence. In a forlorn corner of the lawn, under the shade of a giant tree, is a fragment of brown stone wall with greenery around it. Attached to the wall is a rectangular marble doorway, with a circle of travertine above it and two weird-looking, naked marble men guarding it. The doorframe and the circle are etched with symbols and lettering, some of it nearly worn away. Afternoon sun brushes the top of the wall, and the grass around it is ragged and uncut.
Luca looks at me as if he’s not sure whether I’m prankinghim.
“You asked for off the beaten path.”
He ticks his head in admission. “Seriously, this is the weirdest monument I’ve ever seen. And I’m from Scotland. Why is it famous, oh trusty tour guide?”
“It’s the Porta Alchemica, or the magic door. It’s the only surviving door of five, built in the late 1600s by the Marquie Massimiliano Palombara for his villa, which was here.”
“A marquess, huh?”
“Yes. The Marquess of Pietraforte, who was known for his occult interests and his friendship with the very weird Queen Christina of Sweden. They were Rosicrucians, an occult order whose symbol was the Rose Cross.” I make sure I say this with all the drama it deserves.
“I’m familiar with the very weird Queen Christina. So, what’s so special about this doorway?”
“Well, legend has it that a mysterious stranger, Giuseppe Borri, who’d been expelled from the Jesuit College because of his occult interests, visited the marquess, promising he had the secret for using herbs to turn lead into gold. He even wrote the recipe down to prove he was a true alchemist. In the dark of night, Borri searched everywhere in Palombara’s gardens for the powerful herb he needed. As fate would have it, the alchemist found the herb, and by dawn, he’d transformed it into gold, just before he disappeared through a magic door, never to be seen again.”
“Please tell me there’s more,” he says when I pause. “This is so much better than my rendition of Psyche and Cupid.”
I look around as if to make sure we aren’t being spied on by spirits. “All the marquess ever found were a few flakes of gold and the secret formula, which he didn’t know how to translate.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Truly. The marquis was so distraught, he had the formula carved into his villa’s doorways, in the hope that someone would chance upon them who could decipher the code.”
“I guess that’s a plan?”
I go back to my normal voice. “Well, a marquess can never have too much gold, after all.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Palombara died shortly after the doors were inscribed. Some believe he was poisoned by Borri for revealing his alchemy secrets.”
“Which were so well revealed that, four centuries later, no one can decipher them?”
“Exactly. But, royals, you know? Pazzo.” I make a circular motion with my index finger at my temple.
Luca scrunches his face up.
“Or it could just be that you can’t chemically change lead into gold with herbs, but there’s no point in being technical over a little poisoning,” I add.
Luca’s face relaxes. “Okay, any more gems like this?”
“Nothing as occult, but there are tons of special places.”
“Lead on,” he says.
We drive fifteen minutes to Aventine Hill and park near the Piazza del Calvieri di Malta. This area is more like what Luca expects from his world, a quiet residential neighborhood. When we get to an elaborately carved stone wall with a huge door in it, I stop. Luca looks at me expectantly.
“So, this is the Priory of the Knights of Malta, who were brothers in arms to the Knights—”
“Templar,” Luca supplies, obviously pleased he’s beaten me to the punch.
I laugh, a little impressed. “Bonus points. Anyway, it was originally built by a nobleman who ruled Rome in the 900s, Alberic II. The Priory is now considered a sovereign state. The keyhole is known as the Aventine Keyhole. No one knows, though, if it was planned to be so special, or if it’s just a happy coincidence. I like to believe it’s a happy coincidence. I doubt, though, if anyone would’ve ever realized it’s secret if it were.”
“And what exactly is this secret?”
“Look for yourself.” I gesture to the door.
He bends down on one knee and looks up at me. “It’s not going to squirt me with black ink or something, is it?”
“No, just look. You really have no faith in me. It’s hurtful.”
He smiles and puts his eye to the keyhole. “Oh, wow. That’s brilliant. That’s the dome of St.Peter’s.”
“Incredible, isn’t it? This is the only place in Rome where you can stand in one sovereign nation and see two other sovereign states at the same time.”
“It’s stunning. It’s absolutely perfectly aligned.” He stands up. “I’m hiring you for all my tours. Forget Princeton.”
“Deal. It’s one of my favorite things in all of Rome.”
“I can see why. I also see why you wish it were a happy coincidence.”
I shake my head. “You’re unraveling all my secrets. Pretty soon, you’re going to figure me out if I’m not careful.” I say it jokingly, but something whispers to me that it isn’t a good idea to let Luca see too far into my heart.
Luca smiles. “Can we go into the garden?”
“Only by appointment. You have to give me more notice next time I’m to take you on a tour.”
“Duly noted. I’m hungry. Do you want to get some dinner?”
“Sure.”
Luca checks his phone. There aren’t many places in this neighborhood, but we settle on one in walking distance. Over an alfresco dinner, I ask Luca what he does besides jet-set.
“I’m nawt a total bampot,” he says in his best brogue.
“Convince me.”
He switches back to his usual accent. “I’ll be in my second year at Oxford, studying business, as you’re jetting off to Princeton to study, what exactly?”
I shrug. “I don’t really know. The goal has always been to get there. I don’t know what comes next. Something with animals or the stars, maybe the neuroscience of addiction.”
“Animals or stars, of course. Why Princeton?”
“It’s where my dad went to school. Well, both my parents. They met there.”
“Ah, the pieces are starting to fall into place.” He looks hard at me, but not in a judgmental way.
“My dad was a hockey player. In his senior year, he got a pretty bad concussion. At first, he seemed to get better, but now my mom thinks he had CTE.”
“What’s CTE?”
“That traumatic brain injury athletes in contact sports can get. Even after he recovered, he had depression that never really went away. By the time they were out of law school, he was having short-term memory loss. And he had pain from an old hip injury. The doctors prescribed opioids. I guess they worked a little too well.”
“I’m so sorry,” Luca says.
I look away. “He’s just a number in some statistics chart at the FDA, and a bankruptcy ruling somewhere. One of an infinite number.”
Luca reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine, but it’s not like when he’s just pretending, and I pull away.
“You aren’t sorry?” I ask. “About the donation?”
“No, not at all.”
I nod and press my lips together. I wonder if I should ask him about Jasmine, since that’s what all this is for anyway, but it’s also not my business, so I don’t. I ask him what Oxford is like instead, and he tells me about his classes and professors. He doesn’t talk much about his business courses, but he lights up over the science ones.
“Did you know,” he asks, “that orcas are the largest member of the dolphin family, and even though they are known for killing whales, they’re actually afraid of pilot whales?”
His eyes shine as he says this, leaning in toward me, and he seems really happy to have someone be interested in what he’s interested in.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you,” he says after telling me some more about his marine biology class.
“You’re not.”
We look around the restaurant.
“So, what are your parents like?” He hasn’t mentioned them, and I’m a little afraid I shouldn’t ask. Maybe he has secrets to keep like me.
“Typical Scots upper class. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but we’re a pretty stereotypical family.”
“That sounds really nice. Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Aye, four. I have two older sisters and two younger brothers.”
“So you’re smack in the middle?”
Luca thinks about this. “I am, but I’m the oldest boy, so in some ways, it doesn’t seem like it.”
“I always wanted siblings.”
He smiles his charming smile. “They can be horrible, but it’s good in the end.”
“I’m lucky, though. I have a lot of cousins back home.”
“So,” he says when there’s a piece of chocolate cake sitting between us, “now that you’re officially free for the summer—wait, what was your script for the summer?”
“You mean before you grabbed me outside of a gelateria? I’m volunteering at a farm sanctuary on the outskirts of Rome.”
“Are you pranking me?”
“No!” I laugh a little that he would actually think so. “I always spend my summers on my granddad’s farm in Maine, after a couple weeks with my dad’s family. I love my granddad’s place. But since this is the last summer my mom and I will be like it’s always been, you know, just the two of us, I decided to stay here.”
“That’s so sweet, I don’t think I can eat my share of the dessert.”
“You’re not Braveheart, you know. It’s okay to pet a kitten or kiss your mom.”
Luca laughs. “Touché. Do you fence?”
“No.”
“I think maybe you should. Seriously, though, people are going to expect you to be with me at the events I have to go to.”
“Have to? Is it your job to party?”
“You know what I mean. It is kind of my job. People expect me to do certain things. Like the exhibit today. The ambassador asked me to come, so I needed to make an appearance.”
“Okay, well, I’ll still play along. I owe you that much for a quarter mil.”
Luca relaxes.
“But I’m not giving up my volunteer work. Your parties aren’t in the mornings, and I’ll be back in the city by two or three. It’s just Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, anyway.”
“We should be able to live with that. I’ll check with Jasmine.”
I don’t say anything. If Her Majesty doesn’t approve, we’re going to have a problem.
“But listen, this Friday, we have a big charity gala. Blacktie.”
“Got it.”
When we leave the restaurant, I tell him there’s still one thing nearby I want him to see.
We stroll to the Santa Maria in Cosmedin church in the Piazza della Bocca della Verità, and I show him the giant marble mask that sits in the portico.
“I thought you said nothing as creepy as the Porta Alchemica?”
I tilt my head and look at it. “I think it looks more sad than creepy.”
He narrows his eyes and contemplates it. “What is it?”
“It’s the Bocca della Verità, the Mouth of Truth. They think it’s Oceanus. It was probably used as a drain cover originally. It may also have been used as a drain for the blood of cattle sacrificed to Hercules. In that case, it’s definitely creepy. But, more importantly, it was made famous by a scene in Roman Holiday. In the movie, the mask represents the fact that Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck are not being truthful with each other about who they are.”
Luca darts a glance at me before he looks back at the giantdisk.
“Legend says only the truthful can place their hand inside the gaping mouth without it being lopped off. You can test it if you like.”
Luca smiles. “Maybe you should try first.”
“Oh, no, fake girlfriend would definitely get me”—I pause—“whatever the equivalent to decapitation for hands is.”
“I guess we’re both out, then. Does anyone in the movie get their hand bitten off?”
“Haven’t you ever seen Roman Holiday?”
Luca shakes his head. “Let me guess, old movies are classic?”
“That one is. It’s about a princess who spends a couple of days running away from her official duties in Rome, where she falls—”
Just then, someone shouts from across the street. We turn, and a paparazzo clicks his camera.
I look at Luca. “I think our tour is over.”
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
He catches my hand, and we retrace our steps to the Portofino. The paparazzo jumps on a nearby Vespa.
In the side-view mirror, I watch him follow us back to Via Veneto, and all I can hope is that this story has a happier ending than Roman Holiday.