Chapter 19
Nineteen
Lexi
It takes Mark several minutes to respond to my picture. But when he does, his response is an all-caps drama-fest. My one regret is that I can’t witness his reaction in person.
AGED BUILDINGS ARE TREASURES.
IT’S NICE INSIDE.
WHEN AND WHY WERE YOU AT MY APARTMENT BUILDING?
I wait for radio silence before writing him again.
Relax. I wasn’t.
Another text from him dings.
Then how did you get that picture?
I send him one word.
Google.
The guy who isn’t on social media and is against filters might disdain Google Maps street view and the editing software I used to update the season to summer, but at least I’ve shown him how effective those tools are. That should earn me a bit of respect for what I do. Not sure why I care.
Well played.
He texts again.
And game on.
His words conjure up an image of that heart-stopping, reluctant smile he uses and the almost constant hint of mischief in his blue eyes. Grinning into my pillow, I drift off to sleep. Pranking Mark is my new favorite cure for jet lag.
The first thing I notice in the morning is my shiny new suitcase. I jolt up in bed with one blindingly clear thought—Trevi Fountain gave me what I wished for.
I can only blame Mark (and probably the crispy, delicious cannolo) for not connecting the two yesterday.
I shower and don a fitted cotton shirt with scalloped sleeves, a black twirly skirt, and canvas sneakers.
Now that I’ve been awake for more than two minutes, it’s clear.
Of course the excellent airline customer service was responsible for the delivery of my luggage, not an old fountain. That was a ridiculous thought.
So ridiculous that after I pull out cash and stop to purchase a pastry and caffè schiumato from the bar near my rooms, I head to Trevi with the change jingling in my pocket.
I’ll debunk the wish theory—the old man told me to return today, anyway—and get back on schedule.
Besides, I didn’t get any pictures of the fountain yesterday (again, Mark’s fault), and I need a slew of awesome shots to choose from for my bet-winning photo.
Early in the morning, there are fewer tourists, and I snag a front seat at the water’s edge.
The light doesn’t hit the fountain the same way as yesterday, and it’s like seeing a new friend without makeup for the first time, fresh and natural.
Now that I’ve seen its features in the morning and evening, I know Trevi better (and see, we’re on a first-name basis already).
Maybe this is what Mark means about knowing Rome. Seeing her over time, in various moods.
I take a few photos I can make shine with a few easy edits, then pull out a euro cent coin, hefting it in my palm, brainstorming my options.
I read my mom’s letter again, but there are still no clues as to what she wished for when she threw her silver dollar into the fountain.
I can’t ask to win the bet, because I wouldn’t have conclusive results until Thursday.
On the verge of wishing to find the location of my mom’s painting, Mark’s face pops up in my mind, very weed-like, and before I know it, I’m tossing the coin high over the water and saying, “I wish to find a green paneled door with scuffed paint.”
That picture he showed me on the plane is something special. I don’t think it’s wrong of me to add one tiny thing of my own to my Mom’s Italy Plan.
The coin lands in the fountain with a quiet plop. Done. The splash speckles my bare knees. I shiver, then laugh at myself.
“Aren’t you supposed to throw the coin behind you over your left shoulder?”
For Pete’s sake. Is no one happy with how I throw away my money?
I turn toward my newest critic. A middle-aged woman in Nike sneakers, turquoise sweatpants, and an oversize T-shirt squints at me. She’s wearing her loaded backpack on her front side, a hack to foil pickpockets but not a hack for a comfortable, stylish day of sightseeing.
“If you want to do it like in the movies, then yes.”
The woman folds her arms. “Well, Roman Holiday was filmed here in Rome, so it must be right.”
“Um, yes. So was The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, but that doesn’t make it right to dig up graves to find gold coins.
” Not relevant to the conversation, Lexi.
Doesn’t stop me from wondering, though, if Mark knows that fact.
I’d love to face off with him in a Rome trivia battle.
See if his real-life experience is a match for the Wikipedia he so handily scorned.
The woman is staring at me as if I’d thrown my sanity marbles in the fountain along with my coin. (Please, no comment.)
I give her my most rational, sensible smile. “Want me to take your picture?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Both of us, if you don’t mind.” She hands me her phone and bellows over her shoulder. “Hey, Bea, this gal’s gonna to take our picture. Got your coin?”
A second woman, dressed nearly identically, scoots close, and I aim the phone’s camera.
It takes them a minute to get in position, coins in their right hands, a couple practice throws to choreograph how to do it without hitting anyone, and then they count down for me.
I take several snapshots of the throw and leave them chuckling over the photos.
On the other side of the fountain, I spot the elderly gentleman from yesterday munching on a breakfast cornetto.
He raises his bread in greeting, shoulders shaking in a way that makes me sure he saw everything, and I wave back before lowering my sunglasses to my nose and turning west down Via delle Muratte.
Souvenir shops on the cobblestoned street are just opening and a gelateria employee is wiping white metal chairs in front of the ice cream store.
The fresh, sugary scent of pastries lightens the morning air, and the sunlight seems to stretch and roll its thumbs in anticipation of frying us all later in the day.
Today’s plan is Vatican City, which isn’t one of my mom’s envelope locations.
I’m spacing out her letters instead of opening them all in my first few days.
So I pass north of the Pantheon (see you Thursday, buddy!), headed for the river, but at the top of Piazza Navona, I spot Mark striding down the street I need to take.
My stomach flutters, and I take a step toward him, then remember my middle-of-the-night text.
My highly unadvisable middle-of-the-night text. I cringe. Sending a photo of his apartment at one in the morning? In the light of day it seems forward and weird. At best.
I can’t run into him today while that embarrassment is so fresh. This is a Mark-Free day, or at least it should be a Lexi-Free day for Mark.
Rome is a maze of alleys and uneven blocks, so I swivel left and take one of a dozen other side streets, weaving my way toward the Vatican.
I walk the length of the piazza, passing sidewalk cafes, flowers spilling over balconies, shutters flanking windows, and a stately Baroque church, but when I come out the other side, Mark is there again, even closer to me.
He’s wearing black jeans and a gray T-shirt, curls tamed.
I groan. Is there anything he could do or wear that would lessen his attractiveness? Maybe if he were caked in raw egg. That might do it.
Might.
He must have taken the street running parallel to the square, so I head the opposite direction, out of my way, but I can take any one of the bridges spanning the Tiber River.
Assuming I can even find the river now. I have a lot of Rome’s center mapped out in my head, but I’m not a genius. I’m lost. My trusty canvas sneakers are starting to complain, and there’s no one around to ask directions from.
I pull up my navigational app. Great. The waiting wheel of no-signal doom spins on a fuzzy, gray screen.
At some point I have to run into something familiar (a delusional hope, but it’s all I’ve got) so I keep walking.
A squat bird with a long neck flies over my head. The kind you usually see near water. Bingo. I may know less than zero about birds, but I’d stake my lunch—wait, not in Italy—I’d stake my shoes on the fact he’s headed for the river.
I track its flight over a tiny park whose trees look like they’ve had a buzz cut on top. The bird banks to the right and flies over a four-lane road. Drivers weave in and around one another without any rule except if you fit, fine.
I stand at the curb, stymied, as the bird flies off. There goes that lead.
The brick wall along the sidewalk leads me to an open wrought-iron fence. I pass under a brick arch. Up ahead, a small crowd fills an enclosed piazza and I exhale with relief. People.
They’re lined up in front of a closed door, waiting.
It’s late in the morning for a museum or gardens to be opening.
I join the end of the line, planning to ask directions.
A tall woman about my age with thick, dark hair stands in front of me, and I tap her shoulder.
“What is this line for?” I ask in Italian.
She dimples, and something in her smile reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on who. “The view.”
What view? It’s a closed door.
I peek around her to the front of the line. The first person is bent over, face smashed to the wood. I let out a surprised laugh.
We’re standing in line to peep through a keyhole? This is a first.
The person at the door steps away, and I jolt. The paint around the spot is scuffed. The doors are green. Paneled. The color from Mark’s picture came out different, but this is the place from the photo he showed me.
I spin. I found it on day two. How is that possible? I don’t even know where here is.
I check my phone again and it’s located my position. We’re near the Church of Santa Maria del Priorato owned by the Knights of Malta. The green doors lead to the private gardens of the church. My heart races.
What just happened?
I made a wish at Trevi Fountain and here I am.
Impossible.
The line moves forward a few feet. A shiver passes down my spine. Coincidence. This is only a weird coincidence. Beginner’s luck.
Ten minutes later, it’s my turn, and I squeeze one eye shut, bend over, and peer through.
I gasp at the world through the keyhole.
There’s ivy, well-tended trees and bushes in a garden, and framed by clipped hedges in the background is the faraway domed St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.
It’s the tiniest, most perfect view, a miniature realm.
The most glorious example of how beautiful a good plan can be. I could stare through here forever.
Lifting my phone to the hole, I aim the camera lens at the spot and attempt a picture. Blurry. I try again, but it doesn’t do the view justice. It would take a photographer with a much better camera and a much better eye than me to get this shot.
Someone like Mark.
I can imagine how perfect that picture would be. If he uses it for the bet, I’ll lose.
Because this is the heart of Italy, right here, symbolically and aesthetically. A small, architectural, historical miracle, pointing to one of the most famous churches in the world.
I hold back the urge to call him and rave about the once-in-a-lifetime view through this keyhole, that I found the answer even though I can’t get a picture of it. He’s biased against me and off-limits. So why am I wishing he were here?
Sightseeing by myself isn’t ideal. When faced with uncommon beauty, the human instinct is to share it, even with someone who would consider my joy as being shallow.
I was supposed to be here with Mom. Instead, besides my always-rushed business colleague Gia, the only one I slightly know in the whole country, the whole continent, is Mark No-Tourists-Dot-Com Russo.
Italy loves irony.
Shaking my head, I step back and let the people behind me have their turn.
The woman from the line hovers to the side and gives me a small wave. “I was at the pre-festival soiree on Saturday and heard your speech. You’re Lexi Walker, right?”
“Oh, that’s why you look familiar. Are you one of the artists?”
“No, just guilty by association.” She grins, then cocks her head. “I’m sorry if this too personal, but . . . you have an American last name, yet you speak Italian?”
Yes, it’s personal, but she has kind eyes and I want to tell my story.
“I’m from Boston. My mother and I planned to come together to Italy someday so she could show me the city where she met and fell in love with my dad.
To prepare, I studied Italian, and for the last year, an elderly Italian gentleman tutored me. ”
“How did you end up involved with the festival?”
“My mom’s artwork will be unveiled on the final day of the festival and dedicated to the city. I’ll be giving a speech about her experience in Rome. When it came out that I’m also an event planner, Gia invited me on board to help with the whole thing.”
The woman blinks, then seems to snap out of whatever held her frozen for a second. “Reena Brooke is your mother?”
I nod.
She gives me a sad, searching smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” That was true last week, but here in Rome, close to her memories and with her letters, I’m not sure. But I don’t want this woman to feel she has to hold my grief for me, so I point behind me at the keyhole. “What architect designed this and why?”
Her eyes sparkle. “No one knows. Accident or perfectly executed idea? The Aventine keyhole is one of the great mysteries of history we’ll never have answered.
It’s my favorite site in Rome, and I come about once a month.
” Her eyes twinkle. “My family teases me and calls me The Tourist, but I think tourists often get more out of a city than residents.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Mark needs to meet this wise woman. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of it.” All that research and planning, and an accident brought me to this miracle. “Who knows what else I’m missing.”
“Well, my brother owns a hole-in-the-wall restaurant right around the corner that you might never find on your own. Best kept secret in town, hands down. I was about to go there for lunch. Do you want to join me?”
From somewhere nearby, a bell tolls.
I’m supposed to be halfway through a tour of St. Peter’s Basilica right now. Lunch at her brother’s place is not on my schedule. I should say no and get back to the plan.
But now I have the chance to hear from a local where to eat, what to visit, and how to do Rome. Wikipedia has its limits. And honestly, based on my ridiculous urge to call Mark, of all people, I need a friend, if only for a few hours. I can’t pass that up. “I’d love to, thanks.”
She smiles over her shoulder as she leads the way out of the square. “I’m Mariella, by the way.”