‘Good morning, beautiful Rome!’ Tobias flung open the doors of the second-storey apartment, stepped out onto the balcony and tilted his face up into the warm Italian sunshine. He laughed and waved his lanky arms about like a conductor, all the while breathing deeply and sighing loudly. Freja knew exactly what he was doing, because in her own quieter way, she did the same thing each day. He was feasting upon this fascinating city — the sight of peeling green shutters against faded ochre walls; the music of church bells and shouted conversations; the smell of basil, garlic and wood smoke as the pizza ovens were fired up for the day.
Freja watched in delight as Tobias spun around, his green eyes sparkling, his cardigan flapping, his arms waving in the air. It was, she thought, a beautiful moment of joyous abandon. Except for one unfortunate fact. Tobias had forgotten about the open bottle of ink in his right hand. Jet-black liquid sloshed through his fingers, splashed onto the tiles and dripped over the edge of the balcony.
‘Santa Maria!’ roared a voice from below.
‘Whoopsy!’ Tobias grimaced and shoved the now-empty bottle into his trouser pocket. He wiped the ink from his hands onto his bottom. Stepping forward, he leaned over the railing and looked down into the cobbled street. Freja ran to his side.
Mother Superior Evangelista, a nun from the nearby convent, was frozen to the spot. She rubbed at a blob of ink on the front of her creamy white habit, turning it into a thick, ugly smear. She gasped, gaped at her blackened thumb and tilted her gaze upward.
Her eyes, upon meeting Tobias’, widened then narrowed to two angry slits.
Uh-oh, thought Freja. She recognises him. She knows it was Tobias who knocked her off her bicycle two days ago!
‘Tss!’ Mother Superior hissed. ‘Idiota!’
Freja leaned in to Tobias. ‘Idiota?’ she whispered. ‘I think there might be a similar word in English.’ The corners of her mouth twitched.
Tobias gave her a crooked smile, then looked back down at the nun. ‘Sorry! Excuse me, Mother Superior!’ He clutched his chest and grinned like a sick cat, but the nun continued to scowl.
‘Maybe,’ suggested Freja, ‘she’s waiting for you to apologise in Italian.’
Tobias nodded. ‘Good idea, old chap!’ Leaning further over the railing, he swept his arms wide and bellowed, ‘Scusa, Mamma Spaghettiosa!’
‘Mamma Spaghettiosa?’ shrieked the old woman. She stomped away, shaking her head.
Freja giggled. ‘Spaghettiosa?’
Tobias let out a long, loud breath. He rubbed his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. He patted his cheek, chuckled a little and scratched his nose. He clasped his chin and wondered aloud, ‘Now what was it that brought me out here in the first place?’ Each simple gesture spread the remaining ink on his hands further afield. Soon he looked more like a work-weary coal miner at the end of a twelve-hour shift than a successful crime writer living abroad in Rome.
Finnegan sauntered onto the balcony. He and Freja stood side by side, staring up at Tobias.
‘Ink . . .’ muttered the absent-minded writer. ‘Pen . . . sunshine . . .’
Finnegan cocked his head towards Freja and whined.
Resting her hand on the dog’s back, Freja whispered, ‘Give him time. He’ll work it out sooner or later.’
‘Ink . . . pen . . . writing!’ Tobias cried, finally lighting upon the answer.
He ducked back inside and, moments later, a heavy oak desk came sliding through the French doors and onto the balcony. Tobias grunted, pushed and heaved until he was satisfied with its position, then straightened the items on top — his ancient typewriter, several medical journals, a tin of pencils and nib pens, a fresh pot of ink and a scruffy pile of papers weighed down with a teapot shaped like the Pope. He disappeared and returned once more, wheeling a large swivel chair he’d bought at a flea market three days ago. It was remarkably like the one he had in England, except more rickety, if that was possible. Placing the chair before the desk, Tobias gave it a complete twirl, then plonked himself down. He tucked a pencil behind one ear, threaded a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter and began to jab away at the keys.
Tobias had not typed more than three words when a large green-and-grey pigeon flew across the balcony and landed on the typewriter. Tobias swept the pigeon away with his hand. It flapped about in the air, then returned to exactly the same spot.
Finnegan barked. Freja giggled. Tobias moaned. They’d been in Rome long enough to know that where one pigeon lands, a dozen or more are sure to follow.
Within moments, the desk was a living, moving mass of green-and-grey feathers. Pigeons scuttled back and forth, fluffing their chests, bobbing their heads, pecking and cooing. Especially cooing.
‘Go away!’ cried Tobias ineffectually. ‘I can’t work with all this gossiping.’
‘Gossiping?’ asked Freja, creeping a little closer.
‘Yes, gossiping,’ said Tobias. ‘Pigeons love to gossip. Why do you think they gather in such fussy clusters all the time?’
‘I thought they were looking for food,’ said Freja. ‘Breadcrumbs . . . or corn.’
‘No, no, no!’ Tobias waved his hand dismissively. ‘They’re blurting out their latest titbits of gossip. Then they’ll fly off, each in their own direction, and share it with a whole new flock. And so the gossip will travel through Rome faster than if it was shouted from the balcony of the Pope’s apartment in the Vatican. Listen.’
He pointed to one of the pigeons and spoke with a comical Italian accent: ‘Signore and Signora Rappalino have been screaming and shouting at each other since sunrise.’
Pointing to a second pigeon, he said in a high-pitched Italian accent, ‘Nobody argues like the Rappalinos.’
Pointing to a fat, scruffy pigeon, he boomed, ‘Except for the Sciarras!’
Freja giggled again. ‘You’re right! They’re dreadful gossips.’
Tobias nodded, then continued to speak for the pigeons: ‘Young Bruno Bellini crashed his Vespa last night. Drove straight through the window of the Pope’s favourite pizzeria.’
‘The Pope eats far too much pizza.’
‘Pizza never hurt anyone.’
‘It hurt Signore Russo. Look how fat he got, then — POOF! — he exploded!’
‘He didn’t explode. He was hit by a train.’
‘Same result.’
‘Have you seen the new curtains Signora Sala has hung in her living-room window? Black with brown and yellow flowers.’
‘Brown and yellow flowers?’
‘Urk! That woman has no taste.’
‘No taste at all.’
‘And she has an enormous bottom!’
It really did look as though the pigeons were speaking the words as they fluffed and pecked and warbled about on the desk. Freja laughed until her tummy ached.
Tobias tugged at his hair and moaned, ‘See, old chap? They gossip on and on and on, and even though one does not want to participate, one can’t help getting sucked in. I’m now thinking all about poor Signore Russo and his five fatherless bambini. And Signora Sala’s enormous bottom . . .’ He made a wide, circular motion with his hands. ‘I haven’t a thought to spare for the villain of my novel. Let alone the hero!’
Freja scrunched her nose. She disappeared into the apartment and returned a moment later with half a loaf of bread. The pigeons flapped excitedly into the air, wings and tail feathers brushing her face. She leaned over the railing and tossed chunks of bread down into the street below. With a whoosh of green and grey, the pigeons were gone.
Tobias lifted a feather from the table and tucked it into his hair. He nodded to Freja, pulled his chair in to his desk and cracked his knuckles.
‘I thought Finnegan and I might sneak out on our own today,’ said Freja. ‘I want to post a letter to Clementine, then we could explore a little.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Do I need to change before I go?’
Tobias spun around and stared. Freja wore her hiking boots, a crumpled cream blouse and a lumpy green pinafore. The pinafore was, in fact, Tobias’ favourite woollen vest. Freja had taken a shine to it. She even wore it inside out and back to front as she had seen Tobias do three times out of four. Pinned to each of her shoulders was a sprig of olive leaves.
‘Do I need to change?’ she asked once more.
Her curly blonde hair shone like an angel’s halo in the bright Italian sunshine.
‘Why ever would you need to change?’ cried Tobias. ‘You look simply perfect, as always.’
Freja’s face broke into a grin to match her golden halo — pure and bright. She waved, giggled and skipped into the apartment. Finnegan was right at her heels, a shaggy grey bodyguard. And as she went, she heard Tobias speaking with a deep, dramatic voice as he tapped away at his typewriter: ‘Suddenly, from the dank, dark depths of the chasm flew a pigeon, flapping, cooing, shedding feathers and fear in equal measure.’