Lizzie arrived back at Geneva airport, dirty, tired and, as was often the case, overwhelmed by the sadness of so many of the stories. She cleared customs with her grubby bag and her camera, saw Sam waiting for her, with a bunch of yellow roses and looking so sane and safe and loving that Lizzie caught her breath. Do not get sentimental, girl. How did you get into his arms so quickly? Why does he smell clean and feel comforting while you are just smelly and uncomfortable?
Oh, but it felt good to have him take her bags and settle her into the car and drive home. After a bath and a glass of wine—what time of day is it anyway?—Lizzie fell into her bed with her white linen and her lavender-scented pillows. Lizzie loved her bed. It was such a sign of being able to sleep without fear of being woken by the man who had been her husband and who hated her. She did still have nightmares, where she dreamt she had woken and he was a looming, presence of danger and her own powerlessness—but these came less and less often now. They never came when Sam was with her so Lizzie was snoring very soon, hoping she was not “doing a Johnny”.
The next day she went to the office, wrote her report and took her photos to the lab where they printed the contact sheets immediately that Lizzie chose those to use. She saw her boss and the resident journos for a debrief. She answered questions at the afternoon press conference and was cool and professional with no sign of the tears which could come so suddenly when she remembered the stories. Home, and there was Sam with a glass of French shiraz and dinner in the oven. Bliss. Again, Lizzie was longing for her bed. Again, Sam just held her until she slept. Again, there were no phantoms to haunt her dreams. In his arms, she was safe. Funny how that sort of safe was still such an issue even when the man who had been her husband was on the other side of the world. How would those women she had met ever cope with their memories of the violence done to them? Lizzie knew empathy with them, their sorrow, their lack of safeness and the bruising they would carry forever.
The next morning dawned bright, and Geneva gleamed as pennants on the Pont de Mont Blanc fluttered gently across the lake and pointed coloured fingers to the shimmering sky and gentle sunshine. Lizzie and Sam went down to Ruth’s for breakfast and then held hands as they sauntered along the Quai and Lizzie felt her muscles unknot as she exhaled after the weeks of tautness.
‘What are your next movements?’ she asked Sam.
‘I am taking a week off before heading back to Hong Kong. What about you?’
‘Nothing much, I hope.’
‘Why not come with me?’
‘Are you going back to Rome?’
‘Yep, to my lovely Trastevere.’
Sam had told Lizzie about his love affair with Rome and the little village inside the big city, the old town of Trastevere, across the Tiber. He had an apartment there which was his escape, his bolthole when he needed one. He had described it with affection, and Lizzie had wondered why he did not spend more time there. He had told her, ‘You are in Geneva,’ and laughed when she jumped nervously. ‘Don’t worry, girl, I am not going to move here. You are quite safe and I’ll keep my distance.’ So why now ask her to go there with him? Careful, Lizzie, careful. Watch your step with this bloke.
‘I don’t think that would be good idea,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know, maybe you need to keep that as your special place, your own pad.’
Sam grinned. ‘Really? That is the weakest bit of nonsense I have heard even from you Miss Lizzie-On-Your-Own. I am not asking you to move in with me or shift to Rome. Just come and enjoy it for a while with me as your live-in lover boy. Very Italian way to recuperate. Liliana and Franco will not even blink.’
Liliana and Franco were Sam’s landlord and landlady. Franco was a world-renowned gold and silver smith, who had exhibited at the Uffizi in Florence, in New York and Paris and Moscow as well as having made special crosses for a couple of popes and other celebrities and world leaders. Lizzie had seen the books of his work and loved it. There was a delicacy and organic style which enchanted her when combined with the purity of the metals and stones he used. They clearly loved Sam and understood his need for a refuge when he was between wars. Sam said the apartment was simple but it had its own courtyard which, in the centre of Rome, was a real luxury. Lizzie wavered. It did sound attractive. Sam was attractive. No-strings-attached-attractive Sam. Just a little interlude before they each went their own ways again. What the hell?
‘OK.’
‘OK? You mean it?’
‘Didn’t you mean it?’ Lizzie rushed.
‘Of course I meant it. Just so pleased you will see sense and come with me. Fantastic. Wonderful. Amazing.’
‘Oh enough,’ said Lizzie, ‘When are you planning to leave?’
Sam had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Well, actually, I have tickets booked for tomorrow morning.’
‘You booked a ticket for me before you asked me? What a bloody cheek.’
‘Yeah, but I knew I could cancel yours—but I don’t want to cancel.’ He grabbed Lizzie around the waist and waltzed her in circles across the pavement to the amazement of the Swiss passers-by. ‘We are going to Trastevere. You will love it, girl, love it, girl, love it.’
So the next day Lizzie and Sam arrived at Fiumicino, to be met by Guido, Sam’s usual driver, who took them to the Piazza Trilussa just at the Ponte Sisto, the pedestrian bridge which crossed the river to Trastevere. The first thing that struck Lizzie was the music. A young man was playing an accordion on the bridge. At the end of the cobbled street, an older man sat playing a flute. In the days which followed, she would hear a couple playing violin and cello, another man who sang outside Sam’s apartment each evening for diners at the family run restaurant with its pink tablecloths and the charmer who invited passers-by to enter.
She would spend time listening to all the corny old favourites about when the moon hits the sky like an old pizza pie and Santa Lucia and Sole Mio—and she would love it. She loved all of Trastevere. The walls were every shade of orange, pink and umber, all in squares where graffiti had been painted over or cracks mended with whatever colour blended. The streets were a tangle of tiny walks which defied logic but which were like storybook lanes inviting her to explore and get lost. The main piazza was dominated by the church with its gilded mosaics, its iron gates, its entryway of stones from other ages and names of people of other times, the bent-over old lady in black who asked the faithful (and others) for alms as they entered. In the centre was the fountain with steps surrounding it—steps which were seats in the sun for artists and homeless locals and students and buskers and tired tourists with sore feet.
Sam was a recognised figure so local people greeted him and Lizzie as they strolled hand in hand in the velvet warmth and golden sun. When they wandered to the market, the fruit-sellers smiled and wagged fingers if Lizzie chose a melon they knew was not the best quality. It became a game. Lizzie would point and the finger would appear. She would choose again and the finger moved ever so slightly. On and on across the displays of apples, pears and tomatoes until Lizzie’s bag was filled. Then smiles and jokes with Sam as he and Lizzie wandered on in search of other delicacies. Into the forno, the bakery, with its warm smells, golden loaves and benches filled with pizza fresh from the oven and crisp with sausage or potatoes and always on a bed of rich sauce and melting cheese. They would choose, and for two euro each, a slice would be selected, wrapped and handed across to Lizzie and Sam. Heaven in greaseproof paper. Sometimes they ate as they walked, but sometimes they went back to their courtyard and scoffed into the dripping slices as they drank red wine before going to bed for the afternoon. Love making with Sam was luxurious in the room with dappled sunlight coming in through the white curtains and the feeling of having all the time in the world to enjoy each other and a world which seemed at peace in this safe little haven.
Morning coffees and the evening passeggiata were gentle and lovely times to watch people and sometimes to engage. Sam had a favourite coffee place just off the main piazza, and they strolled past the central fountain with its steps always occupied by people already out and about in the early gold and blue of Rome’s summer days. Past the lady who sat every day with her embroidery or tapestry with a discreet little bowl for donations. Past the beggar woman in her black who stood at all hours bent over at the doors of the church. Past the Roma women, sometimes with their babies, these young ones who had their own morning coffees before beginning their day’s work asking tourists for money to feed their children. It was their work, and Lizzie saw they worked long tedious hours. Once they knew she was a regular and she had given them a few euro a couple of times they would return her smile as she and Sam walked by.
At the café, there were two old women with droopy breasts, loose dresses, almost no teeth and mischievous grins who not-so-slyly assessed and cackled at tourists. They flirted with Sam, and eventually Lizzie was included in the almost-toothless smiles. At an end table, the old men gathered and played cards with much smashing of fists on the deck, many roars which could have been taken for cries preceding murder and bursts of loud hilarity. One morning during the World Cup when a player from one team had bitten another player, every move of the incident was re-enacted with geriatric jumping and exaggerated gnashing and clacking of teeth. This group was always accompanied by two old collie dogs tied to the nearby railing in the shade, dogs which had long ago perfected the art of pushing their noses through the gaps to plead longingly but silently for the ends of cornettos.
The days drifted by, and Lizzie felt at peace and easy with Sam. He was a generous lover, and she felt he never made demands on her space even when they were together. He was an attractive man, always friendly and courteous but without the vanity of some men Lizzie had known. Some of those seemed not to be able to resist flirting with waitresses, making sleazy comments to other women, or worse still find an excuse to tell young girls how old they were and then preen as the girls politely expostulated how they didn’t look “anything like that old”. Dire. Sam was obviously good in his own skin, as Nanna would have said. No need to fish for false compliments.
When they were together he seemed appreciative of Lizzie, of who she was, often paying her easy compliments with a convincing air of sincerity and never fatuous. Still, Lizzie knew she would be careful about Sam while enjoying him as an easy romantic companion and friend. She was aware of relaxing and not thinking any further than the day ahead.
Sam showed her his lovely “Ludo”. On their way to the market, he took her into one of the ugliest churches Lizzie had ever seen, small and hidden away at the end of the street called after Francisco de Ripa—not an enticing name when considered in English. The church was deserted and seemed not to have anything to attract even regulars looking for a moment of meditation. Sam led Lizzie to the side altar at the front of the church. When he told her to look to her left, there under a shaft of light falling from the window was the most beautiful sculpture Lizzie had ever seen, the Blessed Ludovica, carved in creamy, translucent stone folds of marble. Her boudoir was placed in a small stage setting to receive the sunshine and illuminate her draperies and her reclining figure. But it was the face which captured the observer of this intimate scene. If this was not a woman in the ecstasy of wonderful orgasm then Lizzie had never experienced an orgasm (… and she had a very recent memory of being with Sam). This was Bernini’s last work, tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of a strange little church with no security, no neon lights, no fanfare, just sheer beauty in stone. Lizzie was entranced. She and Sam were the only people there so she could gaze and gaze until she could gaze no more, and with a sigh, she turned to leave.
‘Now take a look at the rest of the place,’ said Sam, and Lizzie walked around and felt the eeriness of death images, skulls and macabre metal skeletons sneaking evil menaces from behind wall plaques and over memorials to the long dead.
It was spooky, to say the least, and Lizzie now could not believe the contrast with the living grace and serenity of Ludovica. Bizarre. She retraced her steps to Ludo to make sure she was still so lovely. She was. In the middle of all this ugliness and threat, she shone brilliantly and lovingly. What a place. What a world.
Another morning, Sam took Lizzie to the French church and to the church which had been frequented by the prostitutes to see the masterpieces hanging in public for all to enjoy. At the church of the prostitutes, there were shiny, glitzy mementoes and offerings from mothers who had safely delivered babies with the aid of the Madonna who looked out over them. At the French church, Caravaggio’s St Matthew sat with his cohorts in the illuminated darkness which was the artist’s strength.
Later, Lizzie and Sam climbed the hill to the enclosed grounds of the Knights of Malta just so they could look through the keyhole at the most wonderful view of the Vatican. They spent only a few minutes near the Vatican itself. Lizzie could intellectually acknowledge the grandeur, but for her it reeked of power and politics with no soul and no sense of any convincing spirituality. Such a cynic, Lizzie.
And, of course, they ate. They ate plates of satiny pasta with vongoles swimming in sauces. They ate wafer thin steaks with sweet sharp lemon sauce and crisp potatoes baked in the oven with rosemary. They ate antipasti, which would challenge any artist to capture the sweep of colours and shapes and challenge any gourmand to describe the combinations of piquancy, smoothness and spices and rich deep flavours.
In the evenings, after aperitifs with bread dipped in oil and black gleaming olives, they went to small family-run restaurants where Sam was known and where he and Lizzie were told what was best to eat that night. It never failed to please. Then if they were not totally replete—and sometimes when they were—they would stop and choose gelati just because they could. Lizzie knew she was expanding but told herself it was worth every calorie!
There were the times of course when she remembered fleetingly the weeks of beans and dusty rice and the struggles of women trying to feed their families, but for the moment, she brushed these thoughts aside and lived in the moment.
‘Carpe diem,’ Gwennie had always said. ‘Seize the day, darling. It may not last and it would be churlish not to relish everything good that comes your way.’
Gwennie always said this just when the week’s money was short but she decided to splurge on a treat or when she took Lizzie to the ballet—Gwennie always waited outside because she could not afford an adult ticket too.
‘What did you think, darling?’ she would ask.
Lizzie was often lost in the magic, but she knew to explain in as much detail as she could so Mummy could enjoy it too. So she would talk about the music, the colours and the movements, trying to show what it had been like. Mummy always loved it. Mummy always seemed to love things. So Lizzie tried to remember to seize the days such as these in Trastevere with Sam.
‘We could do this again, Lizzie,’ he said as he kissed her on arrival back at Geneva airport.
‘I would love that, Sam,’ said Lizzie.
‘That’s a deal then,’ he said with a hug and a look that Lizzie thought was just a little too intense. He kissed her goodbye gently, ‘No pressure.’
‘OK. I’ll think about it, tomorrow,’ or something like that, said Scarlet O’Hara. But Lizzie did give a damn and so did Sam it seemed. Lizzie was just a bit scared. Gwennie would know what to do. Where are you Gwennie? Where are you Mum? Where are you Nanna? Would Lizzie always want her mother, always want Gwennie—or Nanna—when she was scared?