Mac stepped out of the cab into the middle of a Baroque piazza, with hundreds of tourists in colorful outfits taking pictures at various stages of the Scalinata di Trinita dei Monti, The Spanish Steps. He immediately realized his camera would not stand out in this city, as he could take as many pictures as he wanted, and not be seen as anything other than a garish American tourist, irrespective of what camera he had.
The entrance of the Inn at the Spanish Steps was on the Via dei Condotti, the street leading from the steps at the Piazza di Spagna. The cab driver brought Mac's luggage into the sumptuously decorated lobby, featuring old world charm, updated to reflect modern designs and tastes. Classical opulence was everywhere, from the brocades and velvets to the Persian carpets. Despite the preservation of antiquity, everything felt new and alive to Mac.
“Signore Martini,” greeted a tuxedo-clad Italian stationed at the door of the Inn. Mac was impressed that the prim, immaculately attired Italian gentleman had somehow known his name as he arrived at the establishment.
“Welcome back to Roma, Signore Martini,” the man went on, as if Mac had returned after having been away for a while, despite his never having been there.
“Grazie, I feel most welcome,” said Mac in Italian, making the effort to speak the language of his host.
“Let us take your luggage,” said the man now speaking in Italian, motioning to two young, uniformed bellhops. “My name is Lorenzo Beaumonti, and I am at your service. I run the Inn at the Spanish Steps. Whatever your needs, we are here to provide them. Your check-in has been seen to by your law firm, as have the charges for your stay with us. We can take you directly to your apartment if you like. You have the most beautiful suite of rooms in the hotel, on the highest floor, with a balcony overlooking the Scalinata di Trinita dei Monti. You will love it, Signore Martini.”
“Grazie, Signore Beaumonti, I look forward to my stay in your wonderful hotel. I have heard so many good things,” Mac lied, “none of which even does it justice. This is beautiful, Signore. I am so excited to see my rooms if you please.”
“Quickly, boys, take Signore Martini up to his apartment. Take the elevator, sir, the boys will show you to your rooms.”
“Scusi, Signore,” said one of the boys to Mac, as he picked up the luggage with his friend. “Follow us, please.”
Mac was brought up to the sixth floor in an ornate wrought iron elevator which he was not sure would make the trip. At the end of the luxuriously wallpapered and carpeted hallway, the boys opened the locked red door to the suite, setting the luggage on the floor inside the stuffy outer room. One of the boys hustled in to open the full-length shutters leading to the balcony, revealing a magnificent view of the Spanish Steps, and of old Rome, while the other turned on the lamps situated around the outer room.
The room was most elegant, yet seemingly comfortable, with overstuffed, chintz-covered furniture in the formal sitting area. The dark wood end tables and coffee table shined like glass, along with the small dining table and two matching chintz covered chairs sitting in front of the now opened shuttered doors to the balcony. The flowers in the crystal vase on the table were fresh and colorful, adding to the warmth of the apartment.
As the weather in Rome was mild for mid-December, the breeze coming in from the open doors was comfortable, and fragrant, given the flowered vines climbing the walls of the spacious balcony.
The young boys proceeded to move the luggage into the bedroom off to the left of the balcony doors without being directed to do so, placing the bags on webbed luggage pedestals. The sleeping chamber had a beautifully attired queen-sized bed, and a large window, also overlooking the Spanish Steps. Mac peeked into the accompanying bath, which was all done in white veined Italian marble, with a large white cast iron tub, and gold-plated fixtures. The boys asked Mac if he would like them to unpack for him. He declined. They reminded him to draw the blackout shades and drapes at night, as part of the city's blackout procedures.
“Grazie, boys,” said Mac, handing them a generous tip. “Could you please bring me a bottle of scotch and some ice?”
“Si, Signore, coming right up,” said one of the boys in surprisingly good English, as he looked at the generous tip in his hand.
Mac's father had taught him to tip well upon arrival to ensure good service throughout his stay. The boys were quick to return with the scotch, the ice, and an unexpected, yet delightful, platter of meats, cheeses, and fresh fruit. He was told dinner would be served at eight, seared pesce tonight. Mac walked the boys to the door, gave them another, more modest tip, and he poured himself a stiff drink, while taking in the view of the city of Rome.
When he had seen enough, Mac sat down on the comfortable sofa, picking up the telephone on the end table, to call the front desk.
“How do I get an outside line?” he asked the operator with the voice of an angel.
“If you give me the number, I will connect you Signore Martini,” sang a young nightingale, seemingly in charge of keeping track of whom Mac was calling during his stay at the Inn.
Mac gave the young girl the number, and he waited for the strange ring of the foreign phone service.
“Sullivan & Cromwell,” announced the receptionist, in a similarly beautiful Italian accent. “May I help you?”
“This is Tommaso Martini. I have just arrived here in Rome. I am to be working at Sullivan & Cromwell.”
“Yes, Signore Martini, you are expected here in the office Monday morning. Do you know where we are located?”
“Yes, I have the address. I am staying right down the street at the Inn.”
“Well then, enjoy the rest of your weekend in our beautiful city. We will see you Monday morning.”
“Very well, and your name is?”
“I’m sorry; I am Teresa, Teresa DeFelice.”
“I will see you Monday morning, Teresa DeFelice.”
“We open at nine in the morning, but I get here a little earlier. You may come in any time after eight, but they expect you in by ten, Signore.”
“Call me Tommaso, Teresa. I will be in early. Thank you.”
“Yes sir, see you then, Tommaso,” sang the young lady, as Mac could sense her blushing right through the telephone at his unanticipated familiarity.
Mac finished his drink, freshened up, and he went out for a walk. He crossed the Piazza di Spagna, mingling with the tourists, viewing the various pushcarts with flowers and fruits. He proceeded south toward the Trevi district to see the Fontana di Trevi, the Trevi Fountain, as he promised his mother that he would do right away, throwing in money for good luck. The Trevi Fountain was not far from the Spanish Steps, maybe a ten-minute walk, according to Signore Beaumonti, as Mac was leaving the Inn.
The Fontana di Trevi stood eighty-six feet high and one hundred sixty-one feet wide, the largest Baroque fountain in Rome. Mac had read that the work of art had been completed in 1762 as a public fountain, signifying the “taming of the waters” at the junction of three roads at the terminus of the ancient Aqua Virgo, the aqueduct that supplied Rome with water from fourteen miles away. Most of the stonework was Travertine, quarried near Tivoli, about twenty-two miles to the east.
The backdrop of the fountain was the Palazzo Poli, a two-story structure fronted by Corinthian pilasters, in the center of which is a triumphant arch. Oceanus, in his shell chariot, is guided by Tritons in taming the legendary Hippocamps creature, while Abundance spills water from her urn, and Salubrity holds a cup from which a snake drinks. The Tritons and horses to each side of Oceanus, provided symmetrical balance, as was seen during the Rococo period, which was in full bloom at its completion.
As was the tradition, Mac threw a few coins with his right hand, over his left shoulder, having them plunk into the rock-laden basin below the statuary. He smiled, despite his wish not coming true. Sara was still nowhere to be seen.
What a beautiful city to share with someone special, thought Mac, as he meandered back to his hotel to be in time for pesce. Rome is so romantic, Mac considered as he walked back to the Inn.
The streets were now less crowded, as the sun began to set, the Romans preparing for yet another night of possible Allied bombings. Yet, Mac noticed that the Italians seemed less than harried, as they were seemingly accustomed to such minor inconveniences. The people appeared happy and content, spreading smiles and good wishes to each other, and to him, despite the coming of war to their beautiful city, an observance that he would be sure to remember when writing his reports.
Upon returning to the Inn and freshening up, Mac was led to a table in the dining room, which had been fully dressed for his arrival. He was seated alone, while a few other parties had already been seated in the elegantly adorned dining room. Chandeliers, crystal, and silver belied a country at war, but Mac presumed that the guests here were all from places other than Italy.
Mac was brought a single malt, as he requested, along with an antipasto plate, including local cheeses and meats. The rationing experienced by most Italians was apparently not being heeded when it came to impressing the foreign guests. The exceptionally pretty young girl that served him introduced herself as Carla. Mac immediately realized that she was the same sweet sounding young lady that had connected his telephone call earlier in the day.
Carla was lovely in her Italian peasant dress, her ample bosom spilling pleasantly out over the top of the fitted bodice. She had long curly black hair cascading over her shoulders, dark steamy eyes, and lovely olive skin with nary a blemish. She wore a large gold cross on her neck, which somehow did not get lost in her cleavage. Her legs were long, and they were bare, as stockings were no longer available to Italian ladies, unless they had a rich man get them from the black market. Her shoes had straps across her ankles, and her subtle heels lifted her curvaceous young body just enough to compliment it.
“Perhaps, you will join me, Senorina,” invited Mac, after Carla had introduced herself.
“As much as I would enjoy your company, Signore,” said the young lady, “I am working now. Perhaps, another time, Signore Martini.”
“Whenever you like, Carla. I would enjoy your company as well. Call me Tommaso if you please.”
“Tommaso it is then. Let me serve you your dinner, Tommaso, before it gets cold,” she said, with a cute little smile.
Carla brought Mac a seared branzino, covered in slivered almonds, accompanied by her loveliness. He was delighted with the food, the ambiance, and the attentions of the blushing beauty.
The other diners had left by the time Carla had served a demitasse, and a platter of fresh fruit, compliments of the Inn. She looked towards the kitchen, then she sat herself down across from Mac, placing her green plaid serving towel on her shapely lap.
“Are you staying long with us, Tommaso,” asked the young lady quietly.
“I will be here for the foreseeable future, Carla,” whispered Mac in response, as he began to cut into a ripe pear. “I am working at a law firm down the street from here. Perhaps we can spend some time together,” asked Mac, not only wanting to be in her company for obvious reasons, but also because he felt Carla would be a good place to start in assessing the mood and attitudes of regular Italian people.
The juice from the pear ran down his hand, as he offered the young girl the first slice. Carla shook her head no, as she turned again to check that no one from the kitchen was looking for her.
“I would be delighted to show you around, Tommaso,” offered Carla shyly, as she involuntarily batted her big, dark brown eyes that Mac felt he could get lost in. Maybe tomorrow if you are free. I am off all day on Sunday, after I go to church in the morning.”
“Perhaps, you will allow me to accompany you to church, then we can go for a walk, if you like?”
“That sounds lovely, Tommaso. Meet me at the Trinita dei Monti church, at the top of the steps. Mass is at ten. Don’t be late.”
Carla smiled at the young lawyer before retiring to the kitchen once again. She did not return, which only heightened Mac's curiosity, and his desire to see her the next morning. He sat there sipping his demitasse, while smoking a Lucky Strike, thinking about the young lady he had just met. He saw her peek out of the cracked kitchen door. He smiled, as he considered the advice of Betty Pack. Be charming and attentive, and the rest will come in good time.
The following morning, Mac climbed the 174 steps to the Trinita dei Monti Church, turning around at the obelisk to take in the already busy Piazza di Spagna. Mac made the sign of the cross upon entering the white veined marble church, going down to one knee, outside the wrought iron gates separating the pews from the back of the Church.
The heavy use of marble and gold was indicative of the Baroque architecture and construction of the time, the Church being originally built in the sixteenth century. It being just more than a week until Christmas, the High Altar, with its six long candlesticks, gold candle holders, and the intricately carved marble altarpiece, was covered with red and white poinsettias around the marble columns holding up grand statuary above. The carvings and columns of the altarpiece gave the impression of holding up a piece of heaven over the High Altar below. The three white marble steps up to the High Altar also held pots of poinsettias, along the marble rail at the top of the steps. The candelabra chandeliers at varying heights on either side of the Altar were lit for mass, casting a glowing light over the congregation close to the High Altar, and the frescoed ceiling above. The statuary at the top of the altarpiece was magnificent, as was the life-sized Deposition of the Cross sculpture off to the side of the apse.
Although Mac had been a regular churchgoer as a boy in Poughkeepsie, he had never been privy to a religious experience quite like this. His home church was beautiful, but more puritanical, as were most American churches built at the turn of the century, making use of heavy wood beams, and stucco walls. Mac was overwhelmed by the opulence and the ornate use of marble and gold.
Looking around the Church, Mac found the young Italian girl. There she sat, as if an angel from Heaven, bathed in the light from the stained glass on the left side of the church, delicate white lace covering her curly black tresses. Mac genuflected at the end of the pew, and he sat beside her. Carla smiled, fixing her modest print dress further under her legs on the oaken wooden pew, so he could sit closer to her. She leaned in to give him friendly kisses on both of his cheeks, then placed her arm inside his, until both were to stand upon the priest entering from the rear of the church, near the wrought iron gate.
The Latin Mass was not new to Mac, and he could recite the entire ritual by heart, as he had heard it so many times. Carla paid rapt attention to the priest as he preached his sermon in Italian about the coming of Christ. She occasionally allowed herself to touch Mac's hand, which he had resting on his woolen trousers, perhaps, he thought, to make sure he was still awake. He smiled back at her when she did so, wishing she would leave her soft hand on his.
As the Mass ended, the young couple left the Church, Carla taking hold of Mac's hand as they meandered down the top church steps along with the rest of the parishioners. Carla smiled up at Mac, he being almost a foot taller than she, clearly pleased that he was holding her hand.
“Have you seen the Villa Borghese yet, Tommaso?”
“No, I just got in yesterday afternoon. I did walk over to the Trevi Fountain to throw in some coins, but that was the extent of my sightseeing.”
“Perhaps, it would be nice to walk in the Villa Borghese? It is such a beautiful day! The views of the old city from there are wonderful.”
“What is the Villa Borghese?”
“It is our largest public park here in Rome. It is right here, starting by the top of the Spanish Steps. We can walk to the Galleria Borghese. Have you heard of it? It really is beautiful. It's not far. Perhaps we can grab a bite to eat from one of the street vendors near there if you like. Did you enjoy the Mass, Tommaso?”
“Yes, it was much like our Mass at home, but your Church is so much older, and more beautiful,” Mac said, as they walked through the Porta Pinciana Gate, into the Villa Borghese, Mac trying to keep up with the shotgun nature of her conversational Italian. “And yes, I have heard of the Galleria. I had planned to take in the art when I could find the time.”
“It makes me feel good to go to church, especially that Church. One day, I would like to get married there.”
“It is lovely. As are you,” chuckled Mac, as Carla continued to skirt all over the place, like a nervous young girl. “Do you live around here?”
“Thank you, Tommaso,” blushed Carla at his compliment. “I live with my brother and his wife, not far from here. It is convenient. My family lives in Palombara Sabina, which is where I grew up.”
“No, Davero! Really? My family is from Palombara!” Mac exclaimed, excitedly. “Maybe, we are related, Carla?” laughed Mac. “What is your last name?”
“It is DeFelice,” laughed Carla. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Are you related to Teresa DeFelice?”
“That is my sister-in-law,” laughed Carla. “How do you know her?”
“She is the receptionist at Sullivan & Cromwell, where I will be working next week. I spoke to her yesterday. You connected the call, remember?”
“Yes, this is just too funny. I thought I recognized the telephone number, but I did not listen in on your call.”
With that, they decided to sit down on a park bench to ponder the situation, and to watch the children play in their Sunday best. Mac took Carla's hand in his, and he kissed the soft skin on the back of her palm. She smiled back at him, in no apparent hurry to remove her hand from his curious lips.
“This reminds me of Central Park in New York,” remarked Mac, as he continued to hold Carla's hand near his face, while his mind went a thousand miles away, and to another time, where he had held Sara's hand in a similar fashion.
“I have always wanted to see New York, Tommaso,” confided Carla, as she gazed into his deep blue eyes. “Perhaps, one day.”
“Listen, Carla, my friends all call me Mac. Please be my friend?”
“Of course, Mac. I like you very much. I hope we are not related,” blushed the young girl. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”
Mac kissed the young girl's hand again, as he smiled at the thought. He considered that he would probably never see Sara again, and here he is in Rome, with a beautiful, sweet young Italian goddess.
“Will it matter? Just don’t tell.”
“You’re terrible, Signore Martini,” laughed Carla. “Come, let's go see the Galleria Borghese; I love it there.”
Carla led Mac to the Galleria Borghese, a beautiful mansion of the Borghese family, a villa suburbana, a country house, which now held the Borghese collection of paintings, sculptures, and antiquities. The Baroque structure, surrounded by beautiful, sculptured gardens, was magnificent in its size and in its beauty. The couple approached the middle of five arches across the front of the white stucco building, entering the museum.
“Do you enjoy Art, Mac?”
“Yes, I do. I understand the gallery contains the work of Caravaggio. He is my favorite.”
“Oh, you will love this. They have Caravaggios, Titians, Rubens, and Bernini sculptures, which are my favorites, and the British have not even bombed it yet, imagine that? Ah, what can you do? The David by Bernini reminds me of you,” she laughed.
Mac noted the sarcasm she held with respect to the bombings, which he would be sure to mention in his reports. There seemed to be a feeling of inevitability on her part. She was hoping for the best but expecting the worse. It was not the first time Mac heard an Italian say, “cosa puoi fare?” What can you do? The Italians seemed incapable of considering the possibility that they could do something to change their plight. The fascists had been in power so long, it seemed inevitable that they would continue to control their daily lives and dreams.
The two walked the twenty-two rooms over two floors, taking in the works of Art. The sculptures of Bernini were exhibited in many of the spaces for which they were intended when commissioned by the Borghese family. The Caravaggios, particularly Saint Jerome Writing, caused Mac to stop in his tracks, and ponder its greatness and beauty. The Appolo and Daphne sculpture by Bernini, caught the prolonged attention of young Carla, as she squeezed Mac's hand in recognition of its excellence, and its portrayal of undying love. She told Mac the story of Apollo, caught by the gold arrow of love by Eros, while Daphne, the river nymph was shot with an arrow of lead, causing her to spurn all overtures by Apollo. She was so overwhelmed by his professions of love, that she had her father turn her into a laurel tree, causing Apollo to pledge his undying love of the laurel tree.
They walked the outdoor gardens, sharing the Baroque sculptures with other young couples on the beautiful Sunday morning. They sat on a stone bench and looked intermittently at the works of Bernini and into each other's eyes.
“How old are you?” asked Mac, as the sunlight illuminated her girlish features.
“I am nineteen, going on twenty,” she replied softly, seemingly embarrassed by her youth. “Old enough,” she retorted, with a devilish smile, “in an old-fashioned kind of Italian way,” she continued, with a laugh. “My brother is very protective of me, as he promised my mother he would be, before I was given permission to live in the city. But I manage to be my own woman.”
“I bet,” chuckled Mac. “But I am sure I would not want to mess with your family. I am a respectable Italian boy,” he continued, trying to sound serious. “I am 27 years old, but young at heart.”
“I will deal with my family. Besides, they will love you. You are a paisan, from Palombara no less,” she laughed. “We are perfect together, no?”
“Well, I am very happy that we have met. I like you very much. You are a good girl, and I will act accordingly.”
“I can be bad,” she giggled. “But I appreciate your respect and you being a gentleman. I like you very much, as well.”
Carla kissed Mac on the cheek, and he returned the favor by kissing her hand, which was still in his.
“Let's go get something to eat before it gets too late. My brother will come out looking for us.”
The couple walked down Viale Canonica, coming upon the full-size replica of the Shakespeare Globe Theatre, which was purportedly identical to the one in London. Carla slipped her arm back under the arm of her older man, as they walked up toward the Theatre.
“This is where they put on the plays of Shakespeare if we are not being bombed from the air by the English. Ironic, isn’t it? You can see a crater over there, next to the Theatre, where a bomb apparently got away from them. They say that they only bomb munitions and war factories, yet, as you can see, they miss from time to time.”
The coupled continued their walk down the Viale Cononica to the Piazza Napoleone, where they could enjoy a panoramic view of the ancient city below.
“That is the old city, Mac. Perhaps we can do that another day, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the birthplace of Rome itself. It is getting late, if we are going to sneak in lunch before you must bring me home.”
Mac smiled at the pretty girl.
“Well, then let's eat,” said Mac. “I’m getting hungry. You?”
“That would be great. There is a nice food cart owned by a friend of my brother in the children's park. We can sit on a bench there by the Tempio di Esculapio, at the Laghetto di Villa Borghese.
They walked to the lake holding hands. Mac was very happy with this new friendship. The young couple passed time there by the temple exploring each other's lives and backgrounds, finding that they had more in common then they would have believed. Despite being from two different worlds, they were brought up similarly, with respect for family, and with love of children. They also convinced themselves that they were not related, but Carla agreed to check with her mother and grandmother to be sure. Mac had his arm around Carla's back; she nestled closer to him, as their hips touched. Mac felt a spark of electricity between them.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” Carla asked, as they were walking back to her place.
“I don’t know yet. Why do you ask?”
“Maybe, we can go to Palombara Sabina together for the day?” asked Carla.
“Actually, I was considering going there to visit my family. That might be nice to do it together, if you do not think it is too soon?” he laughed at his ridiculous statement, considering what was clearly going on between them already.
“In times of War, you must act quickly, and with vigor. Who knows what tomorrow will bring, Mac? I think someone important said that,” laughed Carla.
“So true, Carla. It sounds like Churchill. I will see what I can do about Christmas.”
“Perhaps I will see you tomorrow, at the restaurant?” asked Carla.
“I start work tomorrow, but I will try to get back for dinner.”
“Great, I will get to serve you again.” She smiled at Mac coyly.
“I could get used to this, Carla.”
“It would be my pleasure, Signore Martini. I think I could get used to it as well,” she blushed at the implication of her statement.
Mac smiled at the young girl as she stopped walking in front of a beige stucco three-story building.
“This is my home. I have a room on the second floor. I would invite you in to meet my brother, but I do not want to ruin this beautiful day we had together.”
“He will not like me?”
“He does not like anyone who pays attention to his baby sister. He will have to get used to it; I think.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth. I am not going away, Carla. I like you very much.”
Carla kissed Mac's cheek as she opened the door, and she waved goodbye, with a tear in her eye. Before she closed the door, Mac made sure she saw him touch his cheek where she had kissed him, as an expression of his appreciation, and his longing for more.