When in Rome

1 Barnaby in Rome

Barnaby Grant looked at the Etruscan Bride and Bridegroom who reclined so easily on their sarcophagal couch and wondered why they had died young and whether, as in Verona, they had died together. Their gentle lips, he thought, brushed with amusement, might easily tilt into the arrowhead smile of Apollo and Hermes. How fulfilled they were and how enigmatically alike. What signal did she give with her largish hands? How touchingly his hand hovered above her shoulder.

“—from Cerveteri,” said a guide rapidly. “Five hundred and thirty years before Christ.”

“Christ!” said a tourist on a note of exhaustion.

The party moved on. Grant stayed behind for a time and then, certain that he desired to see no more that morning, left the Villa Giulia and took a taxi to the Piazza Colonna for a glass of beer.

As he sat at a kerbside table in the Piazza Colonna, Barnaby thought of the Etruscan smile and listened to thunder.

The heavens boomed largely above the noon traffic, but whatever lightning there might be was not evident, being masked by a black canopy of low and swollen cloud. “At any moment,” thought Barnaby, “Marcus Aurelius’ Column will prick it and like ‘a foul bum-bard’ it will shed its liquor! And then what a scene!”

Before him on the table stood a glass and a bottle of beer. His mackintosh was folded over the back of his chair and on the ground, leaning against his leg, was a locked attaché case. Every so often his left hand dropped to the case and fingered it. Refreshed by this contact his mouth would take on an easier look and he would blink slowly and push away the lock of black hair that overhung his forehead.

“A bit of a swine, this one,” he thought. “It’s been a bit of a swine.”

A heavy rumbling again broke out overhead. “Thunder on the left,” Barnaby thought. “The gods are cross with us.”

He refilled his glass and looked about him.

The kerbside caffè had been crowded but now, under threat of a downpour, many customers had left and the waiters had tipped over their chairs. The tables on either side of his own, however, were still occupied: that on his right by three lowering young men whose calloused hands jealously enclosed their glasses and whose slow eyes looked sideways at their surroundings. Countrymen, Grant thought, who would have been easier in a less consequential setting and would be shocked by the amount of their bill. On his left sat a Roman couple in love. Forbidden by law to kiss in public, they gazed, clung hand-to-hand, and exchanged trembling smiles. The young man extended his forefinger and traced the unmarred excellences of his girl’s lips. They responded, quivering. Barnaby could not help watching the lovers. They were unaware of him and indeed of everything else around them, but on the first visible and livid flash of lightning, they were taken out of themselves and turned their faces towards him.

It was at this moment, appropriately as he was later to consider, that he saw, framed by their separated heads, the distant figure of an Englishman.

He knew at once that the man was English. Perhaps it was his clothes. Or, more specifically, his jacket. It was shabby and out-of-date, but it had been made from West Country tweed, though not, perhaps, for its present wearer. And then — the tie. Frayed and faded, grease-spotted and lumpish: there it was, scarcely recognizable but, if you were so minded, august. For the rest, his garments were dingy and non-descript. His hat, a rusty black felt, was obviously Italian. It was pulled forward and cast a shadow down to the bridge of his nose, over a face of which the most noticeable feature was its extreme pallor. The mouth, however, was red and rather full-lipped. So dark had the noonday turned that without that brief flash, Barnaby could scarcely have seen the shadowed eyes. He felt an odd little shock within himself when he realized they were very light in colour and were fixed on him. A great crack of thunder banged out overhead. The black canopy burst and fell out of the sky in a deluge.

There was a stampede. Barnaby snatched up his raincoat, struggled into it and dragged the hood over his head. He had not paid his bill and groped for his pocket-book. The three countrymen blundered towards him and there was some sort of collision between them and the young couple. The young man broke into loud quarrelsome expostulation. Barnaby could find nothing smaller than a thousand-lire note. He turned away, looked round for a waiter, and found they had all retreated under the canvas awning. His own man saw him, made a grand-opera gesture of despair, and turned his back.

“Aspetti,” Barnaby shouted in phrase-book Italian, waving his thousand-lire note. “Quanto devo pagare?”

The waiter placed his hands together as if in prayer and turned up his eyes.

“Basta!”

“—lasci passare—”

“Se ne vada ora—”

“Non desidero parlarle.”

“Non l’ho fatto io—”

“Vattene!”

“Sciocchezze!”

The row between the lover and the countrymen was heating up. They now screamed into each other’s faces behind Barnaby’s back. The waiter indicated, with a multiple gesture, the heavens, the rain, his own defencelessness.

Barnaby thought: “After all, I’m the one with a raincoat.” Somebody crashed into his back and sent him spread-eagled across his table.

A scene of the utmost confusion followed accompanied by flashes of lightning, immediate thunderclaps and torrents of rain. Barnaby was winded and bruised. A piece of glass had cut the palm of his hand and his nose also bled. The combatants had disappeared but his waiter, now equipped with an enormous orange and blue umbrella, babbled over him and made ineffectual dabs at his hand. The other waiters, clustered beneath the awning, rendered a chorus to the action. “Poverino!” they exclaimed. “What a misfortune!”

Barnaby recovered an upright posture. With one hand he dragged a handkerchief from the pocket of his raincoat and clapped it to his face. In the other he extended to the waiter his bloodied and rain-sopped thousand-lire note.

“Here,” he said in his basic Italian. “Keep the change. I require a taxi.”

The waiter ejaculated with evident pleasure. Barnaby sat down abruptly on a chair that had become a bird-bath. The waiter ludicrously inserted his umbrella into a socket in the middle of the table, said something incomprehensible, turned up the collar of his white jacket and bolted into the interior. To telephone, Barnaby hoped, for a taxi.

The Piazza Colonna was rain-possessed. A huge weight of water flooded the street and pavements and spurted off the roofs of cars as if another multiple Roman fountain had been born. Motorists stared through blurred glass and past jigging windscreen wipers at the world outside. Except for isolated, scurrying wayfarers the pavements were emptied. Barnaby Grant, huddled, alone and ridiculous under his orange and blue umbrella, staunched his bloody nose. He attracted a certain incredulous attention. The waiter had disappeared and his comrades had got up among themselves one of those inscrutable Italian conversations that appear to be quarrels but very often end in backslaps and roars of laughter. Barnaby never could form the slightest notion of how long he had sat under the umbrella before he made his hideous discovery, before his left arm dangled from his shoulder and his left hand encountered — nothing.

As if it had a separate entity the hand explored, discovered only the leg of his chair, widened its search and found — nothing.

He remembered afterwards that he had been afraid to get into touch with his hand, to duck his head and look down and find a puddle of water, the iron foot of his chair-leg and again — nothing.

The experience that followed could, he afterwards supposed, be compared to the popular belief about drowning, in that an impossible flood of thoughts crowded his brain. He thought, for instance, of how long it had taken him to write his book, of his knowledge that undoubtedly it was the best thing he had done, perhaps would ever do. He remembered his agent had once suggested that it was dangerous to write in longhand with no duplication. He remembered how isolated he was in Rome with virtually no Italian, and how he hadn’t bothered to use his introductions. He thought inaccurately of — who? Was it Sir Isaac Newton? “Oh, Diamond, Diamond, you little know what you have done!” Above all he thought of the ineffable, the unthinkable, the atrocious boredom of what must now ensue: the awful prospect of taking steps as opposed to the numb desolation of his loss: the rock-bottom horror of the event itself which had caused a thing like a water-ram to pound in his thorax.

A classic phrase stood up in his thoughts: “I am undone.” And he almost cried it aloud.

Here, now, was the waiter, smirking and triumphant, and here at the kerbside a horse-carriage with a great umbrella protecting the seats and a wary-looking driver with some sort of tarpaulin over his head.

Grant attempted to indicate his loss. He pointed to where his attaché case had been, he grimaced, he gesticulated. He groped for his phrase-book and thumbed through it. “Ho perduto,” he said. “Ho perduto mia valigia. Have you got it? My case? Non trovo. Valigia.”

The waiter exclaimed and idiotically looked under the table and round about the flooded surroundings. He then bolted into cover and stood there gazing at Barnaby and shrugging with every inch of his person.

Barnaby thought: “This is it. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

The driver of the horse-carriage hailed him mellifluously and seemed to implore him to make up his mind. He looked at the desolation around him and got into the carriage.

“Consolato Britannico,” Grant shouted. “O God! Consolato Britannico.”

“Now look here,” the Consul had said, as if Barnaby Grant required the information, “this is a bad business, you know. It’s a bad business.”

“You, my dear Consul, are telling me.”

“Quite so. Quite so. Now, we’ll have to see what we can do, won’t we? My wife,” he added, “is a great fan of yours. She’ll be quite concerned when she hears of this. She’s a bit of an egg-head,” he had jokingly confided.

Barnaby had not replied. He contemplated his fellow-Briton over a handful of lint kindly provided by the consular staff and rested his bandaged left hand upon his knee.

“Well, of course,” the Consul continued argumentatively, “properly speaking it’s a matter for the police. Though I must say — however. If you’ll wait a moment I’ll just put a call through. I’ve got a personal contact — nothing like approaching at the right level, is there? Now, then.”

After a number of delays there had been a long and virtually incomprehensible conversation during which Barnaby fancied he was being described as Great Britain’s most celebrated novelist. With many pauses to refer to Barnaby himself, the Consul related at dictation speed the details of the affair and when that was over showered a number of grateful compliments into the telephone—“E stato molto gentile — grazie. Molto grazie, Signore” — which even poor Barnaby could understand.

The Consul replaced the receiver and pulled a grimace. “Not much joy from that quarter,” he said. Barnaby swallowed and felt sick.

He was assured that everything that could be done would be done, but, the Consul pointed out, they hadn’t much to go on, had they? Still, he added more brightly, there was always the chance that Barnaby might be blackmailed.

“Blackmailed?”

“Well, you see, whoever took the case probably expected, if not a haul of valuables, or cash, something in the nature of documents for the recovery of which a reward would be offered and a haggling basis thus set up. Blackmail,” said the Consul, “was not, of course, the right word. Ransom would be more appropriate. Although—” He was a man of broken sentences and he left this one suspended in an atmosphere of extreme discomfort.

“Then I should advertise and offer a reward?”

“Certainly. Certainly. We’ll get something worked out. We’ll just give my secretary the details in English and she’ll translate and see to the insertions.”

“I’m being a trouble,” said the wretched Barnaby.

“We’re used to it,” the Consul sighed. “Your name and London address were on the manuscript, you said, but the case was locked. Not, of course, that that amounts to anything.”

“I suppose not.”

“You are staying at—?”

“The Pensione Gallico.”

“Ah yes. Have you the telephone number?”

“Yes — I think so — somewhere about me.”

Barnaby fished distractedly in his breast pocket, pulled out his note-case, passport, and two envelopes which fell on the desk, face downwards. He had scribbled the Pensione Gallico address and telephone number on the back of one of them.

“That’s it,” he said and slid the envelope across to the Consul, who was already observant of its august crest.

“Ah — yes. Thank you.” He gave a little laugh. “Done your duty and signed the book I see,” he said.

“What? Oh — that. Well, no actually,” Barnaby mumbled. “It’s — er — some sort of luncheon. Tomorrow. I mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’m enormously grateful.”

The Consul, beaming and expanding, stretched his arm across the desk and made a fin of his hand. “No, no, no. Very glad you came to us. I feel pretty confident, all things considered. Nil desperandum, you know, nil desperandum. Rise above!”

But it wasn’t possible to rise very far above his loss as two days trickled by and there was no response to advertisements and nothing came of a long language-haltered interview with a beautiful representative of the Questura. He attended his Embassy luncheon and tried to react appropriately to ambassadorial commiseration and concern. But for the most of the time he sat on the roof garden of the Pensione Gallico among potted geraniums and flights of swallows. His bedroom had a french window opening on a neglected corner of this garden, and there he waited and listened in agony for every telephone call within. From time to time he half-faced the awful notion of rewriting the hundred thousand words of his novel, but the prospect made him physically as well as emotionally sick and he turned away from it.

Every so often he experienced the sensation of an abrupt descent in an infernal lift. He started out of fits of sleep into a waking nightmare. He told himself he should write to his agent and to his publisher, but the mere thought of doing so tasted as acrid as bile and he sat and listened for the telephone instead.

On the third morning a heat wave came upon Rome. The roof garden was like a furnace. He was alone in his corner with an uneaten brioche, a pot of honey and three wasps. He was given over to a sort of fretful lassitude and finally to a condition that he supposed must be that of Despair itself. “What I need,” he told himself on a wave of nausea, “is a bloody good cry on somebody’s bloody bosom.”

One of the two waiters came out.

“Finito?” he sang, as usual. And then, when Barnaby gave bis punctual assent, seemed to indicate that he should come indoors. At first he thought the waiter was suggesting that it was too hot where he was and then that for some reason the manageress wanted to see him.

And then, as a sudden jolt of hope shook him, he saw a fattish man with a jacket hooked over his shoulders come out of the house door and advance towards him. He was between Barnaby and the sun and appeared fantastic, black and insubstantial, but at once Barnaby recognized him.

His reactions were chaotic. He saw the man as if between the inclined heads of two lovers, and to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning. And whether the sensation that flooded him was one solely of terrified relief, or of a kind of blessed anti-climax, he could never determine. He merely wondered, when the man advanced into the shade and drew an attaché case from under his jacket, if he himself was going to faint.

“Mr. Barnaby Grant?" asked the man. “I think you will be pleased to see me, will you not?”

They escaped from the Gallico, which seemed to be overrun with housemaids, to a very small caffè in a shaded by-way off the Piazza Navona, a short walk away. His companion had suggested it. “Unless, of course,” he said archly, “you prefer something smarter — like the Colonna, for instance,” and Barnaby had shuddered. He took his attaché case with him, and at his guest’s suggestion unlocked it. There, in two loose-leaf folders, lay his book, enclosed by giant-sized rubber bands. The last letter from his agent still lay on top, just as he had left it.

He had rather wildly offered his guest champagne cocktails, cognac, wine — anything — but when reminded that it was not yet ten o’clock in the morning settled for coffee. “Well then,” he said, “at a more appropriate hour — you will let me — and in the meantime I must — well — of course.”

He slid his hand inside his jacket. His heart still thumped at it like a fist.

“You are thinking of the reward so generously offered,” said his companion. “But — please — no. No. It is out of the question. To have been of service, even on so insignificant a scale, to Barnaby Grant — that really is a golden reward. Believe me.”

Barnaby had not expected this and he at once felt he had committed a gigantic error in taste. He had been misled, he supposed, by general appearances: not only by the shabby alpaca jacket that had replaced the English tweed and like it was hooked over the shoulders, displaying a dingy open shirt with worn cuffs, nor by the black-green hat or the really lamentable shoes, but by something indefinable in the man himself. “I wish,” he thought, “I could take an.instant liking to him. I owe him that, at the least.”

And as his companion talked Barnaby found himself engaged in the occupational habit of the novelist: he dwelt on the bullet head, close-cropped like an American schoolboy’s, and the mouse-coloured sparse fringe. He noted the extreme pallor of the skin, its appearance of softness and fine texture like a woman’s: the unexpected fullness and rich colour of the mouth, and those large pale eyes that had looked so fixedly into his in the Piazza Colonna. The voice and speech? High but muted, it had no discernible accent but carried a suggestion of careful phrasing. Perhaps English was no longer the habitual language. His choice of words was pedantic as if he had memorized his sentences for a public address.

His hands were plump and delicate and the nails bitten to the quick.

His name was Sebastian Mailer.

“You wonder, of course,” he was saying, “why you have been subjected to this no doubt agonizing delay. You would like to know the circumstances?”

“Very much.”

“I can’t hope that you noticed me the other morning in Piazza Colonna.”

“But yes. I remember you very well.”

“Perhaps I started. You see, I recognized you at once from the photographs on your book jackets. I must tell you I am a most avid admirer, Mr. Grant.”

Barnaby murmured.

“I am also, which is more to the point, what might be described as ‘an old Roman hand.’ I have lived here for many years and have acquired some knowledge of Roman society at a number of levels. Including the lowest. You see I am frank.”

“Why not?”

“Why not indeed! My motives, in what I imagine some of our compatriots would call muck-raking, are aesthetic and I think I may say philosophical, but with that I must not trouble you. It will do well enough if I tell you that at the time I recognized you I also recognized a despicable person known to the Roman riff-raff as — I translate — Feather-fingers. He was stationed at a short distance from you and behind your back. His eyes were fastened upon your attaché case.”

“God!”

“Indeed, yes. Now, you will recollect that the incipient thunderstorm broke abruptly and that with the downpour and subsequent confusion a fracas arose between some of the occupants of tables adjacent to your own.”

“Yes.”

“And that you received a violent blow in the back that knocked you across your table.”

“So it did,” Barnaby agreed.

“Of course you thought that you had been struck by one of the contestants, but this was not so. The character I have brought to your notice took advantage of the melee, darted forward, delivered the blow with his shoulder, snatched up your case and bolted. It was an admirably timed manoeuvre and executed with the greatest speed and precision. The contestants continued to shout at each other and I, my dear Mr. Grant, gave chase.”

He sipped his coffee, made a small inclination, an acknowledgement perhaps of Barnaby’s passionate attention.

“It was a long pursuit,” Mailer continued. “But I clung to his trail and — is the phrase ‘ran him to earth’? It is. Thank you. I ran him to earth, then, in what purveyors of sensational fiction would describe as ‘a certain caffè in such-and-such a little street not a thousand miles from—’ etc., etc. Perhaps my phraseology is somewhat dated. In plain terms I caught up with him at his habitual haunt and by means with which I will not trouble you, recovered your attaché case.”

“On the same day,” Barnaby couldn’t help asking, “that I lost it?”

“Ah! As the cornered victim of an interrogation always says: I am glad you asked that question. Mr. Grant, with any less distinguished person I would have come armed with a plausible prevarication. With you, I cannot adopt this measure. I did not return your case before because—”

He paused, smiling very slightly, and without removing his gaze from Barnaby’s face, pushed up the shirt-sleeve of his left arm, which was white-skinned and hairless. He rested it palm upwards on the table and slid it towards Barnaby.

“You can see for yourself,” he said. “They look rather like mosquito bites, do they not, but I’m sure you will recognize them for what they are. Do you?”

“I–I think I do.”

“Quite. I have acquired an addiction for cocaine, rather ‘square’ of me, isn’t it? I really must change, one of these days, to something groovier. You see I am conversant with the jargon. But I digress. I am ashamed to say that after my encounter with Feather-fingers, I found myself greatly shaken. No doubt my constitution has been somewhat undermined by my unfortunate proclivity. I am not a robust man. I called upon my — the accepted term is, I believe, fix — and, in short, I rather exceeded my usual allowance and have been out of circulation until this morning. I cannot, of course, hope that you will forgive me.”

Barnaby gave himself a breathing space and then — he was a generous man — said: “I’m so bloody thankful to have it back I feel nothing but gratitude, I promise you. After all, the case was locked and you were not to know—”

“Oh but I was! I guessed. When I came to myself I guessed. The weight, for one thing. And the way it shifted, you know, inside. And then, of course, I saw your advertisement: ‘Containing manuscript of value only to owner.’ So I cannot lay that flattering unction to my soul, Mr. Grant.”

He produced a dubious handkerchief and wiped his neck and face with it. The little caffè was on the shady side of the street but Mr. Mailer sweated excessively. “Will you have some more coffee?”

“Thank you. You are very kind. Most kind.” The coffee seemed to revive him. He held the cup in his two plump, soiled hands and looked at Barnaby over the top.

“I feel so deeply in your debt,” Barnaby said. “Is there nothing I can do—?”

“You will think me unbearably fulsome — I have, I believe, become rather Latinized in my style, but I assure you the mere fact of meeting you and in some small manner—”

This conversation, Barnaby thought, is going round in circles. “Well,” he said, “you must dine with me. Let’s make a time, shall we?”

But Mr. Mailer, now squeezing his palms together, was evidently on the edge of speech and presently achieved it. After a multitude of deprecating parentheses he at last confessed that he himself had written a book.

He had been at it for three years: the present version was his fourth. Through bitter experience, Barnaby knew what was coming and knew, also, that he must accept his fate. The all-too-familiar phrases were being delivered: “…value, enormously, your opinion…” “…glance through it…” “…advice from such an authority…” “…interest in publisher…”

“I’ll read it, of course,” Barnaby said. “Have you brought it with you?”

Mr. Mailer, it emerged, was sitting on it. By some adroit and nimble sleight-of-hand, he had passed it under his rump while Barnaby was intent upon his recovered property. He now drew it out, wrapped in a dampish Roman newssheet and, with trembling fingers, uncovered it. A manuscript closely written in an Italianate script, but not, Barnaby rejoiced to see, bulky. Perhaps forty thousand words, perhaps, with any luck, less.

“Neither a novel nor a novella in length, I’m afraid,” said its author, “but so it has befallen and as such I abide by it.”

Barnaby looked up quickly. Mr. Mailer’s mouth had compressed and lifted at the corners. “Not so diffident after all,” Barnaby thought.

“I hope,” said Mr. Mailer, “my handwriting does not present undue difficulties. I cannot afford a typist.”

“It seems very clear.”

“If so, it will not take more than a few hours of your time. Perhaps in two days or so I may—? But I mustn’t be clamorous.”

Barnaby thought: “And I must do this handsomely.” He said: “Look, I’ve a suggestion. Dine with me the day after tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I think.”

“How kind you are! I am overwhelmed. But, please, you must allow me — if you don’t object to — well, to somewhere — quite modest — like this, for example. There is a little trattoria, as you see. Their fettuccini—really very good and their wine quite respectable. The manager is a friend of mine and will take care of us.”

“It sounds admirable. By all means let us come here, but it shall be my party, Mr. Mailer, if you please. You shall order our dinner. I am in your hands.”

“Indeed? Really? Then I must speak with him beforehand.”

On this understanding they parted.

At the Pensione Gallico, Barnaby told everybody he encountered — the manageress, the two waiters, even the chambermaid who had little or no English — of the recovery of his manuscript. Some of them understood him and some did not. All rejoiced. He rang up the Consulate, which was loud in felicitations. He paid for his advertisements.

When all this had been accomplished he re-read such bits of his book as he had felt needed to be rewritten, skipping from one part to another.

It crossed his mind that his dominant reaction to the events of the past three days was now one of anticlimax: “All that agony and — back to normal,” he thought and turned a page.

In a groove between the sheets held by their loose-leaf binder he noticed a smear and, upon opening the manuscript more widely, found a slight deposit of something that looked like cigarette ash.

He had given up smoking two years ago.

On second thought (and after a close examination of the lock on his case) he reminded himself that the lady who did for him in London was a chain-smoker and excessively curious and that his manuscript often lay open on his table. This reflection comforted him and he was able to work on his book and, in the siesta, to read Mr. Mailer’s near-novella with tolerable composure.

It wasn’t bad. A bit jewelled. A bit fancy. Indecent in parts but probably not within the meaning of the act. And considering it was a fourth draft, more than a bit careless: words omitted, repetitions, redundancies. Barnaby wondered if cocaine could be held responsible for these lapses. But he’d seen many a worse in print and if Mr. Mailer could cook up one or two shorter jobs to fill out a volume he might very well find a publisher for it.

He was struck by an amusing coincidence and when, at the appointed time, they met for dinner, he spoke of it to Mr. Mailer.

“By the way,” he said re-filling Mr. Mailer’s glass, “you have introduced a secondary theme which is actually the ground swell of my own book.”

“Oh no!” his guest ejaculated and then: “But we are told, aren’t we, that there are only — how many is it? three? — four? — basic themes?”

“And that all subject matter can be traced to one or another of them? Yes. This is only a detail in your story, and you don’t develop it. Indeed, I feel it’s extraneous and might well be dropped. The suggestion is not,” Barnaby added, “prompted by professional jealousy,” and they both laughed, Mr. Mailer a great deal louder than Barnaby. He evidently repeated the joke in Italian to some acquaintances of his whom he had greeted on their arrival and had presented to Barnaby. They sat at the next table and were much diverted. Taking advantage of the appropriate moment, they drank to Barnaby’s health.

The dinner, altogether, was a great success. The food was excellent, the wine acceptable, the proprietor attentive and the mise-en-scène congenial. Down the narrowest of alleyways they looked into Piazza Navona, and saw the water god Il Moro in combat with his Fish, suberbly lit. They could almost hear the splash of his fountains above the multiple voice of Rome at night. Groups of youths moved elegantly about Navona and arrogant girls thrust bosoms like those of figure-heads at the eddying crowds. The midsummer night pulsed with its own beauty. Barnaby felt within himself an excitement that rose from a more potent ferment than their gentle wine could induce. He was exalted.

He leant back in his chair, fetched a deep breath, caught Mr. Mailer’s eye and laughed. “I feel,” he said, “as if I had only just arrived in Rome.”

“And perhaps as if the night had only just begun?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Adventure?” Mailer hinted.

Perhaps, after all, the wine had not been so gentle. There was an uncertainty about what he saw when he looked at Mailer, as if a new personality emerged. “He really has got very rum eyes,” thought Barnaby, tolerantly.

“An adventure?” the voice insisted. “May I help you, I wonder? A cicerone?”

“May I help you?” Barnaby thought. “He might be a shop assistant.” But he stretched himself a little and heard himself say lightly: “Well, — in what way?”

“In any way,” Mailer murmured. “Really, in any way at all. I’m versatile.”

“Oh,” Barnaby said. “I’m very orthodox, you know. The largest Square,” he added and thought the addition brilliantly funny, “in Rome.”

“Then, if you will allow me—”

The proprietor was there with his bill. Barnaby thought that the little trattoria had become very quiet, but when he looked round he saw that all the patrons were still there and behaving quite normally. He had some difficulty in finding the right notes but Mr. Mailer helped him and Barnaby begged him to give a generous tip.

“Very good indeed,” Barnaby said to the proprietor, “I shall return.” They shook hands warmly.

And then Barnaby, with Mr. Mailer at his elbow, walked into narrow streets past glowing windows and pitch-dark entries, through groups of people who shouted and by-ways that were silent into what was, for him, an entirely different Rome.