Street of the Five Moons

Chapter Three

I DREAMED ABOUT SPAGHETTI. When I woke up I could still taste the garlic. I soon discovered that the taste came from the cloth that was wound over my mouth. I was blindfolded, too, and my wrists and ankles were tied. I was lying on a flat, fairly soft surface. That was the extent of my knowledge. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see, and breathing wasn’t awfully easy either. I like garlic, but not on rough cotton cloth.

I had a beast of a headache and a funny feeling in my stomach, which was mostly terror, but might also have been a reaction to the drug I had been given.

It was the blindfold that made me panic. Once, when I was about twelve, I ran away from home and crept into a cave in the hills when night fell. I woke up in total darkness, and for a minute I couldn’t remember where I was. It was horrible. I still have nightmares about it. This was even worse – this time I knew the unseen surroundings held danger, and not being able to see what form it would take made it harder to endure. I squirmed and strained at the ropes for some time – I don’t know how long, it seemed like an eternity. Then I got a grip on myself. I was only making things worse and my best hope was to get my wits about me and try to think.

Though I had no doubt what had happened to me, I couldn’t imagine how they had managed it. The last thing I remembered was the sunlight on the weathered white columns of the Forum – the single column of Phocas, near the Rostrum, and the magnificent triad of the Temple of the Dioscuri. The dark pines and cypresses of the Palatine Hill made a fitting backdrop for that ruined splendour. The Palatine . . . Yes, I had been on the hill. Later, I had climbed the paved slope towards the ruins of the imperial palaces. After that it was a complete blank. I forced myself to go back to the events I did remember.

After leaving the antique shop I had had lunch at one of the open-air restaurants on the Piazza Navona. I could have sworn no one followed me there. The people at the nearby tables were all tourists: a young French couple, arguing angrily about money; a German family; a group of American Midwesterners gobbling down spaghetti as if they were all underweight, which they weren’t. The piazza was crowded, as it always is. Bernini’s great sculptured figures of the rivers poured out the flowing water, and some ragged little Roman urchins splashed in it, giggling, till a policeman came and chased them away. Across the piazza the facade of St Agnese in Agone raised twisted towers into the sky. Cars and motorcycles roared around the oval track, just as the Roman chariots had raced around Domitian’s stadium in the bad old days. The piazza had replaced the stadium, but the spirit of speed lingered on.

I looked suspiciously at the other pedestrians when I left the restaurant, but, as I had anticipated, it was impossible for me to tell whether anyone was after me – for purposes of violence, I mean. One little man, who barely reached my shoulder, trotted after me for half a mile, flashing his teeth in what he mistakenly believed to be an irresistible smile. This swain had a rival – a boy on a Vespa, who trailed me for blocks, shouting things like ‘What ya say, baby?’ until he ran into a large policeman. But surely neither of them . . . Come to think of it, the famed Roman ardour would make a super excuse for following a female suspect. But neither of my boyfriends had stuck with me after I bought my ticket to the Foro Romano.

I went to the Forum because it’s practically the only place in town that is open in the afternoon, and because I thought I might find a quiet place to plan somewhere in the ruins. A lot of other people had had similar ideas. The Forum was crowded, and baking in the afternoon sun. So I had climbed the Palatine Hill looking for shade and privacy. It’s a maze up there, with ruined walls crossing and crisscrossing each other. The first primitive settlement of Rome had been on that hill, and occupation continued without a break for centuries. I got lost. Everybody does. I don’t know where I was when they caught up with me. There were low walls of crumbling brick, and a lot of scraggly bushes . . . And that was my last coherent memory, except for a nightmare flash of a dark, scowling face and a needle pricking my arm. They could have walked right out with my unconscious body draped over a shoulder, if they did it brazenly enough. Spectators would assume I had fainted.

Having figured out how I got where I was, I tried to find out where I was. The only senses left to me were smell and hearing. I sniffed vigorously: no use; the only thing I could smell was garlic. At first my ears were no more useful. Then I heard the rattle of a lock.

I lay still, on my left side, as they had originally placed me. Thanks to the echo, I knew I was facing the door of the room – closet – hall . . . wherever it was. I heard the door open, then a man’s voice.

‘She still sleeps,’ he said in Italian. I didn’t recognize the accent; it resembled the harsh Roman dialect, but was more rustic.

There was a laugh – a nasty laugh, and another voice said something I can’t repeat because I didn’t recognize the key word – some variety of local slang, probably. The gist of the suggestion was unfortunately only too clear.

‘No,’ the first voice said regretfully. ‘It is not allowed. She must be questioned.’

‘I would like to question her,’ said Villain Number Two, with another merry chuckle. I had a clear picture of him in my mind, from that horrid, high-pitched laugh. He would be short and squat, with greasy black hair and a mouth like that of a toad – wide and lipless and wet.

‘After all,’ he added, ‘who would know or care? It would not harm her voice, eh, Antonio?’

They went on talking about it for a while. I followed the debate with considerable interest. Finally they left; I heard the door open and close. I was relieved, but not much. Antonio had been steadily losing the argument, perhaps because his heart wasn’t in it. For some idiotic reason I was more worried about Villain Number Two than I was about the anonymous characters who were going to question me. I had every intention of squealing, without shame or reserve, if the questioning involved physical violence. Why should I be a heroine? But that greasy, leering voice, when I was blind and helpless . . .

When the door opened again, I tried my best to scream. Nothing came past the gag except a gurgle. Footsteps ran towards me. I started to thrash around. Someone scooped me up as easily as if I had been a 100-pound weakling, one arm under my knees, the other under my shoulders; and off we went, at the same rapid pace. We hadn’t gone far before my struggles made him lose his grip. Instead of picking me up again, he shoved me up against a flat surface, one arm squeezing my arms against my sides, the length of his body pressed against mine so I couldn’t move. His other hand was on the back of my head, squashing my face against his shoulder.

‘Stop squirming,’ muttered a voice into my ear. ‘Or shall I give you back to Antonio and Giorgio?’

I think I knew who he was even before I heard his voice, from the general aura of him – the scent of soap, starched cotton, expensive tobacco. Contrary to orders, I continued to squirm, because I couldn’t breathe. He caught on; the fingers at the back of my head relaxed, allowing air to reach my nose, while he plucked at the knot that held the gag in place. As soon as it came off I sucked in my breath. I had about a million questions, but I never got to ask them. His lips and tongue blocked my mouth just as effectively as the gag had done – and a lot more distractingly.

In its inception, it was a purely practical kiss; he had to shut me up, without a second’s delay, for Antonio and Giorgio burst into the room we had just left. Their voices sounded as if they were only a few feet away, but it was clear from my companion’s behaviour that they could not see us, though they could hear us as easily as I could hear them. My eyes were still blindfolded, remember, and as that crazy embrace continued, I became less able to concentrate on essentials.

As kisses go, it was memorable. After I started to cooperate – which, I am ashamed to admit, occurred almost immediately – his participation became less practical and more enthusiastic. It was a ridiculous performance, as leisurely and thorough and effective as if he had all day and nothing else on his mind. Without wishing to sound immodest, I believe my own contribution was not negligible.

He stopped what he was doing, though, as soon as the agitated steps of Antonio and Giorgio had retreated. I noticed that his whisper was a little breathy, but if anything he sounded more amused than passionate.

‘Thank you, that was very nice . . . No, don’t talk. I don’t intend to answer any of your questions, so it would be a waste of time. I’m going to get you out of here. Giorgio is not a nice man; I’d hate to think of wasting talents like yours on him. Besides, my boss may have plans . . . Don’t talk! You won’t be out of danger until we leave the house, and you must do everything I tell you and keep utterly quiet, or you will be recaptured, and then Giorgio will have an excuse to work his dastardly will. Capisce, signorina dottoressa?’

‘How did you know?’ I began. Again his lips brushed mine. This time they did not linger.

‘I said, shut up. I shan’t answer questions. Will you do as I say, or shall I raise the view halloo for Giorgio?’

I didn’t think he would actually carry out the threat, but I was not about to take chances. There was a hint of ruthlessness in that suave voice, even when it whispered.

‘Okay,’ I said meekly.

‘Good. I am going to untie you, but you must leave the blindfold on. You owe me that for saving your life, or at least your . . . can one say “virtue,” these days? I doubt it. And “virginity,” surely – ’

‘Oh, stop it,’ I hissed irritably. ‘I agree. I suppose you are going to tell me to drop this case and leave well enough alone.’

‘Precisely. You don’t know anything vital, that’s obvious, or you wouldn’t have done anything so idiotic as come round to the shop. I don’t intend that you shall learn anything from tonight’s adventure. If you know what is good for you, you will go home, like a nice little doctor of philosophy, and stop meddling in matters that don’t concern you. Now come along, and for God’s sake, keep quiet.’

During the last speech – he was a long-winded devil – he had cut the ropes on my ankles and wrists, and rubbed the former till the numbness had worn off.

While he spoke I had been devoting my operative senses to learning all I could about the place where we were standing. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out where we were. The sense of enclosure and the smell of dust, plus the feel of draperies brushing me when I moved . . . We were behind some heavy curtains, velvet or plush, in the same room where I had been held prisoner. I understood why Giorgio and Antonio had not seen us, and why it was imperative for me to be utterly still while they were in the room.

There were several witty, debonair comments I might have made, but to tell the truth I wasn’t feeling particularly debonair. This was not the first time I had been in danger. In fact, I had been in worse spots. I had not become blasé about it, though. I don’t think I ever will. I was willing to do anything to get out of – wherever I was – alive. Afterwards . . . well, I would cross that bridge when I got to it.

So I let him put his arm around my shoulders in order to guide me, and I minced along in meek silence. It was surprising how much I was able to deduce about my surroundings even without my sight. The floor, for instance. It was smooth and slightly slippery – highly polished wood, probably. When the surface changed to carpeting, my feet knew the difference right away. I could even tell that the material wasn’t the thick synthetic wall-to-wall stuff that is so popular back home. This floor covering was thinner, and once I tripped over what must have been fringe. Oriental rugs?

At any rate, before we had gone far, I was sure I was not in a cheap apartment or tenement. The smells of wax and polish, the general feeling of echoing spaciousness, suggested a large house – something rather grand, actually. We walked on marble for a while; at least it was hard and cool underfoot. And we walked for a long time, indoors. The place seemed as big as a museum.

My companion didn’t speak. The arm around my shoulders was stiff with taut muscle; his fingers curved over my upper arm with a tension that was more effective than any verbal warning. Once I heard voices off in the distance; another time he stopped and pulled me into a small, closed-in space until footsteps passed and faded.

As the flight proceeded I recovered some of my courage, and my curiosity revived. What sort of place was this? Could it be a museum after all?

I got the chance I was waiting for when we reached the top of a flight of stairs. I didn’t know they were stairs at first, not until he picked me up and began to descend them. I suppose it was easier for him to carry me than guide each step I took, but I had a feeling he rather enjoyed it. I put my arms around his neck and rubbed my face against his shoulder.

He laughed – if you could call it that – just a puff of air into my left ear. I tickled the back of his neck. It was all pretty corny. But he loved it – he can deny it all he wants to, but he did. When we reached the bottom of the stairs he didn’t put me down but continued to carry me along a marble-floored corridor lined with long mirrors. I knew the mirrors were there because I saw them. I had managed to shift the blindfold just enough to see out from under it with one eye.

The corridor went on for a long way. From time to time the mirrors were interspersed with oil paintings in long, heavy frames. I had never had that precise view of great paintings before; all I could see were feet, the hems of flowing robes, and the grass and rocks of painted backgrounds.

That gallery was long. Before we reached the end of it my gallant rescuer was pretty well out of breath. To do him justice, it wasn’t only exertion that made him gasp; my hands and mouth were free, and I was using them nicely. In the process I got the blindfold back in place. I had seen all I needed to see.

We passed through a swinging door – I heard the sound as it swung back into place – and into a narrower corridor that smelled faintly of cooking. Then he put me down. My arms were still around his neck and my blind face was lifted, trustingly . . . The position was ideal for what he had in mind. His fist landed neatly on the point of my upturned chin.

I woke up in the taxi, with my head on his shoulder. At first I didn’t know it was a taxi; all I could see were lights flashing by, like long streamers of fire.

‘Wake up, darling,’ said a voice. ‘Arise, fair moon, and dim the envious sun . . . That’s the girl.’

I turned my head and saw the face I had expected to see grinning down at me. The end of his nose was about half an inch from mine, and as my senses came back to me and I remembered what had happened, I was so angry I snapped at him, like a mad dog. He just laughed and kissed me. I didn’t struggle. It would have been undignified.

When he had finished, he held me out at arms’ length and looked at me critically.

‘Not too bad. A young lady who has been out on the town must expect to show some signs of wear and tear. I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed this.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t try, if I were you . . . Where are we?’

‘Almost at your hotel. Can you walk, do you think?’

I flexed my legs. He shifted position hastily, and I smiled – or rather, I bared my teeth.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t kick you. Although it would give me immense satisfaction to do so. Yes, I can walk. Demoralizing as your embraces are, they are not totally incapacitating.’

‘What a vocabulary,’ the Englishman said admiringly. ‘Brains and beauty . . . All right, love, you should do well enough tonight, but I advise you to get out of Rome first thing tomorrow morning.’

The taxi stopped. He had the door open and was out before I could think of a suitable retort. Reaching into the car, he pulled me out onto the sidewalk.

We were dead smack in front of the hotel, one of those high-class establishments which looks like, and perhaps was, a Renaissance palace. The doormen have more gold on their uniforms than any other doormen in Rome. One of them – the same man who had seen me come in at 3 a.m. the night before – was a few feet away, staring.

I had been drugged, tied up for who knows how many hours, and then punched on the jaw. I knew what I looked like – not a poor, defenceless, abused heroine – just another drunk.

‘Buona notte, carissima,’ caroled my blonde bête noire in dulcet tones. ‘Grazie – per tutto . . . ’ He put out his arms.

I sidestepped the embrace, wobbled, staggered, and fell back against a convenient lamppost. The taxi driver chuckled. The Englishman grinned more broadly. I turned on my heel and, with what dignity I could muster, went reeling up the magnificent marble stairs of the Hotel Belvedere, under the concentrated stares of the doorman, two bellboys, a concierge, three taxi drivers, and a few dozen assorted tourists.

I should have felt humiliated and defeated. But I was hiding a grin of my own – a lopsided grin; my jaw hurt. The hectic hours had been worth it. I had a clue. The first genuine honest-to-God clue I had found yet.