Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 16

Rome, central Italy Vatican Square

Killing always gives Emilio’s an appetite. Taste buds come alive as saliva bathes his tongue. His stomach is immune to being in a place that transcends time. It is almost noon and time for linguine pescatore in spicy tomato sauce escorted by Amarone red wine at his favorite eatery.

Emilio never understood the pretense of drinking white wine with fish. He regularly declares to his wife that white wine is for “women and faggots.”

On his last visit to Rome with the professore, they went to Il Vero Alfredo restaurant in Piazza Augusto Imperatore, across from their hotel. American actors Mary Pickford and Douglas

Fairbanks popularized the swanky trattoria’s signature dish, fettuccine with butter, worldwide. The professore had boasted that Italian celebrities such as Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren enjoyed this simplegastronomic creation. In addition, famous Americans such as Liz Taylor, John F. Kennedy, and Frank Sinatra enjoyed La Dolce Vita (the good life) at Alfredo’s.

Emilio had seen proof positive. Hundreds of framed photographs cover, like wallpaper, every inch of available space in the restaurant. He even saw a picture of the professore with Martin Scorsese, widely regarded as one of the greatest movie directors of all time. He remembered sitting at the bar and feeling out of place, like a black-and-white passport photo inside a colorful album of prima donnas, actors and politicians.

Many meetings with Cardinal Pio, the head of the Vatican Bank, took place in this restaurant. The professore was in his element here. Emilio came to detest it.

When the professore attended meetings within the Vatican with the Pope, Emilio searched for more common eateries and earthly companionship. Nearby, he had found a small, hole-in-the-wall café.

Emilio crossed the square and headed for the Caffè Romano San Pietro. The bistro has a hot-table coupled with an awful reputation for customer service. It is merely a canteen providing airplane quality food to tourists. Of course, intimate friendship with the owner elevates hospitality and food excellence to new heights.

Emilio has visited often. He has charmed his

way with the owner, a widowed matron, Filomena, who prepares homemade meals for her special guest. She likes Emilio’s rugged looks and hairy, solid build. This man’s man enjoys eating. Filomena enjoys cooking. Emilio appreciates her hourglass frame and her bodacious breasts.

A quickie in the upstairs apartment is what they always anticipate and rejoice. Filomena, who towers over Emilio, calls him her piccolo diavolo (little devil). Emilio considers her his puttana Romana (Roman whore). He cares especially for her, though he possesses others in several cities. He brags to his male cohorts that these are the benefits of travel and that they are essential to his male prerogative.

In real estate, as in murder, it is ‘location, location, location’. Location does matter. The café, loved by tourists and scorned by resident diners, affords entertainment and comfort. It especially suits Emilio’s requirements. As a springboard to the final killing of the day, he will satiate his carnal appetites and assess the appropriate timing for his subsequent deed from this lookout.

Emilio stays outside on the narrow sidewalk. He sits under an iron barred window, his back against the building, at the last canopy-free table, away from the transient crowd. He has a visible, though angled, view of the entrance to St. Peter’s Square.

In front of him, there are parked cars and various Vespas, his favorite scooter. He loves the free-spirited ride of the mechanical bee. Beyond them is another promenade bordering the main artery with reserved spaces for Roma Cristiana tour

buses. These double-decker buses, painted yellow, are much brighter than Emilio’s sweat stained shirt. “Ali, this way please,” waves the tourist guide.

Several tourists gather beside the female tour guide who holds a tri-color umbrella in the air as a beacon for her sightseers. Ali, moves away from admiring a sparkling red Vespa and joins the group. Emilio watches the woman. She wears black sandals, a solid rose-colored skirt and white blouse. She slings her convertible handbag to hang from her shoulder revealing an embroidered Canadian flag. As she boards the bus, her arms and legs reveal

serious muscle definition.

“Too damn skinny. Nothing to grab.” Emilio utters to himself. “Women need to be solid and sturdy.”

He douses his throat with a bottle of tepid San Benedetto spring water. He craves usual linguine pasta, coupled with red wine that Filomena is undoubtedly preparing.

As the bus departs, a woman, bordered by her kids, shouts at her man, “Renzo, where have you been?”

Emilio cranks his head back and forth and chinwags aloud to himself.

“Look’a here. The runaway coniglio (rabbit).”

The escapee, broad shoulders relaxed, exits from the eatery’s main entrance. He squints in the bright sunlight forgetting that his sunglasses rest on top of his head adding bulk to his thinning brown hair. He passes in front of Emilio and actually stands just two meters away, facing his scouting party.

The woman barks at her man. He smiles

but his posture speaks humiliation. She scowls. He cringes. The teenagers, about five years apart, are oblivious to the splendors of Rome and the drama of their misplaced father. Both are texting on their smart phones probably lamenting their misfortune of traveling to the Italian peninsula.

Emilio smiles at this million-dollar family. He likes the woman and the daughter, especially their blonde hair and blanched faces. They have bodies by design, svelte and athletic with meat to grab hold of. The husband and son are too tall for his liking. He mocks anyone so much taller than him.

Filomena is the exception. His height plants his eyes squarely between Filomena’s breasts.

The man and his family remind him of his own brood back home in Spormaggiore, a commune in Trentino in northern Italy. With a population of just over 1,200, Spor has fewer citizens than Vatican City employs. There, the mountain air is fresher. The piazza is hospitable. The Dolomite mountains are his ever-present friends.

Often Emilio takes his folding beach chair up to a landing on one of the highest peaks, sits back and sips espresso spiked with grappa from a thermos. He marvels for hours at the wondrous mountain range. Seeing snow-blessed mountains in solitude is a magical escape from sordid, past deeds. It cleanses his soul.

Rome is not his Italy. Rome is for students, professors, naive vacationers, bureaucrats and crooked politicians. He considers the Vatican offensive. Uncontrolled, bleeding hearts within the papacy, would, to sustain their power, support

the Mafia scum in the south. He does not have any love for the platoons of priests and nuns. They live spoiled with riches and ritual. They repulse him. He longs for the simpler life of his village.

Now, duty calls. There is one more sacrifice for Stregheria—an unpleasant but necessary action. “Salute,” he says aloud holding his empty

wine glass like a gun aimed at the Vatican.

Filomena intrudes. “Allora, ecco la pasta e il vino” (it’s time for pasta and wine).

She places the overflowing plate in front of Emilio. She kisses the Amarone flask, winks to her angel of darkness and skips to the adjoining apartment door. Emilio knows the routine. She will require a few minutes to prepare herself. He fingers the spare key taped underneath his plate.

Niceties aside, Emilio pitches into his food with craving. A street performer stationed at the head of the tour bus lines amuses him. The man is in a black tuxedo with a top hat. He has a white chalked face. His violin virtuosity is creditable. He is playing a tune from Rigoletto. Ladies and children drop euros into his contribution basket.

Finally, it is time for dessert. Emilio opens the steel-plated door and enters to find an ordinary staircase to the upper landing. Though familiar, his climb is guarded. The summit opens into a living room. It is a noble retreat of enchantment. There are rustic beams overhead. A chestnut-colored sofa splashed with too many cushions. Ornate chairs and brown, stone walls coexist with vases upon vases of colorful flowers and an array of scented candles.

The door to the bedroom is wide open. The

drift of melodic music is inviting. Emilio traces his fated footsteps into the bedroom. Antique wall sconces with candles embellish the room. Linen curtains surround the vintage bed shielding a naked Filomena. She lies with her arms and legs outstretched as if handcuffed to the metal bedstead. She is so inviting.

Emilio advances. Through the open window, he observes police movements in St. Peter’s Square, right in front of the public washrooms.

Emilio needs to relax, killing time, before passing final judgment on Cardinal Pio. The afternoon pageant, with throngs of up to a quarter of a million people, in the square is still an hour away.

It is too bad about Cardinal Pio. He has been a loyal ally of the professore’s mission. He should not have ceded to bodily temptations offered by the Calabrian Mafia. Priests should remain celibate in service of God.

Looking to Filomena, he unbuckles and drops his pants to the floor. First, his testosterone, fully armed, will fire his pent-up energy into Filomena. Later, he will reload his other gun for the final killing of the day.