oatcake could transmute itself into a cushion of fat, that would craftily take up residence on her hips, and that’s not something that would ever change; it was as if it imposed itself on Emily, despite her heroic days of fasting.
In that very moment the telephone rang and it was Enzo enquiring whether perhaps, on this giornata bellisima, they might consider making their trip to the Via Appia. Agatha, who was just then massaging her aching back, heard Emily make a resolute pledge. Yes they would like to go out today and it should be in an hour. Agatha looked at her friend with admiration: Emily was so heroic, because she took no notice of her infirmities. She had not done so in all her long decades of teaching service, where she had been a model of self-discipline and of fulfillment of duty to her students and to the faculty. And Emily wouldn’t let life squirm out of her hands so easily: she dragged it back under her own control and with a strength and vitality that belied her ageing body.
Agatha wasn’t going to lag behind her. Suppressing all sounds of suffering, she got dressed quickly, and as a finale she put on the long golden amethyst necklace, which she had got for her twenty-first birthday. The Via Appia trip would be like a party and she wanted to celebrate it appropriately.
Emily got in touch with Hertz, and a handsome, clean, sparkling hire care was soon standing outside the hotel entrance. A man from the firm explained a few technicalities to Emily, while Agatha listened in dutifully, even though she hadn’t been allowed behind the wheel of a car for a long time because of her absent-mindedness.
Emily said her thanks and squeezed behind the steering wheel with a groan. She in turn didn’t drive in England very often and was somewhat out of practice. On top of that she was of course used to driving on the left. But neither of them were going to be put off by such small details. Beaming with joy they drove off and met Enzo on the corner, where he regarded the vehicle with some scepticism. Emily and Agatha let him in; then the car, which already had a tough day ahead, made a sudden lurch forward because Emily had let the clutch up too quickly. That was something she did often.
Enzo struck himself on the forehead and stifled a curse. Perhaps he would be better off taking up an honest trade. But proper work really went against the grain with Enzo, and most honest trades were connected with proper work - this was the sort of realization which always put a stop to every attempt of Enzo to start a better life. Instead he now started to contemplate Agatha’s long gold necklace pensively, with so many beautiful amethysts hanging from it. There was the down payment! Yes, he would manage that easily. And while Emily lurched through the Roman traffic and the poor car leapt over every crossroads like a grasshopper in the countryside, Enzo watched the necklace reflectively from the back seat. It did have a safety lock fitted on it; however Agatha had forgotten to close the small gold bar, and so you could pull open the chain without any resistance.
Enzo smiled with pursed lips and the corners of his mouth turned downwards slightly, expressing his contempt. He let his slanting blue eyes, which coexisted in delightful contrast to his dark curly hair, stray idly out the window. Outside the Temple of Vesta slipped quickly by, its round fluted columns shimmering in the golden light of the morning sun. Soon they would drive past the Circus Maximus and then reach the Baths of Caracalla and not long after that the Porta Appia.
But Emily missed the junction, because she didn’t realise that they had to turn off, as all her rapture and her attention were focused on the grey-green Tiber, which was following its course, quietly and mysteriously, between its Travertine walls.
“I love the Tiber,” Emily said. “Do you, Signor Marrone?”
“Yes, of course, of course, the Tiber is bellissimo” (why not?) he replied weakly: “But the Signora has driven the wrong way - sbagliato! We should have driven to the Baths of Caracalla, because the road to the Porta Appia goes from there.”
“Oh,” said Emily, “but we haven’t gone too far in the wrong direction. Maybe we could just reverse a little bit back to the junction....”
And to Enzo’s horror she heaved straight away at the gear lever. After the car died on her twice with a protesting screech, she managed to find reverse, and now the poor car for a change made its familar lurch, but this time backwards.
“We’ll just drive there along the curb, so as not to interfere with the traffic,” Emily announced and drove off with a fearless trust in the Lord. “Agatha could you please watch out the window for me a bit...you know what my neck’s like.”
Agatha smiled gently and watched helpfully out the window: “I don’t see anything ominous just yet, there’s just a couple of cars at the far end of the intersection, although they are approaching pretty quickly,” she added thoughtfully, and turning to the petrified Enzo she went on: “My friend has a very short neck and she can never see behind her when she is reversing. I always take care of that for her.”
Suddenly they were surrounded, with cars racing round them and buzzing like a swarm of wasps around a pot of honey, and the noise of horns of every tone and pitch you could think of was assailing their ears.
“Signora - prego -please, per favore, per cortesia! You can’t reverse here, go a bit further on, I beg you! We can turn round later.” Enzo mopped the sweat from his brow.
Emily took her foot off the accelerator, cast a chastising look towards the annoying vehicles around her, who apparently didn’t feel constrained by any ban on use of the horn (such an ill-disciplined, emotional people!) and rammed the car into first gear with a screech. Once again they started along the Tiber.
Then at the Ponte Subicio Emily turned abruptly and sharply to the south, without having properly got into the correct lane, and only the outstanding reaction and braking abilities of the line of traffic to her left prevented their trip to the Via Appia Antica from ending there on that bridge in a massively smashed-up bumper.
The other road-users would all have to drink a restorative pick-me-up when they got home - Camomile or Campari, depending on their age and constitution - but Emily knew nothing of this. Unburdened by cares she cheerfully drove up the wide road that led to the ancient Porta San Paolo.
Enzo sat still and worn out in the back. The sudden swerve had left him a bit overwhelmed. He prayed quietly and fervently to the blessed Anthony, which was something he hadn’t done for many years. Yes indeed, he pledged a large candle to Il Santo, and he even went so far as to assure St Anthony of a percentage share in the net profit of the entire enterprise, if he would just emerge alive from this car.
‘Just look over there, my dear, that’s the Pyramid of Cestius,” said the enraptured Emily to Agatha, and cut across a heavily laden vegetable cart. The unfortunate greengrocer had to brake so sharply, that a carefully stacked pile of Sicilian fennel as well as several dozen bundles of early summer onions from the Bay of Naples fell on the road and mingled with all the abundant dust down there.
The greengrocer, a swarthy, bloated and thick-set man, scrambled smartly out of his car, waved his arms in the air, and started on a long tirade about his hard life and the large number of family members that he had to feed. Then he sent a flood of ripe Roman curses in the direction of the Englishwomen’s rattling clumsy car, whose occupants noticed nothing because they were keeping their eyes resolutely fixed in silent joy upon the noble outline of the Pyramid of Cestius.
Enzo had no doubt heard everything but had shrunk so small on his seat and was so withdrawn in on himself, that no one would have seen anything of him.
“Go left, Signora, and keep going along the wall,” he said with a weak voice, in an attempt to prevent a renewed suicide attempt by driving backwards, while Emily - undaunted and brisk - drove through the old Porta Ostiense. He then shut his eyes
