he left before you came, days ago, even a week, you—”
“When’s he coming back?”
One of them kept cursing and the other one complained about the window. “The fifteenth-century window,” he moaned, “the irreplaceable—”
“Shut up a minute.”
When they did he leaned on the sill the way the girl had done it and tried again.
“About the window, boys, don’t worry about it. Just think what might happen to the stuff inside here and nobody stopping me.”
They held still and listened.
“When’s he coming back?”
“One month and three days, signore.”
“Ah yes. Those three days. And where is he?”
“In prison, signore.”
That took care of Del Brocco. And Charley. He almost felt like breaking something else but he let it go.
“And who takes care of his customers in the meantime?”
“Signore, no one can take care of—”
“I know. But who else is there?”
“There is Alivar.”
“Where?”
“The bookstore on the Via Claudia.”
“And now if you’ll hand me my jacket—shake it out a little. That’s it—”
They handed it through the grillework and Charley put it on.
“When I come out, boys, I’ll tell you about the window. Nothing to worry about. I’ll explain,” he said and got off the chest and went to the door. When he had it open they were waiting for him.
“Del Brocco told me,” he said, “not to worry about the window. It’s false, you know. The real one is up in the attic. Back where he keeps the dismantled altar.”
They went past him to get to the attic, and Charley walked out. He didn’t know about the window, though he had seen the altar up in the attic. He thought it might be nice if there were another window.
This time the street was wider, letting the moon shine down to the cobblestones. Alivar’s little shop was one in a row. Alivar was asleep. After ringing the bell for a while Charley said polizia through the door and that got the old man up.
He wasn’t so old, he only looked wrinkled with severe lines running down the side of his nose and cold eyes that never changed even when Charley told him about Del Brocco.
“You may speak English,” said Alivar. “I myself am not an Italian.”
“So you know how it is,” said Charley.
When Alivar nodded, Charley wondered what he had understood. They went the length of the stalls, through a back room with more books and a canopied bed, and up to the second floor. It was a bare attic, without windows, and even though it was three in the morning the heat was thick under the roof. Alivar did not sweat.
“You need a name?”
“The works. Birth certificate, naturalization papers, driver’s license, registration—money’s no object.”
“It is with me,” said Alivar.
“With me it’s only time.”
“About one month,” said Alivar.
“Too long. How about just a passport? An American passport.”
Alivar laughed as if he were listening to a child. “Unobtainable,” he said.
“Del Brocco could get me one.”
“Yes. He is also in jail.”
They argued a little longer, but it wasn’t any good. Alivar went down to his canopied bed and for 20,000 lire Charley stayed in the attic and slept past daylight. Then the heat drove him out.
Charley started to make the rounds. With Del Brocco and Alivar he had run out of the high-class artisans. What came next were the defunct engravers, and when he ran out of those he saw the thieves who stole papers. In ten years’ time he had heard of most of them, and spending this day was almost like another ten years. By noon he was limping with the pain in his side, but when he ran out of aspirin by three in the afternoon he still kept going. He was running for the last time, he had to have his name—one that stuck—even if it meant it would go only on his tombstone.
None of them were any good; cheap forgeries dolled up to be good enough for one quick look or stolen papers with a tracer on them since the minute they were lifted. It seemed to get worse by evening—everything, the heat, the rain, and the slipshod ware he was looking at. For once in his life he needed the real thing and while he kept running he kept telling himself it was going to be over soon and then he’d never run again. If he made it in time.
Chapter Five
TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO Rome had a harbor, Ostia. Today Ostia is like Coney Island, with the same kind of fry odors, tinsel excitement, and brass sounds of all Coney Islands. It shuts down after a while, late at night, and only some places stay open. There is a ring of permanent buildings at the edges of Ostia, old and ratty, and that part of Rome doesn’t have the excuse of real age, of being antique. It just stinks. There are rooming houses, some dives, and the usual osterias.
Charley sat in the crowded place and ate his Piatto del Giorno. It smelled more like fish than fish ought to. He looked at the packed bar, the tables that made an untidy clutter all over the room. There was a door to the corridor in the back and every so often somebody went there. It wasn’t the toilet. The toilet was outside, in the rear.
Charley pushed his plate away and moved carefully in his chair, because of his side. It was nighttime, after a bad day. He still had no name. He sat and was still running. Maybe the way things were going he wouldn’t need a new name. They’d dig up the old ones and then maybe they’d give him a number.
He ate an aspirin and ordered some coffee. The long bar was only a few feet away, but he had to yell for it because of the racket. He watched the girl wind herself his way with the cup and the pot but it took her a while. There were a lot of customers who weren’t thinking of buying coffee when she came by and then a French sailor walked up and had a discussion with her. He put his duffle bag on Charley’s table so there wasn’t much room for anything else and then his buddy came up. While they were trying to convince the girl the buddy kept sipping from the coffee she was holding. She must have said the right thing after a while because they let her pass, the sailor picked up his duffle bag, gave Charley a friendly nod, and helped put the cup and pot on the table. They took the girl by one arm each and Charley didn’t have to pay for his coffee.
The strong stuff burned his mouth, but that’s what he wanted. Another hour before making his call, and then what? The way the pressure was building up it didn’t matter much what the phone call would say. The phone call couldn’t give him a month
