SALVE ROMA! A Felidae Novel - U.S. Edition Read online

  So while Signore had splashed expensive aftershave at his face and tried on cufflinks in front of the mirror, he hadn’t just joked with his »little man«. No, he had kept an eye on him, and probably his cigarillo had dropped out of his mouth and burned a hole into his shirt, when he saw which gender Antonio had chosen for his acquisitive desires. The whole thing didn’t just seem disgusting and filthy too him, but like betrayal on their bromance. Mamma mia, my pet is gay! might have been his scream of terror. And with this scream he had dismembered the »little guys« in the middle of their flirtation, had grabbed Antonio by his neck and had given the pervert a permanent boot out of the door. Ever since Antonio had been homeless. Strange though, as my sweet Rome expert didn’t look as if he lacked accommodation.

  The analysis of this psychodrama had been pretty simple. But what about the drama inside my head? Wasn’t I myself a macho like the guy in front of the mirror, who believed everything beyond his sexual horizon to be filthy? Damn it, my actual plan had been discovering the hidden corners of this beautiful city instead of the unplumbed depths of my old head! So it came in handy that Antonio rose to speak again.

  »Why, Francis, I guess you didn’t think that the first Italian you meet will be queer, huh? No wonder, the world more and more becomes a village. And everything becomes alike, the humans, the animals, and not to forget the common intolerance, which seemed to have infected everyone like an evil illness. Maybe your stomachache lessens a little when I tell you that I didn’t choose this. I was born this way. And I don’t hurt anyone. And – I’m proud of what I am!«

  »In other words: I’m an uptight old fart, which would love to put guys like you into a concentration camp. Isn’t that what you think?«

  »No, but your implied disgust at homosexuality brings grist to the mills of those who would build such camps for my kind.«

  »Bullshit, I’m just old-fashioned. And in terms of intolerance, look who’s talking. It’s everyone’s right to nourish and cherish the most ridiculous prejudices, as long as he doesn’t get on the wrong side of somebody. Didn’t Kant say that? Or was that Woody Allen? Of course this generous consideration doesn’t apply to the problematic matter of mice, I guess we are at one on this point!«

  In Antonio’s gored face the smooth smile showed up again and let the good old dandy return. I had a feeling that he got my point. That was very important. For the both of us. He might have made disappointing acquaintances often enough. But not one that would have made him forget how to enjoy himself. But this was different. Antonio liked me so much that it would break his heart if our new friendship died because of his confession. The same applied to me. But if you know think of the obvious, you’re totally wrong. Antonio had no sexual interest in me whatsoever. Aside from this delicate matter we were just tuned on the same wavelength.

  »All right, il mio amico, go ahead and nourish and cherish your prejudice, while I think about how to cure you from them. It’s late, Francis. After this fine dinner we should look for a suitable bed for the night.«

  »Do we need to sleep at the backdoor of some luxury hotel now because the people used to sleep behind the cardinals’ churches?«

  »Now, now Francis, you’re in Rome, you will sleep in so many silk sheets that you will eventually long for a sleep on wet asphalt.«

  »I remember that slogan. Leftovers followed it. Anyway, the silk sheets don’t sound too bad as long as I don’t have to shave my legs for that, hahaha!«

  »Well, that would fit our hostess just fabulously.«

  »Hostess? Isn’t it like against your club’s rules to hang out with chicks?«

  »O Francis, you got to learn a lot about us. Has nobody told you that a gay guy’s best friend is a woman?«

  »Not yet. And by now I’m so tired that it wouldn’t shock me if somebody told me that the Pope’s best friend is Marilyn Manson!«

  We stood up and shook ourselves, so that the heavy weight in our bellies got into the right position for the hike that lay ahead of us. I just wanted to start going, when Antonio suddenly cut me off. His beaming turquoise moons looked so deeply into my average eyes that in my matt condition I pretty much lost focus.

  »Personal dispositions and opinions aside, Francis«, he said insinuatingly. »You can totally rely on me. The both of us will shoot down this beast, I firmly believe in that.«

  »I don’t just believe in that, I’m sure of that.« I replied, broke away from his mesmerizing eyes and made my way through the darkness.

  »How do you know that?« I heard a voice from behind my back.

  »Statistics, hon«, I said and shrugged without turning around.

  6.

  This time there were no leftovers but a trip to the real luxury. Though I could have had guessed that again Antonio’s cocky promise had a snag to it. Sleepy, we wormed our way through the romantic and meanwhile deserted alleys. Familiar faces, which I knew from illustrated books and Gustav’s enthusiastic monologues while he studied maps of the Ancient Rome, crossed our path. The gigantic shadow of the Pantheon grew towards us as we walked the Via dei Cestari, and when we reached the Piazza della Rotonda, suddenly we saw it live and bodily.

  Could there be any more simple building than the Pantheon? A barrel with a hemisphere on its top, technically that’s it. So ingeniously simple and yet of gigantic dimension. Thick bronze doors let to the circular room, which had the diameter and the height of almost 165 feet. The walls are about 20 feet thick! 27 BC, the temple is said to have been dedicated to the seven holy planetary god Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mercury, Venus und Mars.

  At his late hour I didn’t dare to get more than a short glimpse. My eyes wandered along the coffered ceiling, which had once been an image of the firmament, decorated with gilded bronze. At daytime, an about 32 feet wide circular hole was the source of light, which evenly suffused the room. Now in the dark only a sallow light pillar could be seen. It was produced by the shining of the stars and through the giant hole in the dome it descended down into the dark hall as if it were Heaven’s salute to the great son of the Roman Renaissance, much-loved Raphael, whose grave was right here inside one of the alcoves.

  Antonio reminded me to move on, and after a while we seemed to have reached our destination. We faced a spotlighted wonder hewn in stone, Rome’s most well known landmark. A couple of ages ago, a not quite that cheap pope named Clemens had, much to the delight of the Romans, ordered to build a fountain in this spot. It was the Fontana di Trevi, the one where you’re considered to throw a coin at over your left shoulder, if you want to see Rome ever again. To call this baroque jewel a »fountain« is as appropriate as to speak of Elvis as »quite a good singer«.

  At this time of night, just a couple of twosomes were sitting at the edge of the pool and whispered sweet nothings. My eyes reveled in the piece of art, which leaned right against the palace of the Dukes of Poli. Underneath the middle of a three-axle triumphal arch the god Poseidon sat enthroned on a cart that was pulled by two sea horses, surrounded by sea shells, booming waves and fish-bodied sea gods. The water moved over artificial rocks and swirled around the figures until it was collected in a semicircular pool, just to begin the loop anew. The gorgeous illumination of the site and the quiet burble of the water provided the atmosphere with something so enraptured that I was temped to lie down and fall asleep on the spot.

  »We’re here«, Antonio said. »Don’t fall asleep yet!«

  »Why not?« I replied. »Do we have to take a bath first?«

  He pointed at one of the surrounding buildings and trotted off. One building among those that surrounded the plaza was notably eye-catching due to its particular splendor. The sand-yellow shining palazzo seemed to be newly renovated, or had never been allowed to go to rack. The very neatly arranged windows with their window blinds were as big as doors. Protruding balconies harbored the supply of several flower shops; cascades of liana-like plants sounded the depths out of giant terracotta pots so that half of the facade was covered with a green curtai
n; and upstairs on the roof there was a terrace as big a sports ground. And no store for luxury fashion spoilt the lower level, as it seemed to be common around here. My astonishment just wouldn’t come to an end when I noticed that there was just a single nameplate and a single bell on the door of the size of a portal. Both of course polished and brassy.

  Antonio beckoned me with a nod and pointed at a little flap in the door, that was usually used for mail. So we pretended to be mail and squashed ourselves through the flap. Inside sheer Belle Époque! The entree offered finest marble and sconces in the shape of light pink petals. Then we reached a parlor, which dripped with Persian carpets, chosen antiques and sofas with leaf work flourishes. From the height of about 2 miles hung a chandelier of the size of a tractor wheel with at least thirty lamps. Through a studio window we could see a backyard that lay in darkness. From a scratched record, Verdi’s resonated through the whole building like the singing of ghosts.

  A square, wooden staircase led to the upper floors. But the jewel in the crown was an elevator in the rear spot of the room, covered by an artfully forged cage. It was one of those open elevators that in the beginning of the last century had been built into town houses and offered room for only a couple of people. The door was an accordion gate, and it had a delicate control console, which reminded more of a jewelry box than of a gadget to push buttons.

  »So when will it be at the butler’s leisure to get us an audience with Lord Muck, Antonio«, I said, still in astonishment. We stood in the mild light of Jugendstil chandeliers and let the eyes of the portrayed masteries in the paintings on the wall give us a stern look. The ladies and gentlemen were from different decades, and the variety of clothing, in which they were painted, ranged from velvet doublets to gold-embroidered tailcoats. Obviously, they were the host’s ancestors. I risked a glimpse into the cage of the elevator shaft that was decorated with flower ornaments. Upstairs, it spanned three floors. Downstairs, it let straight to the cellar. I couldn’t see it that accurately, as this part was completely dark.

  »Prince Savoyen, not Lord Muck«, Antonio said. He said down on the carpet and began to lick himself. First he devotedly licked his thin tail, which looked a little like a deft whip. »His house dates from the thirteen’s century. The House of Savoy played a crucial role in the checkered history of the creation of the Italian state. The Prince is the last descendant in his line and is one of those, which nowadays are called impoverished nobility. So far as this here and a dozen of equally comparable buildings in the town center can be counted as poverty.«

  »But it truly is some harsh climb-down if one loses the whole Toscana to this democratic riff-raff! Is there maybe also a Signora Savoyen?«

  »Not really ...«

  Antonio let go of his tail all of a sudden and yanked his head up.

  »Aaah, there comes our hostess!«

  Up the stairs a ghost of tremendous beauty appeared. She was a blue-point-burmese. With her crème-white body and the dark badges on her head, ears, tale and legs, her silky and angora-like fur and her sapphire-blue eyes she seemed to be arisen from a wonderful dream. The snow-white paws were in contrast with her smoky-gray legs like they had been drawn with a ruler.

  »Samantha, tu regina della notte!« Antonio shouted with a light cheer in his voice.

  »Antonio, tu bel uomo!« the pretty ghost replied and pattered down the stairs with bouncy moves. On the scarlet carpet, which was tightened with brassy hooks at each of its sides, she looked like a shot of whipped cream in tomato paste.

  »Perfidious you, where have you been so long? I came to the conclusion that one of those fashion icons caught you, stuffed you and used you as draped jewelry on an avant-garde hat. And who is this gentleman with the wise eyes next to you?«

  As soon as Samantha had reached the end of the stairs, the both of them greeted each other in the tried and tested way of the in-crowd with a cheek-to-cheek-kiss.

  »This is my friend Francis«, Antonio said. »Some kind of spiritual kinship implies that we must have gotten along really well in a former life.«

  With a sweet smile he turned towards me.

  »And this is the legendary Samantha, Francis, the Signora of this house. She’s the only one the Prince is living with.«

  I believed to see a hint of a smile in Samantha’s beaming blue eyes when Antonio introduced me as his »new friend«. Had the good Lord given me the ability to blush, in this moment I would have been redder than a volcano at its highest operating temperature. I lost my bearings so much that I would have loved to vanish into thin air.

  »Nice to get to know you, Samantha«, I said. »It’s true, Antonio and me, we’ve become good friends in the last couple of hours. And with friends I mean, well, friendship as such, in other words, friends who share thoughts or hang out together, hanging out as friends, friends like in, lets say, having dinner maybe or sleeping, oh, uhm, well, you know sleeping as such, like in, how should I explain that, real resting, just lying down, I mean ...«

  She burst out in broad laughter.

  »Your friend seems to be pretty worried about the correct image of his sexual orientation, Antonio.«

  »Yeah, that’s one of his kinks. He says he’s old-fashioned. Though I always believed us Romans to be old-fashioned with all this old bombast surrounding us. But no worries, actually he’s a detective ...«

  Antonio began to tell her about the sad circumstances of our encounter and exposed my assumptions and theories regarding the murders in every detail. Samantha was very fond of my observation skills. Even more so she was impressed by the odyssey, which had brought me to her wonderful metropolis. Although she seemed to be the blessed luxury pet of an old man, she was neither unworldly nor did she lack sympathy for her brothers and sisters outside her upper-class home. She had already heard about the monstrosities. Therefore she encouraged me to solve this case as soon as possible and offered all she could do in order to help.

  For now this help meant giving us a place to spend the night because Antonio and I just couldn’t take any more. Samantha led us up the stairs to the second floor of the Palazzo, where we were told to be able to sleep without being bothered. On the way there we passed another parlor, where we saw the man of the house. The old man with shoulder-length snow-white hair was sitting in an armchair, tossed a full wine glass in his hand and smoked a big cigar. He was surrounded by quite a couple of candelabra with burning candles, which shone on his ancestors on the wall. Savingly, he sipped his red wine and smiled to himself. An old phonograph on an ancient dresser supplied him with La Traviata, quite the appropriate music according to his mood, which fed on the glory of long gone days.

  We went upstairs, wandered through dark halls, and eventually entered a room, which contained velvet cushions, scratchers and loads of toys for our kind. In a nutshell, Samantha’s can opener, rapt in the golden times of his ancestors, did more than is humanly possible in order to keep his pet happy.

  I can’t remember anymore how Antonio and I sank down on the cushions and dozed off. No clue if it was due to pure imagination or real memory, but before I went off to dreamland, I believe to have seen Samantha’s face above me. At first it radiated its familiar kindness, but before I closed my eyes, it suddenly took on a strange harshness.

  In my dreamland it didn’t get less strange. I found myself on another plane, again on my way to Rome. The funny thing was that, like a human, I was sitting upright on my butt. I was even strapped! The machine was deserted, and the sunlight above the fluffy carpet of clouds shone through the plane windows with such intensity that my eyes hurt even though they were screwed up. From the speakers resounded La Traviata, rough and now and then interrupted by various scratches.

  Suddenly Gustav showed up next to me. He was on his way to the bathroom, and trotted past me like a circus bear. When he noticed me, he smiled his witless smile.

  »I got one of your kind at home!« he said, winked at me and moved on.

  I turned my head to the right and noticed that the
re was another human inside the cabin except for Gustav. On the neighbor seat sat Antonio’s former master. Although I had never seen him before, I recognized him instantly. He wore a pastel-colored disco suit from the Seventies with a wide lapel and flared pants. The half unbuttoned shirt showed off his hairy chest, on which a silver cross dangled. Somewhere I had seen this before. The Rolex on his wrist, the golden cufflinks and big dark sunglasses, which hid the eyes perfectly, completed the image of a Roman macho.

  The flawlessly tanned man held a thick cigar in one hand, and nipped red wine from the glass in his other hand. Doing this, he smiled to himself, abstractedly, as if he wasn’t above the clouds but above everything earthly. Gradually, certain uneasiness began to build up inside me. Soon enough, I found out why.

  My eyes wandered past the guy next to me, sort of zoomed out of the plane’s window and reached the outside. We were in the final descent; I was able to see a lot of details. In consternation, I noticed that we weren’t heading towards Rome, or towards any other Italian city. For sure, here also everything was bathed in sunlight. But instead of Southern pastures, we dashed towards a skyline landscape that trended to the horizon. The sea of high-rises towered up the steal-blue sky like an artful composition of countless building blocks. Although the buildings stood side by side, every single one of them seemed to have their own distinctive face. My initial consternation turned into pure horror.

  I found myself caught in a nightmare scenario which had been broadcasted around the globe billion fold, and which drew closer to me at breathtaking speed, choking me. The destination of our flight was New York, namely Manhattan. The front line of the high-rise-family, the twin towers, stared at me like long-decayed relatives that somehow came to life again. They became bigger and bigger, higher and higher, and we flew towards them relentlessly. The mirrored facades reflected the piercing light, causing a burning pain in my retina.