Just South of Rome (2 page)

As I drove my Hertz Honda through the large, stone, arched entrance and parked beside the blue Mercedes that sat in the centre of the gravel courtyard, I wondered whether I could afford the Hotel Visconti. The sign above the arch had four stars beside it (my absolute limit), but it looked suspiciously five to me, a grand hotel – the sort that Roland visited every now and then.

Beyond the courtyard was a rambling garden, complete with fountain and statues, and, to the side, marble steps led up to the ornate doors of an impressive villa I judged to be mid-eighteenth century.

What the hell, I thought. I was desperate and I was booking in. It was after five o’clock, I’d been searching for a hotel for nearly four hours, and damn it I was going to have my two nights of luxury.

‘
Buonasera Signora
,’ I said in my best Italian.

‘Good evening. Welcome to the Hotel Visconti.’ A woman in her mid-forties, short dark hair, a stocky figure in a well-cut suit, glasses and an intelligent face bordering on handsome smiled efficiently across the reception desk.

‘Do you have a room? Preferably with a view of the gardens?’ Forget the Italian, the woman’s English was excellent.

‘You are lucky. We have left one room. Large. A double room. Very beautiful.’ She had already produced the registration form and was thrusting a pen at me. ‘We have a party of Americans staying. It is our last room. You are very fortunate. Your passport?’

I wanted to ask the price of the room but, as I was so very fortunate, it didn’t seem in the best of taste. Besides, the woman’s manner, brisk and authoritative, had momentarily daunted me, so I did as I was told and handed over my passport.

While she flipped through it, I glanced about. The grand staircase was gilt-finished and opulent, and the dining room, glimpsed through glass doors to the left, was spacious and elegant. I also noted, however, that the carpets had seen better days and that the gold frame of the huge mirror behind the reception desk was flaking a little here and there. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too expensive after all. There was no-one else in sight and, as I filled in the registration form, wondering vaguely where the Americans were, my eyes strayed around the counter trying to find the tariff list. There it was. The woman had turned away to select a collection of leaflets from the shelves behind her, and I edged down the counter. ‘Suite 400,’ it read. Hell! Then underneath: ‘Double Room 350.’ Damn! It was still fifty euros over the absolute limit I had allowed myself for the odd night of indulgence.

‘Tear it up,’ the voice of thrift said to me. ‘Tear up the registration form, grab your passport, say “so sorry, made a mistake” and get the hell out of here.’ But a voice that sounded suspiciously like Roland was telling me ‘Let go! Give in! Abandon yourself!’ Finally, it was neither Roland nor thrift that won. It was the voice of reason that told me I was in no situation to do anything other than give in and that Rome would have to be the cheapest pensione I could find.

‘I have here for you some information.’ The woman had turned back and was spreading a number of leaflets out before me. ‘This is a beautiful part of Italy, many pretty towns. Nemi is very famous for its straw berries.’ She gave equal emphasis to the two words, which confused me for a second until I glanced down at the leaflet sporting a big, fat, red strawberry above the name ‘Nemi’.

‘But our town of Genzano is the most beautiful,’ she continued without drawing breath, it was obviously her sales pitch. ‘Our town of Genzano is famous for its flowers. You see?’ She picked up the leaflet that read ‘Genzano di Roma’ and, above the name, was a photograph of a street completely blanketed with floral displays of the most intricate
design. ‘The festival of the flowers,’ she said proudly. ‘So beautiful. The flowers, they cover the main street, from the piazza all the way up the hill to the church. For two days of every year we have the festival. For two days of every year people they come from everywhere to see. You have just missed it.’ She thrust a key at me. ‘Room 22 at the top of the stairs. Welcome to the Hotel Visconti.’ Another efficient smile, a brisk nod, and she picked up a mobile phone and disappeared.

I looked around the deserted reception area. Had she gone to get a porter? I waited for a few minutes, decided she hadn’t and, when the lift didn’t work, lugged my suitcase up the grand staircase.

Room 22 didn’t overlook the gardens as I’d hoped – it overlooked the main street. I pushed open the wooden shutters and leaned out as far as I dared. To the left, the road turned a corner and dipped out of sight behind a Shell petrol station. To the right, it stretched a kilometre or so into the town and beyond. Up the hill, at the very far end, I could just see the church, its white steps glinting in the last of the late-afternoon sun. This was the street featured on the front of the leaflet, I realised. This was the street that, for two days a year, was decked in flowers from the piazza to the church. I squinted into the distance. It didn’t look at all the same without the flowers.

Plenty of time to explore the town tomorrow. I closed the shutters and turned my attention to the room. It was a nice room, painted cream, big and light and airy, with a high ceiling and a large brass bedstead, but it was somewhat characterless compared to the rest of the Hotel Visconti. The ensuite bathroom was adequate, but I certainly would have expected more for 350 a night. There was no shower recess, just a curtain on a circular railing so that one showered on the floor. The whole setup was clean and fairly new-looking, so I gathered that they had recently refurbished the place and done it as cheaply as possible. A pity, really. Were the other rooms as bland as this, I wondered. What about
the 
400 suite?

There was a tap at the door. I opened it. ‘
Buonasera signorina
, you wish to see my suite?’

A short, middle-aged Italian man in a three-piece pin-stripe suit stood there. He had incredibly black hair, a little moustache and looked like Charlie Chaplin’s ‘tramp’ gone badly to seed. I was shocked. See his suite? Had he read my thoughts?

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Welcome to Hotel Visconti. I am Umberto Visconti, I own this hotel, you wish to see my suite?’

‘Umm …’ Was it a proposition? He certainly looked like an aging roué.

Sensing my confusion, he added ‘Annita say you are from Australia.’

The efficient woman materialised behind him at the top of the stairs. ‘From Sydney,’ she said. ‘She is an actress from Sydney.’ The mobile phone was pressed to her ear and she carried a pile of fresh towels under one arm. ‘I am sorry,’ she said to the mobile phone as she disappeared down the corridor, ‘there are no more rooms, we have a party of Americans staying.’

‘You will like my suite,’ Umberto promised. ‘It is very grand.’

I was irritated that Annita was broadcasting the contents of my passport (which said ‘actor’, not ‘actress’ anyway) and my reply was a little snappy. ‘I’m quite happy with my room, thank you, Signor Visconti.’ There was no way I was forking out 400.

‘Umberto, please. I am Umberto.’ He beamed bonhomie, offered his hand and shook mine effusively.

‘Jane,’ I was forced to respond. ‘Jane Prescott.’

‘You no hire the suite. Is
my
suite. Come, I show you.’

He took my arm and bustled me across the landing to the lift. I didn’t even have time
to close the door to my room but, as there didn’t seem to be anyone about, I supposed it didn’t matter. I was confused: If he didn’t want me to hire the suite, why did he want to show it to me? And if it was his personal suite, what was his motive? But, despite his extraordinary appearance, there didn’t appear to be anything particularly threatening about him, so I allowed myself be led into the lift.

‘It doesn’t work,’ I said, a trifle sullen, as he pressed the third floor button and nothing happened.

Umberto appeared not to hear me. He bashed the button hard. Twice. The lift shuddered, gave a slight cough and started grinding upwards.

‘I like Australia,’ he was saying. ‘I have a cousin, he live in Melbourne. My cousin, he write for
II Globo
, you know
II Globo?
’ I shook my head. The speed at which Umberto spoke was alarming and his accent was so thick it was difficult to follow. ‘Is a newspaper for Italians, I write an article about the festival of the flowers and I send it to my cousin, it is published in
II Globo
. Is very good,’ he said proudly. ‘I have a copy, I show you.’

All the while, I was studying him as discreetly as possible. What was it that made his appearance so extraordinary? Certainly the thatch of dyed black hair, which sat on his head like a large dead cat, contributed. Then I realised that not only was his hair dyed, but his eyebrows and moustache were as well. Clumps of pitch-black hair sat above his eyes and his upper lip as if they’d been pasted on. The man was a caricature.

The monologue continued as we stepped out of the lift. ‘I inherit this hotel from my aunt, she is very beautiful, si?’ I realised he meant the hotel as he stroked the railings of the grand staircase. ‘This. The original gilt, you know?’ His fingers lovingly traced the golden leaf design. ‘Is beautiful,
si
?’

‘Yes, very beautiful.’

‘Now you see my suite.’ He produced a key from his vest pocket and proceeded to
unlock the door at the top of the stairs, the same position as mine two storeys below. ‘Is even more beautiful.’ He stepped in and held his arms out wide. ‘Venezia design!’ he announced loudly. Then he sighed and wandered about the room, caressing the sideboard and the mantelpiece and the four-poster bed with a lover’s touch. ‘Ah, so beautiful.’

I stood at the door, still a little unsure as to whether I might need an escape route, but Umberto’s performance was so unashamedly theatrical that I was not alarmed. He was an atrocious actor, I decided. I had known a number of atrocious actors, all of whom were harmless, so I relaxed and looked around the ‘suite’.

It wasn’t a suite at all. It was a room, of exactly the same dimensions as mine downstairs, but where mine had been stripped of all character, here every intricate detail had been painstakingly preserved. The ceiling was pure rococo, a swirling pattern of leaves in aqua and gold. In fact, everywhere was aqua and gold – the carved mantelpiece and sideboard and dressing table, the four-poster bed with two gold cherubs above the bedhead. Even the lace curtains were trimmed with aqua and gold. There was a central crystal chandelier, and other gold cherubs leaned out from the walls holding imitation candles in their chubby hands. It looked like a garish movie set and reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the interior of one of Mad King Ludwig’s castles in Bavaria, a museum piece, nothing out of place and not a shred of evidence as to its occupation. Did Umberto really live here?

He turned on the light switch and the cherubs’ candles glowed. ‘Is beautiful,
si
?’

‘Yes,’ I found my voice. ‘Beautiful.’ Then I noticed the utterly incongruous picture on the wall beside the bed. It was a framed photograph, in colour, of Omar Sharif as Doctor Zhivago.

‘Ah, you see my old friend Omar,’ Umberto said proudly, crossing to stand beside the photograph – he’d quite obviously been waiting for me to notice it. ‘He come here
whenever he want to get away from the world. He ring me and he say “Umberto, I want your suite.”’

Umberto patted the photograph. ‘Omar, he a famous man,’ then he patted his chest, ‘and my friend. My friend the famous actor,
si
?’

He was grinning like a Cheshire cat by now, and I realised that he was simply an incorrigible show-off. He probably didn’t live in the suite at all, I thought. He probably just showed it off to all his guests, together with his picture of Omar Sharif, a publicity shot from a film made close to fifty years ago.

I grinned back. It was all so ridiculous I couldn’t help it. ‘Very impressive,’ I said.

‘Come. You see my suite, now we have a drink before dinner.’

I found myself warming to Umberto – it was impossible not to – and after begging off for half an hour to unpack and freshen up I met him in the downstairs bar.

It was a poky little bar. The glass counter displaying bottles of wine, the several Laminex-topped tables and the little wooden chairs were completely out of keeping with the general ambience of the Hotel Visconti. But then I was rapidly realising that the Hotel Visconti was a series of contradictions. Had they run out of money halfway through refurbishing?

It was cosy, nonetheless, and Umberto was determined to make me feel at home amongst the several people gathered there.

‘You meet Annita.’ He rose from his table and waved at the efficient woman, who stood behind the counter. Annita gave one of her brisk smiles and continued to hurl Italian invective at whoever was on the receiving end of the mobile phone still attached to her ear.

‘And here Rosella,’ Umberto placed a proprietorial hand on the shoulder of the young woman seated beside him, ‘my beautiful Rosella.’ He beamed a mixture of lechery and pride.

‘I’m Jane, how do you do.’ I offered my hand.

‘You are Australia,’ she said, shaking my hand, bobbing her head, wriggling in her seat and flashing me an electric smile all at the same time. ‘From Syd-en-ee.’