Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 31)
Chapter 11 Part I
Cindy Bradford
Arriving back in Rome during the second week of August, Patrick was surprised that it seemed deserted.
“Where is everyone?” he asked the manager of the small apartment building where he would be staying. The gentleman smiled and spoke in broken English, “Holiday Ferŕagosto–people go from heat.”
Patrick was not sure what the man meant but he had enough information now to ask other questions of someone who spoke better English.
“My name is Patrick O’Brien. I’m in your book,” pointing to his name on the register for rooms.
“Ricardo,” the old man said slowly, lightly pointing a finger to his chest and then pounding it with his hand. “Come,” he said to Patrick pulling a key marked 208 down from a board mounted to the wall. Patrick followed the older man up the stairs to a small efficiency apartment. After setting his bags on the floor, he began looking around when the manager again said, “Come.” Patrick obediently followed him to an old iron circular staircase that led to a roof terrace where he was pleasantly amazed and pleased. Obviously proud, the old gentleman grinned and began pointing out the four newly repainted iron chairs around a small table and the flower boxes lining the sides of the terrace. Though most of the flowers had turned brown from lack of water, the effort displayed told Patrick that he had chosen the right apartment. Noting that the iron rail around the roof needed a coat of paint, Patrick figured the old gentleman had either run out of paint or energy, or both.
“Very nice, Ricardo, Sir.”
Quickly the man said, “Come.”
Patrick smiled to himself. They were beginning to look amusing, the young, tall Irish-American, walking one step behind this bent-over little Italian man. They walked all the way back down to the first floor and out a side entrance.
“Look.”
Patrick did not understand what Ricardo expected. In front of the man was a new blue scooter with a letter attached.
“Look,” he repeated, handing the letter to Patrick. Patrick opened the envelope and a set of keys fell out. He unfolded the sheet of paper and read the message: “You will need this in Rome. Be careful and come to see us soon. Love, Stefano and Carmella”
He was so moved and caught up in his thoughts that he almost forgot the old man, who was still standing there. Patrick looked up. Ricardo was smiling broadly as proud for Patrick it seemed as if he had given it to him. Then Ricardo took one of the keys from him and showed him the lock and where he should chain it to an old cypress tree that took up much of the small lot beside the apartment.
“Thieves bad!”
Patrick understood. “Thank you.”
He rushed in to call Carmella and Stefano to thank them.
≈≈≈
Anxious to see the Vatican and St. Peter’s Basilica, Patrick was up early the next morning and off on an adventure. After taking one look inside the Basilica he determined it had to be the holiest Basilica and definitely the largest of the Catholic faith. In spite of the many churches and other basilicas he had seen throughout Italy, he knew this had to be one of the grandest creations of Rome’s Renaissance. Just seeing Michelangelo’s Pieta, Patrick decided, was worth a person’s journey. As he stopped to admire the thirteenth century bronze statue of St. Peter, he noticed the foot was worn from the touch of the faithful masses. It soon became apparent that there were too many museums for him to even begin to see until he could take a day for each, but that didn’t stop him from rushing to see Michelangelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel. Leaning his neck back downward to his shoulder, he stared up in awe. From his studies he knew these were the scenes depicting the Creation and that of Noah, along with Old Testament prophets, ancient Sibyls, the ancestors of Christ and old scenes of salvation. Dizzy from standing, looking upward for so long, he walked over to a bench to sit and change the level of his view. Marveling at the magnitude of the frescoed ceiling as well as the wall painting of the Last Judgment, Patrick began to plan more visits to the chapel to absorb the full effect. There was so much to see and he caught himself wanting to take it all in immediately.
The next day he was off to explore the Roman Forum and Colosseum. Stopping on his way at an outdoor market he bought fruit, bread, salami and a bottled drink for lunch. Walking among the dusty, crumbling arches and shakily re-erected columns of the Forum, he began to imagine what it was all like two thousand years before.
While he was exploring the Arch of Septimius Severus, the Umbilicus Urbus and Imperial Rostra, he passed the curving wall that marks the site of the Temple of Vesta. There he spotted a young girl jumping up on an empty pedestal to pose as a Vestal Virgin while her friend quickly snapped a picture. At the same minute a guard stepped from behind a statue of one of the remaining Vestals and shouted, but the giggling girls ran out of sight. Patrick laughed, but straightened his face as he approached the guard to ask where he could eat his picnic lunch.
“Palatine Hill is away from the crowds and comfortable enough,” the Italian said in perfect English, pointing in its direction.
“Thanks, I’m starved.” After climbing to the top, he found a shaded, grassy area and stood briefly looking down at the old gated alleyways where Rome’s rich and famous had once lived. Sitting on the warm grass, eating his lunch, he began processing the events of the morning.
Peaceful and a little tired, he dozed. When he awoke, he wasn’t sure how long he had slept. It was growing late, but he was anxious to see the Colosseum and decided it was, perhaps worth the five thousand lire, which he figured to be about two dollars, to rent an audio guide. He was right because it explained, in English, much of the famous sports arena’s history as he wandered through the maze of walls and crumbling bricks. Because it was growing dark, he trudged back to his parked scooter. Hopping on, he took one last look back at the ancient structure and thought how impressive the Colosseum really was, a silhouette and symbol of the city itself. It had been described to him in that way by friends at Notre Dame who had been to Rome, but seeing it himself made it real and lasting.