She gave him an innocent look.
"What school do you go to?"
"Loyola University. It's on Via Trionfale in Monte Mario."
"What do you study?"
"Art history."
"You are in the right city, uh?"
They were on a narrow sidewalk crowded with pedestrians, lined on one side by boutiques and restaurants, and on the other side by parked cars. They had to stop occasionally to let people pass, McCabe checking her out, trying to be discreet.
She caught him and said, "What're you looking at now?"
"The sights of Rome." He smiled and she did too. "What about you?"
"I can't tell you. It would spoil the mystery. You have to guess."
"You're a model?"
She gave him a look. "No."
McCabe said, "Okay, you're an actress."
"Why do you think that?"
"You remind me of Manuela Arcuri."
She shook her head. "I don't think so." And seemed embarrassed by the compliment.
"I give up," McCabe said.
She gave him her sexy look again.
"No, you can't."
"Let me think about it."
They walked along Via Condotti, congested now after siesta, strolled past designer storefronts: Missoni, Prada, Gucci, D amp;G, Valentino and MaxMara.
She stopped in front of Armani. "Is this where you shop?"
McCabe, in faded Levis and a blue Nine Inch Nails tee- shirt with red type, said, "You can tell, huh? Yeah, I'm very fashion-conscious."
'You do have your own style," she said, grinning now, "I have to say."
She was making fun of him and he liked it. She took him to an enoteca in the neighborhood. They sat outside, drinking glasses of Brunello di Montalcino, her choice, and watched people go by. She held up her wine glass, looking sexy, her brown eyes and skinny arms and nice rack, a line of cleavage visible where the tee-shirt tapered into a V.
She picked up her wine glass. "Do you like Tuscan wine?"
"I must 'cause I'm drinking it like it's beer," McCabe said.
"Take your time, savor it." She showed him how, put the glass up to her lips. "You take a little in your mouth, chew it, let it slide under your tongue and down the inside of your cheeks, taste the different flavors: black cherry, spice, a little of cinnamon."
McCabe was staring at her mouth, with those lips, an urge to lean over and kiss her. Jesus.
She said, " Parla Italiano? "
McCabe said, " Un poco. Enough to confuse myself. I go into a store to buy something and say quanto costa?. The person gives me the answer in rapid-fire Italian. I have no idea what he's saying."
"It was the same with English."
"You sound fluent," McCabe said. "Perfect."
"I grew up speaking English. Used to spend summers in Michigan.'
"No kidding," McCabe said. "Where?"
"The east side of Detroit. Have you ever heard of St Clair Shores?"
"I was born right near there," McCabe said.
She said, "I would have guessed Connecticut, or maybe New York."
"Why's that?" McCabe said. "You think I have an east-coast accent?"
"You know how it is. You look at someone and imagine where they're from? That's what I did."
Sure. Like he did with her. Thinking she was a fashion model from Milan. He said, "Why Detroit?"
"I have an aunt and uncle who live there. They would drive us north to Harbor Springs. They have a house on Lake Michigan. We would build a fire on the beach and cook marshmallows and watch the sunsets."
McCabe said, "What's your uncle's name?"
"You don't know him." she said.
"Maybe I do."
She looked at her watch again, the second time in the past ten minutes.
He said, "You have to be somewhere?"
"I am meeting a friend in Villa Borghese."
Her cell phone rang. She took it out of her purse and said, "Pronto." She listened and said, " Ciao," and put the phone away.
She said, " Mi displace. I have to go."
He said, "Maybe I should go with you. You never know, someone might try to steal your purse." He knew if she left now he'd never see her again.
"It is a long walk. Stay here. Let me buy you another glass of wine."
She was blowing him off, but in a nice way. He finished his Brunello and said, "Black cherry and cinnamon, huh? Yeah, I see what you mean." He stood up and offered his hand. "It was nice meeting you."
She got up too and moved toward him and kissed him on the cheek.
"Maybe I should take you up on your offer," she said. "You can protect me."
She smiled and he felt a rush of adrenalin, grinning, but trying not to, excited, but trying to hold it back. He'd miss Italian, his six o'clock class, but he was learning a lot in the company of this real Italian girl and figured he'd learn even more. He was going to Sicily with Chip and Brianna and a girl he was kind of interested in named Trish from New York. The train left at 8:06 that night. So he had an hour and a half to make a move.
As they walked through the narrow streets of the Condotti neighborhood, McCabe was thinking things like this only happened in movies, and he was going to take advantage of it, give it his best shot. Get her number and when he got back in town, call her and set something up. They moved past a cafe with outside tables. A waiter in a white jacket was serving drinks to a tourist couple. He glanced over, seemed to recognize her and said, " Ciao, bella."
The girl said, "Ciao, Enzo," waved but kept walking.
Chapter Five
Twenty minutes later they were at the Pincio, looking down at Piazza del Popolo where they'd met an hour earlier. This was an even better view of Rome, the city spread out, a dusty haze hanging over the skyline, the giant dome of St Peter's looming in the distance. There were telescopes set up along the balustrade, tourists taking aim at points of interest. McCabe thinking this would be the perfect setting for Chip to deliver his lines from Spartacus.
They strolled through Villa Borghese, her arm hooked around his, walking close as they passed stands of chestnut trees, holmoaks and stylish umbrella pines that looked like they were designed by Armani or Zegna. It occurred to him he didn't even know her name, had forgotten to ask or hadn't thought to. "What's your name?"
"Angela."
"That's nice. Angela what?" She didn't answer or ask anything about him. "Where do you live?"
"That way," she said, pointing north.
They passed the Temple of Diana and the G-the Monument. They walked further and McCabe could see Via Veneto below the park. He and Chip would sit at an outside table in front of Harry's Bar, watching the prostitutes come down from Borghese, beautiful girls, knockouts in stylish outfits, walking by them, asking if anyone wanted company. Chip would ask how much and then try to negotiate even though he had no intention of buying their services.
Now they were on a path flanked by thick ten-foot-high hedgerows. McCabe stopped to look at a bust on a marble pedestal, the face of a man scarred with graffiti. Someone had drawn eyelashes, a mustache and goatee on him.
Angela glanced at the bust and smiled.
McCabe said, "Know who this is?"
"No, but I think you are going to tell me."
"Cardinal Scipione Borghesi, the guy who designed the park." McCabe realized he was showboating, trying to impress her. "I memorize a lot of meaningless historical facts, so I can impress good-looking girls I meet."
She said, "I can see that."
McCabe said, "Did you go to college?"
"For two years," she said, "the University of Turin."
McCabe said, "What did you study?"
"Business administration," she said.
They followed the path, crushed stones that wound through the park, a wooded area on the right, open space, a field of grass on the left. McCabe could see the marble facade of Casino Borghese in the distance. "Where're we meeting your friend?"