And she quickly opened two doors: two small, cosy, sunny long and narrow rooms, and from the open windows a lofty, wide panorama over the streets and roofs below and in the distance the blue dome of St Peter’s.
“These are my last south-facing rooms,” lamented the marchesa.
“I’ll take them, marchesa …”
“Sixteen lire,” smiled ‘la Belloni’.
“Ten, as you wrote.”
“I could put two people up in these.”
“I’ll be staying — if it’s to my liking — the whole winter.”
“You’re a brave one!” the marchesa suddenly exclaimed in her most charming voice, the voice of defeat. “You can have the rooms for twelve lire. No more discussions. The rooms are yours. You’re Dutch, aren’t you? We have another Dutch family; a mama with two daughters and a son. Would you like to sit next to them at table?”
“No, I’d prefer it if you would seat me somewhere else; I don’t like my compatriots when they’re travelling …”
The marchesa left Cornélie alone. She looked out of the window, her mind empty of thoughts, happy to be in Rome, with a touch of melancholy at the unknown things that were about to happen to her. There was a knock at the door and her suitcases were brought in. She saw that it was eleven o’clock and started unpacking. One of her rooms was a small sitting room, like a birdcage in the air, looking out over Rome. She rearranged the furniture herself, draped the faded chaise-longue with a length of cloth from the Abruzzi and with drawing pins fixed a number of portraits to the distempered wall which was broken up by crude fresco arabesques. And she smiled at the border of purple hearts pierced by arrows that surrounded the frescoed section of the wall.
An hour’s work and her sitting-room was organised: a home of her own with a few of her own bits of material, a cover so, a side table so: cushions on the chaise-longue, books to hand. When she had finished and sat down, she suddenly felt very lonely. She thought of The Hague, of what she was leaving behind. But she did not want to think, picked up her Baedeker and read about the Vatican. She could not concentrate and turned to Hare’s Walks through Rome. A bell rang. She was tired, felt nervous, looked in the mirror, saw her hair that had lost its curl, her blouse smudged with coal and dust, unlocked a second suitcase and changed. As she did her hair she cried, sobbed. The second bell rang and after powdering her face she went downstairs.
She thought she was late but there was no one in the dining-room and she had to wait to be served. She resolved not to come so promptly in future. Some lodgers looked in through the open door, saw that no one was at table yet except for a new lady and disappeared again.
Cornélie looked around and waited.
The dining-room was the antique banqueting room of the old villa section with a ceiling by Guercino. The waiters were just strolling about. An old grey-haired head waiter surveyed the table from afar to make sure everything was in order. He became impatient when no one came and gave orders for Cornélie to be served with the macaroni. Cornélie noticed that, like the porter, he was lame in one leg. But the waiters were very young, scarcely sixteen or eighteen, and lacked the usual waiterly aplomb.
A fat gentleman, lively, self-important, pock-marked, badly shaven, in a threadbare black jacket without much linen on show, came in, rubbed his hands, and sat down opposite Cornélie.
He greeted her politely and also had some macaroni.
And it seemed to be a sign that it was time to eat, because numerous guests, mostly ladies, now entered, sat down and had portions of the macaroni being served by the young waiters under the supervision of the grey-haired head waiter. Cornélie smiled at the amusing manners of these travelling types and when she looked involuntarily at the pock-marked gentleman opposite, she noticed that he was smiling too.
He hurriedly ate a little more bread with tomato sauce, leant a little further across the table and in a near-whisper said in French:
“Amusing, isn’t it?”
Cornélie raised her eyebrows.
“How do you mean?”
“A cosmopolitan company …”
“Oh, yes …”
“Are you Dutch?”
“How do you know?”
“I saw your name in the register, and it said The Hague after it …”
“That’s true …”
“There are some other Dutch ladies here, they’re over there … they’re charming.”
Cornélie ordered a cheap wine from the head waiter.
“That wine is no good,” said the lively gentleman, in an animated tone. “I’m having Genzano,” he said, pointing to his carafe. “I pay a small corkage and drink my own wine.”
The head waiter brought Cornélie her half bottle: it was included with her board.
“If you like, I can give you the address for my wine: Via della Croce 61 …”
Cornélie thanked him. The unusual ease and vivacity of the pock-marked gentleman amused her.
“You’re looking at the head waiter?” he asked.
“You’re very observant,” she smiled.
“Quite a character, our head waiter, Giuseppe. He used to be head waiter at the palace of an Austrian archduke. He did something, I don’t know what. Stole perhaps. Or was impertinent. Or dropped a spoon. He came down in the world. Now he’s in our humble Pensione Belloni. But what dignity …”
He leant forward.
“The marchesa is thrifty. All the staff here are either old or very young. Less in wages.”
He bowed to two German ladies, mother and daughter, who had come in and sat down next to him.
“I’ve got the permit I promised you, to see the Palazzo Rospigliosi, Guido Reni’s Aurora,” he said in German.
“Is the prince back then?”
“No, the prince is in Paris. The palace is closed, except to you.”
He bowed gallantly.
The German ladies exclaimed that he was so sweet, that he could do everything, find a solution to every problem. The trouble they had gone to bribe the concierge of Rospigliosi! With no success.
A thin English lady had sat down next to Cornélie.
“And for you, Miss Taylor, I have a ticket for an early mass in his Holiness’s own chapel …”
Miss Taylor beamed with joy.
“Have you been sightseeing again?” the pock-marked gentleman continued.
“Yes, the Kircher Museum,” said Miss Taylor. “But now I’m exhausted … It was most exquisite.”
“I’m prescribing you an afternoon at home, Miss Taylor, and some rest.”
“I’ve arranged to see the Aventine …”
“You mustn’t go. You’re tired. You’re looking worse every day and getting thinner. Rome is too tiring for you. You must rest, otherwise I shan’t give you the ticket for morning mass.”
The German ladies laughed. Miss Taylor promised, flattered, delighted. She looked at the pock-marked gentleman, as if waiting for his words of wisdom.
Lunch was over: the steak, pudding and dried figs. Cornélie got up.
“Can I pour you a glass from my bottle?” asked the fat gentleman. “Try my wine. Do you like it? If so, I’ll order you a flask in the Via della Croce …”
Cornélie did not like to refuse and drank. The wine was wonderfully pure. She thought it would be good to drink a pure wine in Rome and as she thought this the fat gentleman seemed to read her rapid train of thought.
“It’s good,” he said, “if you drink a fortifying wine in Rome, where life is exhausting.”
Cornélie agreed.
“This is Genzano, two lire seventy-five a flask. It will last you a long time, as the wine doesn’t go off.” He bowed to all the ladies with a circular motion and left.
The German ladies bowed to Cornélie.