Just South of Rome Read Free Page A

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 timeto 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 tounlock 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