The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [14]
With his linguistic gifts and ready sympathy, Andy had made himself part of the local scene almost from the first. Andy’s friends reaped the rewards of his popularity. Parking is a problem anywhere in Rome. In Trastevere it is a joke. When Jean and Jacqueline arrived, they found the street completely filled; there were cars parked in every available space, including those marked by the slashed red circle signs which indicate that parking is forbidden, and even the sidewalks were littered with Vespas, motorbikes, and ordinary bicycles. Jacqueline was looking around in dismay when a young man sauntered up and put his head in the window.
“Friends of Andy’s? Leave the car, signora, I will take care of it.”
“It’s all right,” Jean said. “This is Alberto Sordi; he’s an engineering student. Alberto, this is Signora Kirby.”
Alberto managed to bow without taking his head out of the window—a feat which only an Italian can accomplish. Jacqueline gave her companion a dubious look, but she got out, leaving the keys in the car.
“It isn’t my car,” she said apprehensively. “You will be careful…?”
Alberto, hand on his heart, made a more sweeping bow.
“Signora, if there is a scratch, anywhere, tomorrow, you may inflict a corresponding wound on my body.”
Jacqueline looked startled at this effusion, and Jean, who knew they were being royally kidded, took the older woman’s arm.
“Andy probably will do just that,” she told Alberto, and grinned unwillingly as a look of exaggerated terror replaced that worthy’s broad smile. “Thanks, Alberto. See you later.”
She pulled Jacqueline into the doorway of the building as Alberto leaped eagerly into the driver’s seat. Jean knew he would live up to his promise; the car wouldn’t have a mark on it when he returned it. But it would be good for Jacqueline’s nerves if she didn’t see how he drove.
The Scovilles had the top floor, the most desirable part of the building because of the wide terrace that surrounded it on three sides. But the top floor was the sixth, and there was no elevator. As they climbed, the sounds of the party became louder and clearer.
“I wonder the neighbors don’t complain,” Jacqueline said, panting.
“Nobody in Trastevere complains about parties. They all come out on the landing and enjoy the noise…. Buona sera, signora…signori….”
The last remark was addressed to the inhabitants of one of the fifth-floor apartments, who were standing in their open doorway, nodding and tapping their feet in time to the music.
They were the last of the crowd to arrive. Ximenez caught Jean’s eye first; his severe black was conspicuous among the gay costumes of the others, both male and female. There was another priest present; his cassock was the bright scarlet worn by German clerics while in Rome.
In honor of the occasion Ann was wearing a dress—or perhaps it was one of her brother’s shirts. Severely tailored, a solid green in color, it reached only to the tops of her thighs and displayed legs which, as Jean had noticed before, were attractively shaped. Ann made no further concessions to femininity; she stood with her usual slouch as she faced Ted, with whom she was carrying on an animated conversation.
Jean’s eyes swept the room. There was Michael, sitting on the floor in the corner. His knees were drawn up and his bare feet had charcoal-gray soles. He held a glass of wine in both hands, and he looked sulky, withdrawn, rather like an autistic patient squatting in a hospital corridor.
For once Dana wasn’t with him, and Jean located the other girl