parted on the best of terms.
The demonstrators made some desultory comments upon the tall Englishman as he walked past them. One of them called out, ‘Ullo, gooda-day!’ in a squeaking voice, another shouted. ‘Rhodesia! Imperialismo!’ and raised a cat-call but a third remarked ‘Molto elegante’ in a loud voice and apparently without sardonic intention.
Rome sparkled in the spring morning. The swallows had arrived, the markets were full of flowers, young greens and kaleidoscopic cheap-jackery. Dramatic façades presented themselves suddenly to the astonished gaze, lovely courtyards and galleries floated in shadow and little piazzas talked with the voices of their own fountains. Behind magnificent doorways the ages offered their history lessons in layers. Like the achievements of a Roman pastrycook, thought the tall man irreverently: modern, renaissance, classic, mithraic, each under another in one gorgeous, stratified edifice. It would be an enchantment to walk up to the Palatine Hill where the air would smell freshly of young grass and a kind of peace and order would come upon the rich encrustations of time.
Instead he must look for a tourist bureau either in the streets or at the extremely grand hotel he had been treated to by his Department in London. He approached it by the way of the Via Condotti and presently came upon a window filled with blown-up photographs of Rome. The agency was a distinguished one and their London office well-known to him.
He turned into an impressive interior, remarked that its décor was undisturbed by racks of brochures and approached an exquisite but far from effete young man who seemed to be in charge.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the young man in excellent English. ‘May I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ he rejoined cheerfully. ‘I’m in Rome for a few days. I don’t want to spend them on a series of blanket-tours covering the maximum amount of Sights in the minimum amount of time. I have seen as much as I can take of celebrated big-boomers. What I would like now is to do something leisurely and civilized that leads one a little off the beaten way of viewing and yet is really—well, really of Rome and not, historically speaking, beside the point. I’m afraid I put that very badly.’
‘But not at all,’ said the young man looking hard at him. ‘I understand perfectly. A personal courier might be the answer but this is the busy season, sir, and I’m afraid we’ve nobody free for at least a fortnight whom I could really recommend.’
‘Somebody told me about something called Il Cicerone. Small parties under the guidance of a—I’m not sure if I’ve got his name right—Sebastian Something? Do you know?’
The young man looked still more fixedly at him and said: ‘It’s odd—really, it’s quite a coincidence, sir, that you should mention Il Cicerone. A week ago I could have told you very little about it. Except, perhaps, that it wasn’t likely to be a distinguished affair. Indeed—‘ he hesitated and then said—’please forgive me, sir. I’ve been at our London office for the past three years and I can’t help thinking that I’ve had the pleasure of looking after you before. Or at least of seeing you. I hope you don’t mind,’ the young man said in a rush. ‘I trust you will not think this insufferable cheek: I haven’t mastered my Anglo-Saxon attitudes, I’m afraid.’
‘You’ve mastered the language, at least.’
‘Oh—that! After an English university and so on, I should hope so.’
‘—and have an excellent memory.’
‘Well, sir, you are not the sort of person who is all that readily forgotten. Perhaps, then, I am correct in thinking—?’
‘You came into the general manager’s office in Jermyn Street while I was there. Some two years ago. You were in the room for about three minutes: during which time you give me a piece of very handy information.’
The young man executed an involved and extremely Italianate gesture that ended up with a smart slap on his own forehead.
‘Ah-ah-ah! Mamma mia! How could I be such an ass!’ he exclaimed.
‘It all comes back to you?’ observed the tall man drily.
‘But completely. All!’ He fell away a step and contemplated his visitor with an air of the deepest respect.
‘Good,’ said the visitor, unmoved by this scrutiny. ‘Now about the Il Cicerone thing—’
‘It is entirely for recreation, sir, that you inquire?’
‘Why not?’
‘Indeed! Of course! I merely wondered—’
‘Come on. What did you wonder?’
‘If perhaps there might be a professional aspect.’
‘And why did you wonder that? Look, Signor Pace—that is your name, isn’t it?’
‘Your own memory, sir, is superb.’
‘Signor Pace. Is there, perhaps, something about this enterprise, or about the person who controls it that makes you think I might be interested in it—or him—for other than sightseeing reasons?’
The young man became pink in the face, gazed at his clasped hands, glanced round the bureau which was empty of other people and finally said, ‘The cicerone in question, Signore—a Mr Sebastian Mailer—is a person of a certain, or perhaps I should say, uncertain reputation. Nothing specific you understand, but there are—’ he agitated his fingers ‘—suggestions. Rome is a great place for suggestions.’
‘Yes?’
‘I remarked that it was quite a coincidence you should inquire about him. That is because he was here earlier today. Not for the first time. He asked to be put on our books some weeks ago but his reputation, his appearance—everything—did not recommend his venture to us and we declined. Then, this morning as a new inducement he brings us his list of patrons. It was quite astonishing, Signore, this list.’
‘May I see it?’
‘We still have not accepted him. I—I don’t quite—’
‘Signor Pace, your guess was a good one. My interest in this person is professional.’
‘Ah!’
‘But I am most anxious to appear simply as a tourist. I remember that in London your chief spoke very highly indeed of your discretion and promise—a promise that is evidently being fulfilled.’
‘You are kind enough to say so, sir.’
‘I realize that I can’t get a booking with Il Cicerone through you but perhaps you can tell me—
‘I can arrange it with another agency and will be delighted to do so. As for the list of patrons: under the circumstances, I think, there is no reason why I should not show it to you. Will you come into the office, if you please. While you examine it I will attend to your booking.’
The list Signor Pace produced was a day-by-day record of people who had put themselves down for Il Cicerone expeditions. It was prefaced by a general announcement that made his visitor blink: ‘Under the distinguished patronage of the celebrated author, Mr Barnaby Grant.’
‘This is coming it strong!’
‘Is it not?’ Signor Pace said, busily dialling. ‘I cannot imagine how it has been achieved. Although—’ he broke off and addressed himself elegantly to the telephone. ‘Pronto. Chi parla?’— and, as an aside: ‘Look at the patronage, Signore. On the first day, Saturday, the twenty-sixth, for instance.’
Here it was, neatly set out in the Italianate script.
| Lady Braceley. | London |
| The Hon. Kenneth Dorne. | London |
|
Baron
|