Bequeathed Read online

  I continue following the curvature of the interior admiring the beautiful sculptures and reading all the plaques. Approaching the area directly opposite the entry, I start to feel strange, like I have suddenly come down with a cold. My bones ache and a chill washes over me. Goosebumps break out over my clammy skin, but my skin feels warm, hot even. My breath quickens and I am sure other tourists are staring at me as there is now a small space around me that everyone has cleared out of. The beam of light coming through the oculus creates a space-invaders type of shape on the carved wall of the dome. I search my bag to retrieve my camera and the sudden movement of my head makes me dizzy. Gripping the rope cordoning off the monuments to steady myself, I take in a sharp breath.

  What is wrong with me? Maybe I have food poisoning or I have caught a foreign flu? All I know is that I must get out of the Pantheon and sit somewhere to recover. As I head to the exit, I see one of the priests eyeing me suspiciously. He is talking to another man but does not avert his eyes from me until I have exited through the large doors.

  Once outside, I walk briskly in the direction of the fountain, hoping my legs won’t give out from under me. I manage to make it to the steps in the center of the piazza. I fall in a heap with my bag still around my shoulders and sit with my head between my knees. I take in deep breaths, letting them out slowly, and within minutes I feel back to normal. I sit and people watch for a while waiting for the ill feeling to return. It doesn’t. I search in my bag for my phone, deciding on calling my mom as I haven’t spoken to her for nearly two days.

  “Hey, Mom!”

  “Katalina!” she shouts into the phone. “How was your flight, sweetheart?”

  “It was long,” I respond. “I’m sitting in front of the Pantheon and I’m in such awe.”

  “The Pantheon is amazing, isn’t it?” Her voice is an octave too high. “Have you been inside yet? Next time it rains, make sure you go inside. The rain falls through the oculus in slow motion.”

  “I was in there about fifteen minutes ago, but out of nowhere I felt ill and had to rush out to get some fresh air,” I let out in one breath.

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Mom, are you still there?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, I’m still here,” she breathes. “Where’s Maria?”

  “She had to go to work this morning and Sofia is in class until the afternoon.”

  “Can you get Maria to call me when she gets home? It doesn’t matter what time it is; just make sure she calls me,” she pleads.

  “I’ll let her know,” I say, baffled by her sudden urgency.

  She changes the subject. “Go eat some gelato for me and enjoy the sightseeing. I love you.”

  “Yes, gelato is exactly what I need right now. Then I’m going to the shops near the Spanish Steps to buy some clothes.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  “Bye, love you, Mom.” I press the end call button and stare at my phone.

  Retrieving the map from my bag, I look at it with fear, questioning whether I should attempt to find the Spanish Steps or just play it safe and wander around this piazza for a while. I decide to be brave and stand up before I lose my nerve. I head in the direction of the Spanish Steps with my map firmly in my hand for back up. I wander down Via dei Pastini, a little cobblestone-lined street with more restaurants and small shops, whilst enjoying my coffee-flavored gelato. The coolness of the ice cream feels wonderful sliding down my throat.

  After an hour of wandering and looking in all the quaint tourist shops, I realize I am lost. Panic washes over me as I try to read the map and work out exactly where I am, but it’s useless. There are so many buildings that surround me and none look like they are marked on the map. The beeping motorbikes, cars darting here and there narrowly missing tourists, groups of tourists taking photographs or following a guide holding a red flag tied around a stick high up in the air—they are the stark reality that is unfolding in front of me. I am too afraid to cross the roads as there are no rules to stop at red lights, it seems. I tag along a few steps behind a group of tourists, hoping they lead me to a landmark I can identify on my map, but I have a sinking feeling that I am wandering farther away from the apartment than I dare to think about. I stumble into a coffee bar and line up to pay and get my receipt. I manage to find a gap and wait patiently to be served.

  I hold up one finger to show that I only want one coffee. “Piccolo café, grande latte.” I show how much coffee and how much milk I would like in my coffee.

  “Americano!” The barista smiles pointing at me.

  “No, I’m from Australia,” I reply, grinning.

  “Oh Skippy, canguro,” he shouts over the noise.

  “Yes, Skippy the kangaroo.” I laugh. My mood is instantly lifted and I am grateful to this stranger for making me smile.

  My coffee is served with a heart shape in the froth and a golden pastry that I did not order. “Grazie,” I thank the barista. He tips his hat in my direction and continues with his work.

  Stepping back outside into the chaos of tourists, cars, and motorbikes, I try to get my bearings but am once again overwhelmed with my surroundings. I walk with my nose in my map back toward the way I came hoping to see something familiar. I stop in front of a carved, burnt orange door, the paint peeling off in large flakes. My eyes roam the busy street before me and it is there standing on the far sidewalk that I spot him for the first time. A tall, masculine figure with deep brown, disheveled hair and posture that reeks of attitude. He’s dressed in denim jeans and a tight, black long-sleeved T-shirt pulled up at his elbows. I watch him talking to another well-dressed Italian, laughing and using hand gestures. He glances toward me as though he knows I am staring at him and I instantly avert my eyes to the ground, embarrassed. I peek up through my eyelashes and see that he is still looking my way. Our eyes lock and he smiles at me. A smile that lights up his beautiful face. I find myself grinning back and reddening in embarrassment, hoping he isn’t close enough to notice. I manage to tear my eyes away from his intense gaze and turn to walk in my original direction with my heart thrumming against my chest. I feel his gaze against my exposed neck, heating my skin. I turn my head slightly to get one last glimpse of him only to find him watching me with a wide grin plastered on his perfect face. I can’t help but smile in return. My heart rate escalates and a giddy feeling washes over me as I continue my original path.

  After a few blocks, I see a fountain that I know I have seen before and manage to make my way back to the Pantheon. The feeling of absolute relief rushes through me as I enter the familiar piazza. I head straight back toward the apartment; I have had enough sightseeing for today. Entering Piazza della Maddalena, I see the buskers have moved on and the piazza is quiet for a change. I notice that the church door is open, and without thinking, I walk toward the entry. I hesitate in the doorway and marvel at the beautiful murals and intricate carvings that decorate the small church. Stepping inside, I sense that the church is deserted. Taking advantage of the welcoming silence, I sit on one of the pews, close my eyes, and enjoy the solitude.

  A loud thud startles me from my meditative state. My eyes fly open and I see the priest storming down the center aisle toward me. Confused and a little frightened from the look on his face, I quickly stand in the aisle waiting for him to reach me.

  “You must leave,” he commands in an Italian accent. Taking my elbow in his gentle grip he directs me toward the front doors.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t meant to be in here,” I explain. The priest is not having any of it. Once outside, he instantly let’s go of me and steps back, distancing himself. I follow his gaze and I see Maria glaring at him.

  “You cannot come in here again.” He eyes me for a moment then turns and strides back into his church to close the doors in my face.

  I walk toward Maria in complete bewilderment, unsure of what just happened.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Maria gives me a hug.

 
“I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to go in the church. They should have put a sign out front.” I exhale.

  “Just make sure you don’t step foot in the church again. We are not allowed in there,” Maria says with a forced smile. “Now tell me about your day. Your mom called earlier, and I think she sounded worried,” she says as she links her arm through mine and leads me back to the apartment.

  I head to the kitchen and plant myself at the bench as I stare at the church through the window. We are not allowed in there? Maria’s casual statement has my brain spinning. A niggling in the back of my mind makes me think of the conversation I had with my Nonna the night before I departed to come here to Rome.

  “Where did you explore today?” Maria interrupts my thoughts.

  “I went into the Pantheon today and felt so sick I had to practically run out of there. Then I managed to get lost on my way to the Spanish Steps. It took me forever to find my way back here.”

  Maria’s eyes narrow. She picks up the framed photograph on the bench top and spins it so it is facing me. “What do you know of Craco?” She points to the photo.

  “Not much, to be honest. Nonna said something about our ancestors having to flee centuries ago and that is how our family eventually came to live here in Rome.”

  Maria looks at the photograph with longing. “That is true; however, one of these days I will need to tell you the rest of the story.” She carefully places the framed picture back on the cold marble bench and takes a few steps out of the kitchen before turning back to face me. “I’ve made reservations for dinner at one of the restaurants opposite the Pantheon. Be ready by eight.” She smiles before heading down the hall.

  I grab a coffee and head to my room to read and relax before dinner. The open wooden shutters reveal sights and sounds of present-day Romans and tourists going about their day. The breeze is refreshing as it swirls through the room and rustles the sheer white curtains. The combination of baking bread and coffee flares my nostrils and I am reminded of my hunger. I watch a couple as they pose in front of the old church across the road and then head in through the front doors. I expect them to be escorted out within minutes, but the two remain in there for a length of time and emerge smiling and holding hands. It baffles me as to why I was so abruptly led out of the church by the priest. Maria’s comment crosses my mind once again. Grabbing my book, I flop onto the bed and immerse myself in the story, hoping to get lost amongst the world that is unfolding on the pages.

  “Katalina, wake up.” Sofia shakes me gently.

  “Was I asleep?” I blink.

  “Yes, and you were screaming the house down.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, embarrassed. “I have these nightmares that I cannot control, and I end up screaming in my sleep.”

  “I remember having the dreams many years ago. They’re horrible and seem to control your life, but they do stop eventually.”

  “You had the same nightmares?”

  “Yes, it is all a part of the process that…” Sofia suddenly stops midsentence and looks out the window. She tries to hide that she has said too much, but I can see it in her eyes that she wants to say more. “We are going to dinner in thirty minutes.” She smiles warmly before escaping my room.

  I get up, change my top, run a brush through my hair, and put my hair up in a large bun on top of my head. I apply some pink lippy for color and take my white tailored jacket as I exit my room.

  “I’m ready,” I announce as I enter the kitchen.

  We walk to the piazza in front of the Pantheon and head to a restaurant called Di Rienzo. Our waiter, who politely introduces himself as Francesco, seats our party of three at one of the tables out front. I sit facing the Pantheon and the atmosphere once again is electric. I spot a horse and cart parked just outside the Pantheon doors.

  Francesco places our menus on the table and pours us all glasses of water. I could eat one of everything—I’m that hungry. I choose the spaghetti marinara and a Coke. Sofia and Maria both choose a steak dish and red wine.

  Maria eyes me for a moment. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. My birthday is in six days.”

  She speaks to Francesco in Italian before he takes our menus and heads back inside the restaurant to return with a bottle of red and three wine glasses. It occurs to me that one of those glasses is mine.

  “I think you are old enough to have one glass of red wine with us—a celebration of you being here, and besides, it’s the Italian way.” Maria winks at me as Francesco pours our wine.

  “When in Rome…” I giggle. “I’m nearly eighteen anyway; what’s a week here or there?”

  Maria lifts her glass and Sofia and I follow. “To new beginnings.”

  The food arrives and the aroma of the garlic and basil makes my mouth water. I see that Maria and Sofia have ordered the same steak, very rare, with a side salad, which they barely touch. I finish my spaghetti marinara in record time and order a tiramisu for desert. Sofia orders an affogato, and Maria orders a short black.

  While waiting for my dessert I head to the restroom, located at the back of the building down a narrow laneway. A dim light attached to the stone wall barely illuminates the long passage, and my footsteps are the only sound that echo off the walls. The farther I inch toward the back of the building, the more imminent the feeling of someone or something shadowing me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, but when I stop to turn around, the laneway is empty. I take a deep and steadying breath before continuing hurriedly toward the back of the building.

  My heart beats loudly in my ears, drowning out the fast pace of my footsteps. As I barrel around the corner of the stone building, I smack straight into someone’s chest. I’m knocked off balance and find myself falling backwards. Reaching out instinctively, I feel two strong arms grip my waist and steady me. My eyes are closed, and the heady scent of masculine cologne brings me back to reality. I open my eyes and look up into two dark, intense eyes enhanced by thick eyelashes. For a second I’m robbed of the ability to think and move, and I blink to clear my head. I can’t seem to look away from this beautiful creature that has a gentle grip around my waist. I have a fistful of his shirt clutched in both hands and it dawns on me, I have seen him before—earlier today. My gaze moves from his eyes to his full lips to see him smirking.

  I quickly drop my arms. “I’m sorry, I was in a hurry,” I stutter.

  “Are you okay to stand by yourself?” he replies in an Italian accent.

  “I’m fine.”

  He lets go of me and I take a step back to put some space between us, but I cannot tear my eyes away from his angelic face. He is so beautiful it hurts to look at him. He is taller than I thought, and I have to angle my head upwards to look at him. His disheveled, dark hair shines in the moonlight, and his white teeth peek through his parted lips. His flawless skin is an odd flesh color under the light from the bright moon, and the mixture of cologne and leather add to the dangerous vibe he is exuding.

  “Are you going to tell me your name?” he asks disrupting my ogling.

  “Katalina.”

  “Katalina.” My name purrs off his lips causing my heart to do flips in my chest. He smiles wider this time revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

  “Do I get to know your name?” I ask shyly.

  “Dominic.” He looks down at me, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. “I have to go,” he says abruptly and steps around me, taking off down the narrow laneway.

  I stare at the back of his leather jacket as he makes his way toward the piazza and watch him disappear around the corner into the crowd. I follow in his footsteps heading back to the restaurant and find my way to my seat. Maria and Sofia both look at me.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Maria asks. “You look flushed.”

  “I…I…I got a little fright down the laneway. It was dark.”

  “Next time don’t go on your own, okay? Your mom would not be happy if I let anything happen to you.” Maria pats my hand.


  My eyes dart around the piazza searching for any sign of him. Was he even real? His scent still lingers on me and it makes me smile. His voice echoes in my head, and his intense gaze is burned into my mind. My dessert arrives and I am forced to put this beautiful, intense being in the back of my mind while I eat and try to keep up with the conversation at the table.

  As we walk the short distance back to the apartment, I scan the restaurants we pass for another glimpse of him; however, I am disappointed and turn my attention back to keeping up with Maria and Sofia.

  The sun beams down and the warmth is welcome on my bare legs. I’m wearing my favorite denim shorts, a striped T-shirt, and my white Chuck Taylors. I have my brown leather satchel draped diagonally over my shoulder with a cardigan jammed in it in case it gets cool. I watch Sofia as she buys our tickets to enter the Roman Forum. I take note of the man behind the window who carefully avoids touching her hand as he hands back the change. Sofia hands me my ticket and we head toward the entry with cameras and coffees in hand. I follow Sofia’s lead and hand my ticket over to be punctured so that I can re-enter the Forum as many times as I like today. The sand-colored gravel crunches under foot, and from the looks of it, my white shoes won’t be white by the time we have meandered through the ancient site.

  After an hour under the warm sun, we decide to leave and get some gelato. Parked outside the exit are two vans, one selling toasted focaccia and the other an array of gelato flavors.

  I sit with my vanilla-flavored gelato in the shade as Sofia uses the restroom. I spot an old gypsy woman with a hunched back. She is held up by a walking stick and in her other hand is a tin that she is shaking at all the passersby. Clothed in worn rags and without shoes, she looks as though she has not showered in days. I feel a pang of sympathy for this old lady and scrounge in my purse for some Euros. Finding a handful of change, I walk over to her to put the change in her cup, but she straightens up and hisses at me. She proceeds to come toward me pointing her walking stick at me, hissing and saying something in Italian. Sofia appears out of nowhere and the old lady retreats back to her post cursing under her breath and giving Sofia and me the evil eye.