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More uneasy than ever, I follow my instincts which urge me to watch Paolo.
We pass the Vatican, which I still gape at as I wander by. The lane toward it is packed with people, and the coffee shops and stores that line it are heaving too.
Beggars are almost ornamental on doorways, sleeping on pieces of cardboard, pleading for food even as they sleep amid the tumble of life.
It’s strange because they aren’t even actively busking. They just sleep. Like they know they’ll be ignored.
One thing that has astonished me so far is just how many homeless people there are.
So close to the Vatican, maybe that makes sense. They come to where they believe they will get help. And yet, there doesn’t seem to be much of it.
It feels wrong.
Wicked, somehow.
There’s so much affluence in this boulevard, and yet, so much poverty too.
As I follow Paolo over the Ponte Vaticano, which necessitates us avoiding a tangle of traffic that’s crossing the River Tiber, I pass a priest dressed like Friar Tuck, and then a nun who’s wearing a full-on toga.
It’s perplexing how many different priests and nuns I’ve seen, each of them wearing a slightly different ‘uniform.’
Like how the thick hemp rope the friar wears around his waist is a stark contrast to the flimsy fabric of the toga-wearing nun.
Even as I wonder if they’re cold, if drafts go up their skirts because they’re the only locals not wrapped in a million layers, we finally make it to the other side, leaving the Vatican area and heading into Rome proper.
I mean, it’sallRome, but once you cross the river at this point, the atmosphere changes.
As we amble down a few back alleys, I’m not surprised when Paolo stops at a restaurant.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t look like anything impedes his mealtimes.
His belly is proof enough.
Although, by the time I’m done with my visit to the city, maybe I’ll have a food baby too. The pasta here? Yum.
When I slip inside the restaurant, I tuck myself in at the back.
It’s small, dark, a touch cramped, and there’s a TV on in the background. It’s also full—I’m lucky to get a table. Though it’s at the back of the restaurant and I’m halfway in the kitchen.
When the server comes, I barely look at her as I order a tonic water. She purses her lips when I decline the menu, but promptly delivers my drink to the table.
Paolo orders a bottle of chianti and a board of antipasti. As he eats, he watches the news on TV. I can’t tell whether what I witnessed back in the church was bullshit or if he’s finding solace in food.
Because, yes,heis the one in need of solace.
Fury has my hand trembling as I lift my glass to my lips for a sip.
I can see him quite clearly—the bar is free from artifice. The décor consists of small tables, uncomfortable, rickety chairs, little red-and-white check tablecloths, and a small shot glass with a tiny flower propped in it. The bar is scrubbed oak, scored with time, and the register is vintage too.
It’s not the kind of place a tourist comes to. This is for the locals, and that’s why, when I see Savio walking into the establishment, I nearly choke on my drink.
He’s a local?
I mean, technically, he is. But this place is more than a decent walk from his parish. I know he’s French Italian, but he was born on the Côte d’Azur, not Rome. Still, the waitress seems to know Savio, and when he sits beside Paolo, who tenses at the sight of him, she brings over a glass of what appears to be water to their table.
I’ll admit, whatever I expected next, it didn’t happen.
I thought they’d discuss what Paolo had confessed, that there might be an intense discussion.