13 Little Blue Envelopes(30)

On top of that, she was terrified of crossing the street, since everyone drove like a stunt extra from a movie car chase. (Even the nuns, of which there were plenty.) Ginny confined herself to 133

one side of a road and crossed intersections only with groups of more than twenty.

And it was hot. So much hotter than London. It was real

summer here.

After an hour of wandering around what seemed like the

same tight streets of pharmacies and video rental stores, she spotted a tour group walking along with flags and matching travel bags. Lacking any other plan, she decided to trail them loosely in the hopes that they’d be going somewhere big and touristy. Then at least she’d be somewhere.

As she walked, she noticed a few things. The tourists wore sandals or sneakers and carried heavy bags or maps. They looked hot, and they guzzled bottles of water or soda. She even saw a few people buzzing themselves with tiny, battery-powered handheld fans. They looked ridiculous, but Ginny knew she wasn’t doing much better. Her bag was stuck to her back. Her braids were limp in the heat. The little makeup she wore had dribbled off her face. She was developing a nasty sweat pocket at the middle of her bra that was going to start showing through her shirt at any second. And her sneakers were squeakier than usual.

The Roman women flew past on Vespa scooters with their

designer handbags resting by their feet. They wore huge,

fabulous sunglasses. They smoked. Talked on their cell phones.

Threw dramatic glances over their shoulders at people who passed them by. Most amazingly, they did it all in heels, gracefully, without teetering over on the cobblestones or getting stuck in a crack on the uneven pavements. They didn’t break down and cry from the blisters that had to be forming as the 134

sweltering heat caused the leather of their stilettos to suction to their perfectly pedicured feet.

They were hard for Ginny to watch. They made her nervous.

She followed a group down into a metro station and lost

them as she struggled to buy her tickets. She went over to a map and found, to her relief, that there was a stop marked Coliseo, with a drawing that looked a lot like a doughnut. When she emerged again into the blinding Roman sunlight, she was on a busy road. It seemed certain that she had made a mistake until she turned and found that the Colosseum was directly behind her. It took her a few minutes to make it across the street.

Again, she met another tour group, and she trailed along

behind, following them under one of the massive archways that led inside. The guide seemed to take a little too much pleasure in reporting the bloodshed that had made the Colosseum so popular back in the day.

“. . . and at the inaugural, over five thousand animals were slaughtered!”

A woman in a long, double-sided apron was walking toward

them. She opened a large bag she was carrying. Within a

moment, a flurry of cats appeared around them. They seemed to leak from the walls. They jumped from hidden ledges high up in the stony walls. They rushed from behind Ginny and gathered together in a tangle, mewing loudly. The woman smiled and began pulling paper takeout containers full of bright red raw meat and pasta. She set these down on the ground, allowing a few feet between each dish, and the cats swarmed around. Ginny could actually hear them frantically chewing the food and purring loudly. When they were finished eating a few moments 135

later, they surrounded the woman, rubbing hard against her ankles.

Ginny and the tour group crossed through a passageway into the Roman Forum. The Forum looked like a very old place that had been run through by a giant bowling ball. Some columns, though cracked and worn, were still standing. Others were just little nubs in the ground, strange little stone tree stumps.

Ancient buildings sat on the rocky outlines of other, even more ancient but now-missing buildings. The group split up to

explore. Ginny decided to ask the guide where to go—he didn’t seem that aware of who was with him.

“I’m looking for the vestal virgins,” Ginny said. “Their

temple is supposed to be in here.”

“The virgins!” he said, raising his hands in delight. “You come with me.”

They made their way through the labyrinth of walls and paths and columns to two rectangular pools made of stone, obviously ancient but refilled and planted around with flowers. On one side was a line of statues on tall square pedestals. All women, all wrapped in flowing Roman robes. Most of them were missing their heads. Some, most of their bodies. Eight figures stood, with a few empty pedestals between them. The other side was full of empty pedestals or just remnants of pedestals. The pedestals and statues were protected from the crowd by a low metal rail— nothing much, no more than a mild request not to touch.

“The virgins,” he said proudly. “Lovely.”

Ginny leaned into the rail and looked over the statues. She felt that weird guilt she sometimes got when she knew she was looking at something very old and important and she just 136

didn’t . . . get it. The story behind them was interesting, but they were still just a bunch of broken statues.

Come to think of it . . . it was a little annoying that Aunt Peg had sent her to look at a bunch of famous virgins. What exactly was that supposed to mean?

For some reason, this made her think of Keith. That memory stung. She pulled off her daypack very deliberately and dug around inside. She had a few euros and euro coins. A gum wrapper. The key to her room at Ortensia’s. The next letter. Her eye patch thing from the plane. Nothing that seemed like an appropriate gift to give a bunch of ancient statues. This whole thing was suddenly very annoying. It was too hot. The symbolism was a little too pointed. This entire exercise was stupid.