disappear into the maw of a black archway opposite the Palazzo di Venezia. We raced after him.
Outside, the row of brass plates appeared to indicate the usual colony of lawyers, dentists and insurance companies, with possibly a minor resting place of the Banco di Spirito Santo. Inside was a dark vaulted tunnel of pure seventeenth-century magnificence with a pebbled floor and arcaded walls through which we groped in the meager daylight which penetrated from the street. The only other light came from a small concierge’s room at the end, next to the locked double doors which ended the tunnel, and from a hint of daylight to the left, from a small courtyard overlooked by tall buildings. Fragments of ancient marble: masks, broken draperies and fractured Latin inscriptions were built into the vine-covered walls. Among tubs of flowering plants rested a small cherub fountain, pouring thinly under the inscription NON POTIBLE. The tunnel itself was full of small cars.
We ran about, looking for Mr. Paladrini. “I bet you don’t know Napoleon’s mother died here,” Johnson said.
“
A million times I’ve needed you, Mum
,
A million times I’ve cried
If love could have saved you, Mum,
You never would have died
.”
“Hell,” he said abruptly. “He’s gone through the shoe shop.”
We had missed it first time around. But on the right, near the entrance, an archway led down some steps and into a lit arcade which proved to be just that: the shoe shop at the foot of the Corso. We plunged through it and into the street. Dodging up it was Mr. Paladrini, in the middle of all Rome going home to its wife and bambinos in suede jackets and knitted jackets and shortie overcoats and very long overcoats and enough polo necks to outfit the entire British Raj, and better filled, at that. We belted after.
They used to hold horseraces in the Corso, which runs for a mile uphill between the Venezia and Renati’s, and the horses must have needed corks on their shoulders, because the pavements are about three inches wide and the road not much better. It is lined with continuous blocks of shops and churches and palaces, broken by monumental squares. The palaces are the kind made of faceted marble where the barred windows start three feet above the top of your head and the gardens are full of palm trees and gardeners and the private art collections are uninsurable. We charged up it and came to a halt finally in the open space of the Piazza Colonna, with the Marcus Aurelius column towering fervently above us. “Hell,” said Johnson. “He’s gone across to the Galleria.”
The Galleria is a maze, and any self-respecting criminal would make straight for it. We had got halfway across the road with a screeching of brakes to encourage us when Johnson swung me abruptly around and raced back the way we had come. “No, he hasn’t,” he said, and at that moment I saw Mr. Paladrini, walking slowly and deceptively up past the monument and over the piazza.
Halfway across, he glanced around and saw us and, spinning around, started off, fast, in another direction. Two Fiats, an Alfa Romeo and a Mercedes-Benz allowed him to pass and met, uncontrollably, in his absence. There was a bang, followed by a quartet of long, tinny rattles. Mr. Paladrini, in a burst of imperishable speed, nipped onto the pavement and vanished down a flight of steps signposted SOTTO PASSAGGIO PEDONALE, followed by an erratic file of afflicted motorists, a number of bystanders, two carabinieri, and us.
The Piazza Colonna has been referred to as the bellybutton of Rome, and the only way to get from one side to another is under it. Once you get down the steps the foot passage is wide and crowded and brightly lit, and lined with shop display windows and showcases. It also has as many exits and entrances as a badger sett. We had hardly fought our way in when a flight of steps reared on our left labeled, P. COLONNA: MONTECITORIO. From the fact that a red-faced man with a bleeding
Outside, the row of brass plates appeared to indicate the usual colony of lawyers, dentists and insurance companies, with possibly a minor resting place of the Banco di Spirito Santo. Inside was a dark vaulted tunnel of pure seventeenth-century magnificence with a pebbled floor and arcaded walls through which we groped in the meager daylight which penetrated from the street. The only other light came from a small concierge’s room at the end, next to the locked double doors which ended the tunnel, and from a hint of daylight to the left, from a small courtyard overlooked by tall buildings. Fragments of ancient marble: masks, broken draperies and fractured Latin inscriptions were built into the vine-covered walls. Among tubs of flowering plants rested a small cherub fountain, pouring thinly under the inscription NON POTIBLE. The tunnel itself was full of small cars.
We ran about, looking for Mr. Paladrini. “I bet you don’t know Napoleon’s mother died here,” Johnson said.
“
A million times I’ve needed you, Mum
,
A million times I’ve cried
If love could have saved you, Mum,
You never would have died
.”
“Hell,” he said abruptly. “He’s gone through the shoe shop.”
We had missed it first time around. But on the right, near the entrance, an archway led down some steps and into a lit arcade which proved to be just that: the shoe shop at the foot of the Corso. We plunged through it and into the street. Dodging up it was Mr. Paladrini, in the middle of all Rome going home to its wife and bambinos in suede jackets and knitted jackets and shortie overcoats and very long overcoats and enough polo necks to outfit the entire British Raj, and better filled, at that. We belted after.
They used to hold horseraces in the Corso, which runs for a mile uphill between the Venezia and Renati’s, and the horses must have needed corks on their shoulders, because the pavements are about three inches wide and the road not much better. It is lined with continuous blocks of shops and churches and palaces, broken by monumental squares. The palaces are the kind made of faceted marble where the barred windows start three feet above the top of your head and the gardens are full of palm trees and gardeners and the private art collections are uninsurable. We charged up it and came to a halt finally in the open space of the Piazza Colonna, with the Marcus Aurelius column towering fervently above us. “Hell,” said Johnson. “He’s gone across to the Galleria.”
The Galleria is a maze, and any self-respecting criminal would make straight for it. We had got halfway across the road with a screeching of brakes to encourage us when Johnson swung me abruptly around and raced back the way we had come. “No, he hasn’t,” he said, and at that moment I saw Mr. Paladrini, walking slowly and deceptively up past the monument and over the piazza.
Halfway across, he glanced around and saw us and, spinning around, started off, fast, in another direction. Two Fiats, an Alfa Romeo and a Mercedes-Benz allowed him to pass and met, uncontrollably, in his absence. There was a bang, followed by a quartet of long, tinny rattles. Mr. Paladrini, in a burst of imperishable speed, nipped onto the pavement and vanished down a flight of steps signposted SOTTO PASSAGGIO PEDONALE, followed by an erratic file of afflicted motorists, a number of bystanders, two carabinieri, and us.
The Piazza Colonna has been referred to as the bellybutton of Rome, and the only way to get from one side to another is under it. Once you get down the steps the foot passage is wide and crowded and brightly lit, and lined with shop display windows and showcases. It also has as many exits and entrances as a badger sett. We had hardly fought our way in when a flight of steps reared on our left labeled, P. COLONNA: MONTECITORIO. From the fact that a red-faced man with a bleeding
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