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Authors: Madison Smartt Bell
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the QED film company before I decide the matter,” I told him.
“I see. You will please open your suitcase.”
I unzipped the bag and the inspector proceeded to unpack it completely. Not an interesting or suspect item in the lot, though, only clothes, toothbrush, razor, phrasebook, the manual. The inspector spread these things across the table and then fingered the lining of the bag. I could not tell if he was disappointed or not.
“You will please empty your pockets,” he said, standing up. “Please also remove your shoes. “
There wasn’t a very good haul from the pockets either. Keys, change, a miniature calculator, date book, lighter, cigarettes, money clip. The inspector squeezed my shoe leather between his thumb and forefinger.
“You will please stand up and lean forward with your hands flat on the table.”
Then I received a medium-thorough frisking. He missed a couple of places, but I hadn’t held anything back. He finished and I straightened up and looked at him. Now he did seem a little perplexed.
“Excuse me, please, I must telephone,” he said. Then he headed for the door, taking my passport with him. In the doorway he paused to say, “You may put on your shoes.” While he was gone I did that and also put everything back into my pockets. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before he returned.
“You are expected immediately at QED,” he said. “I have taken the liberty to call for you a taxi.” He went to the table and began to repack my bag, doing quite a neat job of it, I noticed. When he came to the books he picked up a volume of Kierkegaard and flipped through it with some curiosity.
“You are a student of theology, I see.”
“Ethics, really. And in any case I am only an amateur.” He shrugged and put the books in the bag, then handed me my passport.
“Your passport has been stamped,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. Then the guard behind me said something in Italian which had something to do with money. It might have been “What about the money?” or “Did you find the money?” The inspector snapped at him and he said nothing more.
“Your taxi is waiting, Mr. Bateman,” he told me then. He handed me my bag and I slung it on my shoulder.
“I hope that this procedure has not occasioned you too much inconvenience,” he said.
“Not at all,” I said.
“I trust that you will enjoy your stay in Rome. I hope that your visit will prove both pleasant and profitable both for you and for the QED film company.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. I might have gone for a handshake too, but my hands had started to shiver again, now that it was over.
The good part about all this was that the cab driver didn’t even try to cheat me.
What with all the rush and confusion of this whole operation, I had not noticed or paid any attention to the address of the QED studio, which turned out to be not quite what I had expected. Given Kevin’s hints about the budget, I’d assumed the place would be somewhere along the Via Flaminia, or else to the east, in the newer part of the city. But the cab dropped me off on a narrow street just a bit above the Piazza Navona, what looked like a residential block.
But the number agreed with the QED stationery. I hitched up my bag and approached the front door. On the door frame there was a vertical row of bell buttons and beside the top one someone had affixed the QED letterhead, evidently cut from a piece of note paper, with a blob of Scotch tape. I pressed the button several times, but I could not hear it ring inside. After a decent interval I began ringing the other two as well. Making a pay phone call in Rome is no simple matter. You can’t use coins, you have to buy a gettone, you have to find somewhere to buy it, and then you have to find a phone, which in many cases will not work.
I lacked the energy for any of that, so I stayed where I was, alternately ringing and pounding. Eventually the front door opened a crack and I saw a pair of
“I see. You will please open your suitcase.”
I unzipped the bag and the inspector proceeded to unpack it completely. Not an interesting or suspect item in the lot, though, only clothes, toothbrush, razor, phrasebook, the manual. The inspector spread these things across the table and then fingered the lining of the bag. I could not tell if he was disappointed or not.
“You will please empty your pockets,” he said, standing up. “Please also remove your shoes. “
There wasn’t a very good haul from the pockets either. Keys, change, a miniature calculator, date book, lighter, cigarettes, money clip. The inspector squeezed my shoe leather between his thumb and forefinger.
“You will please stand up and lean forward with your hands flat on the table.”
Then I received a medium-thorough frisking. He missed a couple of places, but I hadn’t held anything back. He finished and I straightened up and looked at him. Now he did seem a little perplexed.
“Excuse me, please, I must telephone,” he said. Then he headed for the door, taking my passport with him. In the doorway he paused to say, “You may put on your shoes.” While he was gone I did that and also put everything back into my pockets. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before he returned.
“You are expected immediately at QED,” he said. “I have taken the liberty to call for you a taxi.” He went to the table and began to repack my bag, doing quite a neat job of it, I noticed. When he came to the books he picked up a volume of Kierkegaard and flipped through it with some curiosity.
“You are a student of theology, I see.”
“Ethics, really. And in any case I am only an amateur.” He shrugged and put the books in the bag, then handed me my passport.
“Your passport has been stamped,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. Then the guard behind me said something in Italian which had something to do with money. It might have been “What about the money?” or “Did you find the money?” The inspector snapped at him and he said nothing more.
“Your taxi is waiting, Mr. Bateman,” he told me then. He handed me my bag and I slung it on my shoulder.
“I hope that this procedure has not occasioned you too much inconvenience,” he said.
“Not at all,” I said.
“I trust that you will enjoy your stay in Rome. I hope that your visit will prove both pleasant and profitable both for you and for the QED film company.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. I might have gone for a handshake too, but my hands had started to shiver again, now that it was over.
The good part about all this was that the cab driver didn’t even try to cheat me.
What with all the rush and confusion of this whole operation, I had not noticed or paid any attention to the address of the QED studio, which turned out to be not quite what I had expected. Given Kevin’s hints about the budget, I’d assumed the place would be somewhere along the Via Flaminia, or else to the east, in the newer part of the city. But the cab dropped me off on a narrow street just a bit above the Piazza Navona, what looked like a residential block.
But the number agreed with the QED stationery. I hitched up my bag and approached the front door. On the door frame there was a vertical row of bell buttons and beside the top one someone had affixed the QED letterhead, evidently cut from a piece of note paper, with a blob of Scotch tape. I pressed the button several times, but I could not hear it ring inside. After a decent interval I began ringing the other two as well. Making a pay phone call in Rome is no simple matter. You can’t use coins, you have to buy a gettone, you have to find somewhere to buy it, and then you have to find a phone, which in many cases will not work.
I lacked the energy for any of that, so I stayed where I was, alternately ringing and pounding. Eventually the front door opened a crack and I saw a pair of
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