The Dead Man's Brother Read Online Free PDF Page B

ritual in classified matters, but also often used as a coverup. If I suddenly needed to know something more, I supposed they would tell me at the time, if they could reach me, if I were still living. It seems to be a law of life that whenever there is something illegally obtained and valuable in any given place, the carrion birds tend to congregate at the site. I did not wish to encounter any unexpectedly if I could have been warned. That’s all.
    "Star light, star bright," I addressed some nameless point of light within the darkness, "it would be nice if Berwick were right on that charmed life business. Just in case."
     
    *
     
    Rome. Memories. Stuff like that. Gone. Not really lamented. Nostalgia for youth and circumstances past. I guess. At least that is why I had made reservations at the Massimo D’Azeglio on the Via Cavour. My old favorite.
    After tipping, unpacking, bathing and changing clothes, I went to walk the ancient streets, to fill my head with happy sights and sounds and my stomach with lunch. It was a sunny though somewhat brisk day, but my clothing was warm and my shades adequate. For a time I simply wandered, up wide, tree-shaded sidewalks and down narrow streets that passed buildings both impressive and dirty. I watched the Vespas weave in and out of traffic and enjoyed the play of sunlight on yellow plaster walls. Here, pigeons bobbed at crumbs before a sidewalk café; there ropes of dark-leafed vines escaped across a garden wall. And the girls—I watched the pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed girls, heels clicking on cobbles and concrete, large breasts thrust almost arrogantly forward, and when they passed near enough I sniffed pungent perfumes and occasionally got a faint smile. I stopped in a small restaurant for soup, chicken cacciatore and some white chianti. Then I walked on, winding up finally at the National Museum, though this had not been my intention when I had begun my stroll. After a while, I lost all track of time and managed, somehow, to forget the messy situation which had brought me to Rome. I was shocked when I happened to glance at my watch and realized that I had spent over three hours in the place. I departed then, the bells of history still chiming in my head, and made my way slowly back toward the hotel. It grew chillier as the sun wandered west, over and out, but I did not mind it. I was happy to be in Rome again, no matter what the reason.
    The night was high, cool and cloudless, stars like a bucket of soapsuds splashed across the sky. Heading upward, I eventually reached the inevitable bulk of the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. For a long while I studied it and the area about it. Turning, I regarded the direction from which I had approached. This section, the Monti area, is the oldest and largest region of Rome. It covers three of the famous seven hills—the Quirinale, the Viminala, the Calio—and in times long gone three of my dad’s old favorites had lived in the area: Ovid, Virgil, Horace. Also, one of the roughest, most corrupt quarters of the city once existed between the point where I stood and Colle Oppio. I wondered what my namesake would say were he to be released from Elysium to come stand beside me at that moment and share my thoughts. Doubtless, he would chuckle and not be surprised in the least as to my undesired undertaking. The old boy was too sophisticated not to appreciate that while a few of the props have been shuffled, human nature itself has remained unchanged throughout that series of betrayals and calamities we call history. He could appreciate the juxtaposition of genius and corruption, art and crime. Shrugging my shoulders at this profundity, I turned and made my way along the Via Cavour in the direction of my hotel. The sickle moon had risen, clear and clean, was poised before me now as in Time’s hand. If I were lucky I might be able to get in at La Carbonara for dinner. I’d call and see.
    Tomorrow the Vatican.
     
    *
     
    At ten o’clock the