Part 6 (1/2)

'What, now?'

'Certo,' said Roberto.

'Oh, sure, great.'

Gina was lumbered: the girl was already getting out of the car.

'Afterwards,' said Roberto, 'be sure to send her safely back to us. And I'll call you about those photos.'

'I'll email you the proofs as soon as I've sorted through them,' said Gina, striving to sound as formal as possible in front of the two teenagers.

The lights changed; the Alfa sped off. As they waited at the busy intersection, Gina said, 'I'll point you in the right direction but it's not actually convenient for me to be a tour guide. Bertie got the wrong end of the stick. I'm sorry he threw you out like that before I had a chance to explain.' She started to cross and Sasha hurried after her. 'Still, you should see it it's such a wonderful peaceful spot, given it's in the midst of all this clamour.' She windmilled her arms in the centre of the road and trucks and scooters darted around her. Sasha looked scared.

'Don't dither,' said Gina. 'You'll get yourself killed.'

When they were both safely on the opposite pavement, she veered down the quiet side street that led to the cemetery. She pointed through the aperture set into the wall. 'If you look through that you can see Keats' grave. The main entrance is a little further on.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Oh, it's a business matter. I'm going to see the Lion King.'

'Do you mean the film?'

'G.o.d no! He's a priest called Leone, who has a church not far from here. But you'll be fine.' She wasn't a babysitter; the girl was none of her business. Anyway, what could go wrong?

8.

The Protestant Cemetery was closed. Sasha pushed fruitlessly against the lock before thinking to study the timetable screwed to the heavy gates and cursing. Just her luck! She took out her phone and sent a text to Renate. She and Ilse had gone with some boys they'd met on a trip to the beach. Sasha wished she'd muscled in, instead of letting Signor Boletti persuade her she shouldn't miss a rare and privileged opportunity: every football fan's dream. She should have made it clear she wasn't a football fan. It was at times like this she could have done with Ruby, whose resistance to being pushed around was super-human.

Sullenly she retraced her route to the main road. In the distance she spotted a flash of red that might be Gina's T-s.h.i.+rt, drawing closer. An arm waved, a voice called out; Sasha ran towards her.

Gina was taking long impatient strides, her bag thumping against her hip. 'd.a.m.n, I'm sorry!' she shouted. 'I should have remembered they're shut on Sunday afternoons.'

Sasha supposed it was nice of her to have turned back, though it was her fault Signor Boletti had dumped her out of his car in the first place. 'What am I going to do?'

'Well, I don't want you to get lost again so I can give you directions to Parioli if you like. Or you could call Bertie and get him to pick you up. He won't be far off yet.'

Sasha considered. She certainly didn't want to struggle home on public transport though at least when she got there she'd be able to log on and disappear into the virtual world of Facebook. Annoying as it was, she would have to ring for a lift. She flipped open her phone again and Renate's response pinged into her inbox. They would be leaving the beach soon and taking the train to Ostiense. The prospect boosted her spirits.

'That's near here, isn't it?' she said to Gina.

'What is?'

'The station for Ostia. I'm going to meet my mates there so it's not worth going back to the Bolettis. If I could kill a little time, hang out with you for a bit longer...'

'Come with me to the crypt, you mean?'

'Yes please.'

Gina gave a quiver of irritation. 'If you must. It's a bit of a walk so we need to hurry.'

She marched off, crossing onto the broad busy boulevard; Sasha kept pace. She could have said, No, she thought to herself. She didn't have to do all this sighing, this martyr act, like her mother tried sometimes. In fact, both Sasha's parents made a big deal about the lives they were responsible for when they were only doing the job they were paid to do, after all.

They pa.s.sed under the railway bridge and on a piece of wasteland alongside the line she noticed an encampment of cheap nylon tents. From a distance the bright colours and billowing shapes could have been a flock of b.u.t.terflies. As they got closer she could see that some of the tents were ripped and stained; there was a coil of sluggish smoke and a stench of burning plastic. Two men were shouting in an argument that seemed to be escalating; their fellow campers watched, cross-legged on the ground, in an aura of apathy. Afraid they would beg for money she didn't have, Sasha stuck close to Gina. 'It's a bit scary round here.' The wall opposite was sprayed with graffiti; discarded bottles and cans rolled in the gutter. Rubbish overflowed from a row of skips. A train gathered momentum along the tracks.

'You're getting a glimpse of the underbelly,' said Gina. 'It's a different kind of grim. When I first came to live here all the shanty towns, tin shacks, cardboard shelters, whatever, were on the outskirts. The bits the developers hadn't got to yet. They were mostly Roma, Kosovan Albanians and a few Africans in those days. Now there are so many of them, the migrants have moved into the centre. They spend all day looking for work or queuing for handouts, but they can't find anywhere to live. Half the time they can't move on either.'

'Why not?'

'It's all down to something called the Dublin Regulation. You're supposed to claim asylum in the first port of arrival, which for most of them is Italy. They wind up in detention centres where they're fingerprinted and given temporary papers. The country can't actually cope with the influx, but because they've been registered they get sent back if they try to move elsewhere. Guys have even set fire to their fingertips to destroy their prints.'

'Does it work?'

'No.'

'And do they really have to sleep on the street?'

'Scandalous, isn't it? Worse than refugee camps in the third world. Would you believe the company who wants to develop the site has cut off their water supply? At least this might force the city's hand. If they don't find them accommodation, G.o.d knows what trouble will break out.'

A few minutes later she added, 'Right, we're here. Be careful. These steps are steep.'

They'd arrived at it almost without warning: an una.s.suming church with a Madonna lurching above the main entrance like a figurehead on a s.h.i.+p's prow. Sasha followed Gina down a cast-iron spiral staircase into the gully of a bas.e.m.e.nt area; then through a wooden door. There was no natural light in the crypt; fluorescent tubes swayed overhead, illuminating half-empty crates and cardboard boxes, bin bags of old clothes. Beneath the vaulted arches were spools of bedding rolled up like sausages. In a corner, a heap of clothing stirred: someone was sleeping. A group of young men seated around a large square table seemed to be learning English. Their teacher, a plump, fair-skinned woman, raised her eyes to Gina and continued the lesson without acknowledging her.

'Here he comes,' muttered Gina as a slight stooped figure detached himself from another small knot of people and approached.

Sasha was unprepared for the fact that the Lion King was bald. She'd expected an impressive creature with a flowing mane, who could double up as a medieval king. Or Jesus. She almost said, 'Are you sure this is the right guy?' even though the long black folds of his soutane swished as he walked.

In spite of his nondescript appearance he had an air of authority. He was speaking to Gina in Italian and Sasha couldn't follow, but she got the impression he was angry in a quiet steely way. And she could tell that Gina was arguing, denying something. She shook her head, even stamped her foot. Words tumbled out of her in indignation and Sasha was surprised she would shout at a priest. Feeling awkward, like when she stumbled on her parents having a row, she wandered off. The underground air smelled musty and stale but it was deliciously cool. It made her think of diving into river water and swirling up the mud from its bed. A youth with a bandaged arm, the yellowing crepe matching the roll of his eyes, shouted at her as she pa.s.sed. She'd no idea whether it was in greeting or anger.

Then Gina caught up with her. 'Come back, Sasha. Don't intrude.'

She's been told off for something, thought Sasha, so she's taking it out on me. 'I'm not intruding!'

'These boys don't have any homes or any privacy. You must understand that, show some respect.'

'I wasn't doing any harm. What is it anyhow, this place?'

'It's Limbo,' said Gina. 'Better really if it were Purgatory. If your loved ones say enough Ma.s.ses for you, you have a chance of getting out of Purgatory.'

Sasha wasn't stupid. She could see that it was a homeless shelter, that the occupants, like the men camping behind the station, were as hopelessly stranded as if they'd been washed up on some desert island. She knew how desperate people could be to reach what they believed was a land of opportunity. Once her father had had a stowaway on his plane: a man curled inside a suitcase who suffocated in the luggage hold. Corrupt baggage handling was suspected. There'd been an investigation but there was no conclusive evidence. Her father had been angry and shaken; tangential responsibility, said her mother whatever that meant.

'If the authorities believe these kids,' said Gina, 'they'll treat them as minors and find them a place in a hostel, whatever. But it's a lot less bother and expense, actually, to disbelieve them. Father Leone is trying to bridge the gap by providing this s.p.a.ce. I need to have a word with him in private. There are issues we have to resolve over this project I'm working on. How far I take it, that sort of thing. It's complicated... But it's not like with Antonio. These guys aren't pretending to be hotshot sportsmen flas.h.i.+ng their studs. It's a whole different ball game. I call them the Lost Boys.'

'I don't know why you didn't say this when we were still in the car,' protested Sasha. 'Why you let me think...'

'Because I didn't want Bertie to know where I was going. So you mustn't tell him. Is that absolutely clear? He claims he doesn't like riff-raff. He'd rather send them back out to sea in a leaky boat and maybe take a few potshots while he's at it.'