‘I know you have a lot on your mind and in your heart,’ he said. ‘You can always talk to me about it,no?’
Her shoulders curled and her head instinctively dropped to his shoulder. ‘Nottalking about it feels like the greatest escape, to be honest.’
Marco’s arm wrapped around Stella’s shoulders, which bolstered her. ‘Denial is the ultimate escapism.’
With only a few hours of daylight left, Piazza San Pietro was Stella’s second stop, and she guided him to a particular place in the square.
The breeze seemed to find a renewed fortitude, and it bounced off the basilica to their left with the desire to rustle more than the pigeons’ feathers. Gathered tourists lost their maps and hats, and even a scarf danced along the cobblestones, while a small group of elderly nuns were forced to hold on tightly to their habits.
Stella, whose coat couldn’t be buttoned any higher, clutched at the collar. ‘Is that an omen?’
‘Speriamo di no,’ said Marco, noting the lack of cloud cover. ‘An even colder night to come.’
Rubbing her hands vigorously up and down Marco’s arms to warm him, even if in vain, she pointed to the white marble columns encircling the piazza. Propping her chin over his shoulder, she directed his gaze ahead. ‘Marco Luna.’
‘Sì.’
‘Tell me how many rows of columns you see there.’
‘You mean, across?’ He gestured the entire expanse of the piazza.
‘No. Behind. One in front of the other.’
He counted them, then confidently answered, ‘Quattro.’
‘Bravo. Very good.’ She gave his shoulders a squeeze before guiding him a step to the right. ‘Now look and tell me how many you see.’
As if by magic, the three rear rows had disappeared behind the first, and it appeared as if the square were framed by a single line of towering white columns.
Marco gave his head a little shake. ‘Ma? Where did they go?’ He stepped back to the left and the columns reappeared. Then back to the right, and they were gone.
‘You have the special touch, Marco,’ she said.
‘How did they do that?’
Stella’s brows raised as her lips pursed. She pointed to his feet, which were fixed to a white marble disc set into the pavers of the square.
He stepped off it, cocked his head to the side, and read, ‘Centro del Colonnato.’
‘When Bernini designed the piazza, he included two special points –this, and another identical on the other side – from which an optical illusion hides the rear columns. Design meets technical innovation and pure—’
‘Genius.’
Stella smiled. ‘Exactly. Two-hundred and eighty-four columns suddenly become . . .’
‘Much less. Please don’t do the maths.’
Laughing, she said, ‘I’ll leave that to Bernini.’ She stepped to the side and watched as the columns lined up, masking their counterparts. ‘It’s a metaphor for life, really. One shift in any direction, and our past – what’s sitting behind us, at our shoulders, in our memories – can just . . .’
‘Disappear.’
Stella nodded and hooked her arm around Marco’s. ‘Let’s hope.’
He tightened the hold that linked them and they turned to face the illuminated Basilica of St Peter. ‘Gigantesca. No?’
‘Humblingly so.’
Both fell silent, listening to the rustling crash of the water of theFontane Gemelle, and the echoing craws of the swarms of seagulls overhead. In the distance, along the Tiber, the usual streetscape sounds dotted the air – sirens muffled by Rome’s stone corners, and the never-ending concert of suburban-bound klaxons.
