In the 1950s, a strip of land between the Vatican Museums and my apartment building was excavated to build a covered lot for the pope’s own cars. A few feet down, workmen discovered the corpse of a Roman emperor’s secretary with his pen and inkpot. His grave became our autopark, home to the Vatican car mechanics and papal car service. The place is constructed like a bomb shelter, dark and low-slung, with plantings of trees on its roof. The only way inside is through hangar doors that are unlocked for a few seconds when a car comes in or out. The sun hasn’t set, but the street is so sunken that the landscape is shadowy. Motor oil bleeds out from under the door, shining like chrome under an electric light.
“Help you, Father?” says the man who answers my knock at the door.
He wears the uniform of a Vatican driver: black trousers, white shirt, black tie.
“I’m looking for Signor Nardi,” I say.
He rubs the back of his neck as if I’ve caught him at a busy time. As if the prelates who call for rides in these cars aren’t all heading to bed now as late afternoon slips into evening. The night shift here seems to exist only for the morbid emergencies of clerical old age.
“Sorry, Father,” he says. “Could you come back later?”
“It’s important. Please ask him to come out.”
He glances over his shoulder. I wonder if he has a visitor. Girlfriends sometimes visit these drivers on the night shift.
“Hold tight. I’ll see if he’s here.”
A moment passes. The door reopens, and out comes Gianni Nardi.
“Alex?”
The last time I saw Gianni was more than a year ago. My old friend has gained weight. His shirt is wrinkled and his hair is too long. We clamp hands on each other and trade kisses on the cheek, holding on longer than we should, because as the distance has grown, so has the enthusiasm of our greetings. Someday we will be the greatest of strangers.
“What’s the occasion?” he says, looking around as if to locate the parade on the streets. Alex Andreou, coming to see me. He has always made this kind of thing funny.
“Can we talk somewhere private?” I say.
“You got it. Follow me.”
And when he doesn’t even ask why, I already have my first answer. Gianni must’ve heard about Simon.
We climb a set of stairs to the tree-lined terrace of the autopark roof.
“Listen,” he says before I can get a word in, “I’m sorry, Alex. I should’ve called. How are you and Peter holding up?”
“Fine. How’d you hear the news?”
“Are you kidding? The gendarmes won’t leave us alone.” He points a finger downward, indicating the cavernous parking lot underneath us. “I’ve got three of them in my garage right now asking questions.”
So that’s why I wasn’t allowed inside. “Questions about what?”
“About some Alfa they towed back from Castel Gandolfo. It’s in their impound lot.”
Ugo drove an Alfa Romeo.
“Gianni,” I say, “I need your help.”
* * *
WE WERE BEST FRIENDS growing up. This building is where we cemented our friendship. One summer we heard a rumor that when the autopark was built, the workmen discovered a whole necropolis under there, tunnel upon tunnel of ancient Roman tombs. This meant we villagers were living on top of a cemetery, over the dead bodies of the pagans who once vowed Christians would never replace them. Gianni and I needed to see it with our own eyes.