Page 46 of A Perfect Disaster

“It’s not all of Rome, Helen. It’s four blocks. And in case you haven’t checked the clock on deck, it’s pretty urgent,” I reply, trying to stay in control. “I know it’s a desperate plan, but it’s also brilliant. My two best sides come out when everything goes wrong,” I say sarcastically.

Around me, several passengers begin to murmur anxiously upon seeing that the official buses are no longer on the esplanade. I turn toward them and raise a hand, forcing my best cheerleader-style projection.

“Everyone, please listen to me! We’re going to take a little stroll over to the Roma San Pietro train station. It’s right here. I need us to walk together, as a group, without splitting up, without stopping to take pictures, and for heaven’s sake, without buying anything shaped like the Colosseum or a smiling Pope. Okay?”

“But… are we going to make it in time before the ship sets sail?” asks a man, his voice thick with anxiety.

I smile with all the confidence I can muster, as if I were holding the cruise ship’s helm in my hands. Don’t they read the information when they book the cruises, or what?

“Of course.” I force a smile. “No one is going to be left behind, I guarantee it.”

I don’t add “as long as no one falls or gets distracted,” because I sense that wouldn’t help the group’s morale.

Helen speaks to me again over the phone; her tone has changed—now it’s that of the security officer analyzing potential risks.

“I need you to confirm the exact headcount right now.”

“Twenty-four passengers, Nico, and me,” I reply clearly, shuffling my feet across the pavement. “I’ve got Don Ernesto’s daughter’s contact information, and Nico has already passed the report on to ground support. My top priority right now is getting the rest of them out of here. Safe, sound, and on time.”

“Agreed,” Helen says. I hear the rapid tapping of her keyboard in the background. “I’ll adjust the plan. I’ll arrange for the port agency to meet you with a shuttle bus at the Civitavecchia train terminal so you can head straight to the pier as soon as you get off.”

This is Helen at her very best. And for the first time since I saw the buses disappear, I feel like I have solid ground under my feet again.

“Perfect. I’ll buy tickets for the whole group as soon as we get to the ticket counter.”

“Don’t let them out of your sight for a second, Maika. If I’m missing a single boarding pass when we cross the gangway, we’ll have a very serious problem.”

“Thanks for the advice, really. I was thinking of letting them go on Via della Conciliazione and wishing them good luck in their lives,” I say sarcastically.

“Don’t even think about joking about that today. Got it?”

I bite my tongue. Literally. Because if I say what I’m thinking right now, the Vatican will excommunicate both of us.

“Group three, keep up the pace! Nico, bring up the rear. Don’t let anyone fall behind.”

The expedition sets off as best it can. We’re neither elegant nor discreet. We’re a tourist peloton with ship stickers on our chests, backpacks, sweat, and panicked eyes, crossing the cobblestone streets while I lead the march with my cell phone glued to my ear and a professional smile that’s starting to give me cramps in my cheeks.

Rome is beautiful even when it’s ruining your run. The ocher facades glisten in the afternoon sun, motorcycles whiz past, scraping the curbs at absurd speeds, and the terraces give off a criminal aroma of fresh pasta and espresso. A couple kisses passionately on a street corner, completely oblivious to the fact that my mental stability depends on a ship’s boarding schedule. How lovely, how romantic, and how I want to ask them to get out of the way because they’re blocking half the damn sidewalk.

“How are you guys doing? Where exactly are you?” Helen insists.

“Walking,” I reply, and I hear her huff on the other end. “What do you want me to tell you, Helen? The knots we’re moving at? For God’s sake, we’re right in the middle of the street.”

“I just want to know if you’re making good progress.”

I look back over my shoulder. Nico is trying to encourage an elderly couple who are already dragging their feet, and the rest of the group is moving forward like a militarized pilgrimage under the blazing sun.

“We’re doing fine,” I say, picking up the pace. “We may not have the grace of a gazelle, but we’re moving forward.”

Thirty seconds later, I hear her voice again.

“And now?”

“In a Roman alleyway. With hellish cobblestones, tourists everywhere,” I say sarcastically. “Helen, you’re putting unbearable pressure on me. If you say another word to me in the next three minutes—I swear I’ll dump them all in the fountain and quit.”

“Dare to do something like that and I’ll throw you overboard myself the moment you step on deck.”

“Well, go get yourself some chamomile tea, a mud bath, or whatever uptight people use to relax. Damn it!”