Return to Umbria by David Wagner (best book series to read .txt) 📕

taking. Except for the annual ski week, the trips were supposed to be educational experiences for the Montoya kids. If there was a museum, they were marched through it, learning about art by osmosis, if nothing else. After so many visits to churches, Rick and his sister not only knew an apse from a nave, but could have taught a survey course on medieval architecture. He’d complained at the time, but he was glad his parents had force-fed so much culture—especially now that he was back in Italy. Knowing about such things hadn’t hurt when trying to impress the ladies at the university in New Mexico.

The route was a constantly changing landscape. After picking up the car at the Villa Borghese underground garage he had followed the distinctive green autostrada signs to head north on Via Salaria, the modern version of the Roman road named for the salt brought into Rome from the north. The traffic of the center lessened as the street got closer to the edge of the city, and eventually the tightly packed buildings gave way to open space. He swung onto the busy ring road that circled the city but almost immediately got off to enter the A1 autostrada, the highway linking Naples with Milan. Now the scenery turned agricultural. They entered Sabina, a section whose early tribes, more than two millennia ago, had been subdued and brought into the Roman sphere of influence. Rick had yet to meet a Sabine woman, but he spotted a couple of them driving along a dirt road as the highway began to climb into the hills south of Narni. The Tiber, working its way toward Rome, appeared and disappeared from view. A short tunnel, then a much longer one, caused Rick to turn on the headlights. Betta stirred and stretched her legs as the noise of the car engine bounced back off the walls of the tunnel.

“Rick, tell me more about this cousin of yours.”

He glanced at her and back at the road. Her smile always made him happy, even when it was a mischievous one. After numerous relationships, all of which had something hollow about them, he was still trying to discover a downside to spending time with Betta Innocenti. There were others who may have been as attractive, but Betta’s beauty was different, starting with her very short black hair and large green eyes. She had none of the pretentiousness of so many Roman women he knew, wasn’t afraid of saying what she thought, and certainly didn’t worry about what people thought of her. She had—he reached out of Italian and into Spanish—a healthy dash of chispa. It was that spark that placed her at the top of his list. That and her acceptance of his sense of humor.

“There’s not much to tell. I remember Fabrizio as a little kid. Kind of quiet, but that’s the way children are supposed to be in Italian families. The last time I saw him was just after my grandmother’s funeral, if I remember right. He was about ten. They came over to our apartment in Rome and we played with my Lego set. I’ve been meaning to get up to Perugia to see my aunt, but haven’t found the time yet. If I’m not successful in extracting Fabrizio, I may have to put it off even longer.”

The car emerged from the tunnel and sunlight poured back through the windows. The fields outside changed from dark green rows to a bright yellow carpet of tall sunflowers, their faces swiveled to catch the sun.

“Uncle Piero says that Fabrizio always asked about me, so I must have made an impression. As expected, I suppose; the little kid looking up to the high-schooler who then goes off to the university in America. Very exotic.”

“Those exotic qualities have always appealed to me too.”

“Thanks, Betta.”

After coming over a hill, they crossed the Tiber for the last time before slowing down to get off at the Orvieto exchange. The exit ramp led to the toll booths and then out to the street that would take them the final few kilometers to the city.

The Etruscans knew a good defensive position when they saw one. Orvieto sat at the top of what might have been called a mesa in Rick’s New Mexico, its rock outcropping guarded by cliffs that dropped steeply to the valley below. For millennia it was almost impossible to reach the city without the approval of its inhabitants, especially after thick walls were added to the natural defenses. Now drivers reached those city walls after navigating the steep winding road that covered much of the northern side of the hill, hoping to be fortunate enough to find somewhere to park in the twisting maze of narrow streets. But there was another way up to the town.

A couple minutes after leaving the autostrada they came to an irregular-shaped traffic circle where Rick turned off, following the P signs. A large parking lot spread out between the old railroad station and the elevated track of the high-speed trains. Rick found a space, and after locking the car, they rolled their bags to an escalator which took them under the old railroad station and out into a small square. A circular pool adorned the round piazza, its narrow jet of water bent by a slight southern breeze that swirled dust around the street. Beyond the fountain was a more modern station, with six glass gables projecting out from its single story to protect anyone waiting at the bus stop outside. FUNICOLARE was written in metal letters on the stone wall between the set of glass and metal doors.

Inside, a bored city employee took money at a ticket window and dispensed biglietti. Rick pushed euros under the glass and was rewarded with two one-way tickets and change. He turned back to Betta and noticed a digital number on the screen on the wall.

“Subito,” he called to her, “that one is leaving in one minute.” They ran to the turnstile, punched