In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

"Weird science." Ula gave Penny's reflection a meaningful look.
Ula winced as Sandro kicked her under the table. She explained,
"It's kind of a curio museum for that whole ex-pat gang, Keats, Shelley
and Byron, and they have a portrait of Shelley's wife, who wrote the
book while on vacation at Byron's place while it rained all summer. I
guess she got bummed out, or maybe it was the orgies. Sandro hates it."
Sandro harrumphed in a mockery of all things British and
placed his napkin on his plate.
Ula declined to comment, blowing daintily on her tea.
Beatrice looked bleakly out the window, impatiently tapping her
tooth with a red nail.
"How far is Sistine Chapel?" Penny asked.
"It's in another country," Ula dead panned.
"Yes, we take Penelope to the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, le
Stanze, San Pietro. There are magnificent volumes, so bring your little
machine. We must hurry, it closes at one. Then we go to the Castel
Sant'Angelo, it should be sunny by then. What do you say, Mama?"
"Beh, maybe the Vaticano will cure you of your new pagan
ways. Take your harem, see what the good brothers think of you then."
Except for the sumptuous marbles and all that Aztec gold, they
could have been walking into a Hollywood set. The scale of this was
anything but cozy, this temple to only one god. Colossal blood red
columns shot into the haze that filled the cupola, or was that
atmospheric perspective? The place could have been virtual if not for
the crowds and their magnified sonority. Penny set her machine on the
ledge at the base of the column. When she turned around, Sandro and
Ula had disappeared into the crowd of Catholics. Penny looked up at
the domes through the haze. Just beneath the big central dome were
the four twisted black columns of a four poster bed for Godzilla. No,
for Saint Peter, the fisherman, a human being of normal height. His
bones, or his keys were under the bed
She scanned the groups of tiny third world nuns fingering
bright plastic rosaries who scurried around the bed or baldacchino, the
official name for it, but no Sandro and Ula towered from their midst.
Still feeling somewhat queasy Penny leaned back against her
column. Was this a case of Stendhal Syndrome and should she carry
on? Her eyes shut, she let her breath out slowly, and strained to release
into the domes. But all she could think of was them, hand in hand. The
church had the gravitational pull of Jupiter, and she remained planted
furiously into the marble floor.
170