Searching....searching......just gotta keep searching....... till I find my way home..
It was early June when Yvette Bleu arrived by plane at Orly airport from London after her long meeting & the basic but delicious meal of beans, fried eggs, bacon, sausages, chips and toast washed down by a mug of sweet & strong ‘builders’ tea in the café outside Waterloo station.
The taxi ride to Heathrow had been fast & furious as she had lost track of the time during the introductions, conversations & informations at the meal. Something she rarely did. So it was a relief to have a taxi driver who didn’t seem to want to talk but had guaranteed that he would get there in time for her plane. As a consequence she saw parts of the city that were unknown to her but as good as his word he got her to the airport with enough time to catch her flight.
He was a young Sikh with a beautiful beard, tinted glasses and a deep red turban wrapped perfectly round his hidden topknot. As she got out the taxi to pay him she had a moment of regret that she hadn’t spoken with him on the journey. Particularly when he smiled at her. Something so open & radiant in his face.
“Thank you Mr…..I don’t know your name but thank you for getting me here in time”
“ Kirpal. My name is Kirpal Singh. My pleasure lady and your name?”
She was about to give him her real name when she remembered that she was travelling into what would be a dangerous journey.
“Annette. I should have enough time to catch my plane. How much do I owe you?”
She had paid him with a substantial tip & he had given her his business card
“Next time you need a taxi….”
He had pressed his hands together at his heart & bowed his head.
“May you have safe journeys wherever you travel. May your journeys bring you light & knowledge”
He had wound up the window and driven out of the drop off parking zone leaving Blue wondering for a moment about him and his story. So many stories. But no time to reflect on him right now as she picked up her small overnight bag, slung her satchel over her shoulder and headed towards departures.
The plane journey had been uneventful as had the metro journey from Orly to Gare de Lyon with 2 changes that she made easily. As far as she could tell nobody had followed her from Kings Cross or the airport. Travelling on the metro she felt some moments of nostalgia as the names of the stations came & went……Villejuif Louis Aragon…..Caroline Aigle….. La Fraternelle….Ivry sur Seine….Bercy…..memories of all those other times she had travelled across Paris by carriage, on foot, in cars, buses, metros, trams & once on horse back. Perhaps she could have taken a taxi & pulled down the blinds so avoiding what seemed to her at this point in her travels distracting memories of the city in peacetime & at war
But sooner than she had remembered the metro had arrived at Gare de Lyon. She had been so entangled in the past of her story & the city that she had almost missed the stop so had run practically at top speed (though not quite of course as other travellers might have been more than a little surprised at the sight of a beautiful woman in jeans & a leather jacket, her blonde hair streaming behind her with a satchel over her shoulder and a small overnight bag gripped firmly in one hand moving faster than a cheetah through the station) on her way to catch the last train to Carcassonne, which she did with a few minutes to spare.
There she had spent 2 days staying in a beautiful art deco hotel called “La Belle Époque” immersing herself in the energy, images & resonances of the histories of the heresy and all those who had fought to stay alive against the power, intolerance and might of the medieval catholic church, many of whom had died awful deaths at the hands of priests, inquisitors, soldiers and laymen in their struggle.
She walked the streets, walls and squares, visiting churches, castles. Sometimes just sitting on a bench gazing out across the landscape or savouring a glass of red wine with fresh bread, brie and olives in a café. Her eyes and intuition always open to any possibility or trace of what she was looking for. But nothing had caught her attention. Not even a momentary flicker of something beneath the surface of this old town.
On her last morning there she had sat gazing out across the landscape of limestone hillsides, vineyards & the patchwork of small farms that spread out in front of her. Should she stay in France & possibly backtrack to Chartres? She could feel something pulling her towards the cathedral, but something deeper made her certain that it would be better to travel South into Catalunya and spend some time in the familiar surroundings of Barcelona.
So that afternoon she had caught a bus over the Pyrenees to Barcelona where she stayed in a small hotel tucked away in a secluded square in the Ciutat Vella, the old town, only a short walk from the bustle & commerce of the Ramblas.
Spending the mornings, afternoons & evenings wandering the Cuitat Vella, through the maze of alleyways, squares & streets, occasionally getting lost but always arriving at exactly the right place. A church, where she would walk in, sit for a moment or two to breathe in the smell of the incense, the scent of the old stone walls, absorbing the light, colours & patterns streaming through and out of the stained glass windows onto the floor and wooden pews.
She had known almost immediately at each separate visit that what she was looking for wasn’t there. Nor was it there in the dozen or so churches & chapels that she had visited and a couple of others near the Ramblas that she’d dropped into on her way back to the hotel via the tea shop she always stopped in at whenever she was in Barcelona. But there was no trace of what she was looking for in any of them
“Not here. Not in Barcelona” she thought
As she sat in the cafe drinking her sweet tea with lemon juice & slowly eating a slice of delicious chocolate cake she was again almost overwhelmed by her memories of this city as she had been in Paris. The struggles, violence, friendships. The love, hatred & passion of the Civil War.
A sudden memory of an exhausted Slinger staggering into her small flat high in an apartment block off the Avenida Diagonal. His clothes covered in dust, blood on his face and his hands. A rifle slung over his shoulder. She had got him to take his clothes off, managed to get enough hot water out of the geyser (there were days during that time when there was no water or gas to heat it with) and helped him into a steaming bath where he had almost fallen asleep.
After his bath, wrapped in a clean towel he had crawled into her big double bed & finally fallen asleep for 24 hours. When he had woken, he hadn’t wanted to speak about where he had been or what had happened to him. He had muttered something on the lines of
“Horse is right you know. She usually is. Humans can do the most awful things to each other..........unbelievable, but I’ve seen it so many times. Civil wars are usually the worst. Remember what the New Model Army officers did to those Levellers in Burford?”
She had begun to reply
“Of course. How could I forget. Shot them against the....”
But he had put his finger to her lips. Kissed her and then they had spent a long afternoon making love as the late autumn sunshine cast broken shadows through the shutters. When she woke he was gone.Taking his rifle and the clean clothes she had found for him in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe, leaving her a single white rose by the bedside in a cracked glass tumbler full of water.
She shook her head and brought herself back to the café.
Here & now.
She considered walking down to the seafront and then to a Tapas bar she had visited a number of times over the years on her visits to the city. She was sure it would still be there as the tapas they served was very good. Actually excellent. Reasonably priced with the restaurant always full of Barcelonistas & a handful of tourists who had found there way there, probably by chance or with a city dweller who knew the way through the twist and turns of the streets behind the port.
But she had decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. It was a simple and enjoyable meal of gaspacio, fish paella with a green salad. Fresh juicy figs and slices of nectarine for dessert with a glass of delicious red Can Blau.
Later, lying in the large comfortable bed in her luxury suite with the windows onto her balcony open, a cool breeze blowing the sounds of people meeting, walking, talking, drinking & eating along the Ramblas and the streets and squares that connected it into her room, she had wondered if this was the right route.
She had left London with a real purpose, a sense of certainty about what her next moves would be in this complex game of patterns & moves she was engaged in. Perhaps she should’ve got off the train from Paris at Chartres, but when they’d met in the café in Waterloo Slinger & the Horse had both been certain, even though it was more than 3 decades earlier when they had last been there, that there was no trace of what they were looking for there and she trusted their intuitive radar, particularly the Horse’s.
So where to go next?
London to Paris to Carcassone to Barcelona to....?
Maybe more information would come to her as she slept.
The good food, the glass of wine, the days of walking through the old city had left her feeling tired but relaxed. Sleep, as on most nights for her, would come easy. She would know where to go by morning.
She dreamt.
A chaotic dream of oiled gladiators & wild animals fighting fiercely in the Coliseum in Rome. One of them was Slinger. The Horse was there looking splendid as a white charger with gold trimmings on her reins. The Emperor Augustus riding her on a jewel encrusted saddle with a magnificent golden eagle perched on his arm.
Dismounting into his imperial box high above the action taking the Horse with him who then lay on a large couch covered in silks embossed with many coloured exotic floral prints, eating from a sack filled with oats, barley & walnuts and drinking from a basin filled with what looked like red wine but could have been blood.
Slinger easily defeating every gladiator or wild animal that came at him. Despatching them with a single shot from his gold plated Colt 44 with pearl & Illyrium mosaic inlaid handles. Juggling the pistols high in the air between shots then catching them behind his back before despatching another tiger, lion or gladiators with their useless arsenals of net and trident, whirling chains, two handed swords, sharp teeth and terrible claws.
The heat and dust of the amphitheatre. The roar of the crowd in appreciation of Slinger’s relaxed & bravura performance.
She was sitting next to Augustus on another couch while near them was Livia, Augustus’ wife engaged in some sort of orgy with gladiators & female slaves and Dionysius throwing grapes & pouring wine over them as he laughed, groped and cavorted with them waving his massive cock in front of him, all rolling around on top of each other on high quality Persian & Indian carpets.
The smell of blood, dung, fear, sex, sweat & death all around her.
Augustus stroked her long blonde hair, fed her fresh figs, dates, pomegranates, grapes & slices of dried fish. Telling her that Slinger, Marcus Cupiditas, was the greatest gladiator of all times. He would grant him his freedom if she would agree to become his mistress. The eagle sitting on a perch above watching them all the time with it’s bright yellow eyes. The Horse watching her as well, chewing her way through the bag of exotic food.
She realised that apart from a pair of rather tatty & torn cut off denim shorts she was completely naked and could feel the hot Italian sun on her face & her skin. Augustus was handsome, strong & determined. She knew she would not be able to refuse him. She bent to kiss him feeling aroused by his scent....... and woke.
It was early morning and daylight was beginning to illuminate the room.
She got up immediately, dressed quickly. A pair of dark blue Levi jeans tucked into her black knee length leather boots, a red T shirt & a pale blue slightly faded denim Levi jacket. She brushed back her hair and put it in a pony tail held in place by a band of electric blue silk.
She picked up and put on her Rayban aviator sunglasses with their gold rims and green lenses.
Her other clothes and travelling essentials were in the small blue holdall she had packed before sleeping. She picked up her brown satchel containing her passport, travellers cheques, her Pentax & a few personal belongings. She momentarily checked the chain around her neck with it’s precious amulet.
She put the satchel over her shoulder, picked up her bag, took one last look around the room, sparsely but tastefully furnished with a few pieces of antique furniture and decorated with some rather beautiful oil paintings on the walls that she had identified as genuine 19th century Ramon Casas paintings of women & landscapes. A moment longer to breathe them in, so resonant with history, place & time passing.
She left the room and closed the door behind her.
The young man on the desk had taken her key and payment. He phoned for a taxi and offered her, in his melodic Spanish, a breakfast coffee while she waited for it to arrive. An offer she had refused in her immaculate Spanish saying that she needed to be at the airport for an early flight.
He had politely enquired where she was going and she had replied
“Aix en Provence passera Lyon”
Just in case anyone was tracking her.
The taxi had arrived within a few minutes as she was discussing the fortunes of the Barcelona football team with him.
His name was Antonio. He had never met anyone quite as beautiful or fascinating as her. He wondered what the colour of her eyes were behind those rather pricey Raybans. Though she spoke perfect Spanish (maybe he should ask her if she spoke Catalan?) there was an accent to her words that he couldn’t quite place. He wondered if she was Portuguese or possibly Brazilian. But whatever nationality she was he was already falling in love with her and was astonished by her knowledge of European football teams. Her ease and grace and....
Then the taxi arrived.
She thanked him for his time and, strange word he thought, attention. Complimented the hotel on its food, the comfort of her bed and the quality of the paintings in her room. She turned and walked out through the beautiful mosiac appliquéd glass double doors in patterns of red, blue and yellow and into her taxi.
Arriving at the airport she bought a ticket to Madrid and from Madrid straight out of Spain. She knew that she had no real reason to stay any longer in Madrid where there were so many echoes & resonances of those months in 1936 when she had joined one of the anarchist brigades defending the city against the besieging fascist armies of Franco and his bunch of thugs. She had left the city before it fell catching a flight out to Berlin in the company of a young German socialist who, she remembered, had not been quite what he appeared to be....but no time to revisit any of that.
Her Alitalia flight to Madrid left an hour after she’d bought her ticket. She had gone through baggage check and passport control arriving at the departure gate only a few minutes before it closed. Nobody seemed particularly concerned that she had almost missed the flight. A lovely but rather bored looking woman with her dark hair fashionably cut in a bob wearing an immaculate Alitalia uniform had glanced at her boarding pass and murmured
“Grazie”.
“Prego”
Blue had whispered back touching fingers with her as she returned the boarding card, their eyes meeting for a moment with a brief flash of sexual energy between them followed by a powerful vision/memory of them making love many centuries before in a sun drenched room on a mattress in a cottage surrounded by the hills of what she knew was Northern Tuscany while spring swallows dived outside the open windows with wide views onto olive groves and warm red hillsides covered in vineyards. The sounds and energy of their desire for each other echoing off the walls.
She withdrew her hand, walked quickly down the corridor, out onto the tarmac in time to get on the bus whose doors were about to close as it carried her and the other passengers onto the runway to board her flight for Madrid. Sitting in her almost comfortable seat on the plane she reflected on those moments that had passed between her and the woman at the gate. It had been a long time since that had happened to her with a man or a woman. Perhaps she was entering another cycle of intensified erotic/sexual energy?
She dropped deep into her body and “yes” it was there, beginning to grow again. A seed of passion, desire and lust waiting to blossom into a many petalled delight. But thankfully not quite yet, otherwise it would be difficult for her to continue her journey as she knew with certainty that she was being tracked and followed but for the immediate future they were still a few stages behind her. She needed to stay alert and couldn’t afford to be distracted or overwhelmed by the pleasure of physical and sexual encounters or memories of other lives.
She knew that sooner or later they would find her.
She reflected that in spite of passport controls and boarding passes how easy it was in 1966 to get on & off planes in all parts of the world compared to flying on larger, faster jets in the 2nd & 3rd decades of the 21st century, with its fear and constant vigilance against the threats and reality of ‘terrorist’ attacks from branches of the Islamic misinterpretations and other groups of dysfunctional and deluded religious & political sects.
“Ah humans!” she thought.
Her flight arrived on time into Madrid airport, she caught her connecting flight to Rome easily with only a slight delay in collecting and redirecting her bag.
She ate a reasonable inflight meal accompanied by a glass of passable chianti. The plane landed at Leonardo da Vinci in Rome as the sun was setting over the eternal city. Perhaps here she might pick up traces of what she was searching for?
She had known immediately on waking in Barcelona that morning that her search through the trails of heresy against the Catholic distortions was not the right path to be following. She had considered taking a train back across the border into France to Aix en Provence, hiring a car and driving up into the Haute Alpes then walking the steep track up the mountain side to the village of Dormillouse one of the last outposts of the Waldensian “heresy”. But her dream of the Colosseum and the gladiators had convinced her that her source lay further back in pre Christian human history and that Rome could be the place.
She had stayed at the Hotel Palazzo Manfredi only a few minutes walk from the Colosseum. For the next 5 days she had wandered round the city. Catacombs, temples of Juno, Jupiter, Hermes, Augustus, Bacchus and other gods, ruined and not so ruined statues, marble pillars, steps, some of the older early Christian churches and the Colosseum itself.
Breathing in epochs of history. The vibrations left behind from an uncountable multitude of human lives. Blood, sweat, sex, death, birth, joy & despair. So many stories and relationships that there were times she felt herself being carried away into the past by the immensity of it.
In all of this there was no trace, no hint of what she was looking for. Not a faint note, a tremor, a single atom though she knew that what she was searching for was ancient. Events & interactions from way back in time. From the earliest days of the homini’s arrival in Europe from Africa and the links into their futures.
But so far.......nothing.
She had done some shopping in between visiting sites, buying a pair of comfortable sandals, a new light beige zip up jacket, a silk scarf with a blue & yellow floral pattern on it that she covered her head with against the heat of the summer sun, along with a plain red T shirt, a pair of bottle green pedal pushers. All bought from some of the more pricey clothes shops on the Via Veneto. Money was not, at this moment in time, a problem for her.
The sun was daily rising higher and the heat was increasing. Her hotel room was air conditioned though she didn’t feel the need to switch it on as mostly she wasn’t there, only taking breakfast in the restaurant before setting off again in search of......what? Did she even know what she was looking for in this chaotic ancient modern mausoleum of a city with its crazy traffic of cars, buses, lorries, scooters & pedestrians that by some miracle managed to avoid endless fatal accidents, mixed with enough ancient artefacts in various states of decay to fill many times over all of the museums in Europe.
Would she recognise it when it was there?
She ate on her own of course. In trattorias, pizzerias, small restaurants & cafés. Delicious fresh pizzas baked in wood fired ovens, tomato salads, pasta with sweet tasting parmesan and all the other delights of home cooked Italian food. She was aware of the constant gaze and attention of Roman men of all ages, from the wolf whistles of teenagers on their Vespas or Lambrettas passing by on some cobbled street as she sat drinking coffee in an outdoor café on the piazza del Francesco shaded by bougainvilleas, surrounded by large terracotta tubs of red, white & yellow flowering geraniums.
Or older men of varying shapes, sizes wearing differing or similar costumes who would approach her while she was eating. Some of them standing and talking to her, others easily pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite her. All engaging her in conversation. All equally fascinated by this single woman. Unsure of her age but all attracted by her beauty.
Usually offering to buy her a drink or, if they arrived at the table before she’d had a chance to ask for a menu or read the ones already on the table and order a meal, they would offer to buy her lunch. Depending on the time of day sometimes dinner and once breakfast. Most of them assumed she was American, English or even French and were always surprised by her fluent Italian. In which she would thank them politely for their kind offer but seamlessly letting them know, by casually putting her right hand on the table or arm of the chair to show her wedding and engagement rings, that she was married. Telling them that
‘yes she was on her own right now as her husband, son & daughter, who were visiting the city with her from their home in Tuscany, were at the cinema today watching Winnie the Pooh, but as cartoons were not really her favourite form of entertainment she was spending some time on her own before going back to the hotel’.
This was usually enough of a disincentive for most of them.
For those who found the forbidden, or maybe this being Italy, the not so forbidden temptation of a married woman enticing and persisted in their advances, she would raise her sunglasses, look them straight in the eye and for a moment touch the small bright pendant that hung round her neck. Then they would find themselves sitting back where they had been before coming to talk to her, wondering who that beautiful blonde woman was at the table next to the bougainvillea growing up the wall of the restaurant before suddenly remembering something very important they had to do, getting up quickly and leaving.
I t was only half an hour or so later, perhaps as they walked down an unfamiliar street that they remembered they were still hungry, so would find another restaurant or café to eat in or maybe head home to have lunch or dinner with their wives and families. All memory of their brief encounter with her completely forgotten.....erased.
There had, however, been one man with whom she had almost stepped into something physical and passionate. As it turned out on what was to be her last night in Rome.
He was, she judged, in his late twenties or early thirties. One of those strikingly handsome tall dark southern Italian men. Almost a caricature. His brown hair perfectly cut to frame his olive face with unusual deep blue eyes, a wide smiling mouth, beautiful white teeth. Dressed in what she knew was an expensive and exquisitely tailored single breasted suit made of blue grey silk & cotton. He wasn’t wearing a shirt or tie, just a white T shirt under his open jacket printed with that extraordinary psychedelic picture of John Lennon wearing his round sunglasses surrounded in purple and red against a bright yellow background. It should have looked wrong with the suit but somehow on his body with his personality, that she sensed immediately was attractive to her, it worked.
As did the beautifully crafted leather sandals on his feet.
He had approached her table quietly as she was studying the dinner menu, playing with making a decision between the swordfish or the lasagna, knowing that she’d already decided on the lasagna and the next important decision was whether to have a glass of reasonably priced Chianti Rufina or a bottle of Pellegrino sparkling mineral water and then for dessert....
“Scusi signorina”
His voice interrupting her train of thought.
“Excuse me miss but you seem to have dropped this”
He bent down beside her chair , picked up the floral silk scarf she had bought the day before at Guccis. She had taken it off and put it on the back of her chair when she’d sat down at this quiet trattoria in a small square on the cobbled side street that led from Via del Tritone to Via dei Condotti. Cool and shaded by plane trees it was the only eating place there. There were doors into people’s houses and apartments on three sides with tubs of bay trees, geraniums and chrysanthemums on the doorsteps and street outside. A small green rather battered Fiat uno was parked in the far corner of the square and a couple of Vespas with two teenage boys and a girl around them talking quietly where the cobbled street climbed out of the square to the hill above.
For a moment she felt a sense of dread.
“Had they tracked her down already?”
Almost immediately she knew that wasn’t who he was. But there was something about him, the way he stood there looking at her, his tortoise shell sunglasses on the top of his head, a gentle smile on his lips so that she knew this could be no ordinary encounter. If she chose to engage.
She took the scarf from him, tying it easily round her neck.
“Grazie. Dev'essere caduto dalla mia sedia. Per favore, siediti.”
She found herself inviting him to join her, indicating the other chair at the table.
“Thank you. If you’re not expecting company?”
He replied in English with an almost imperceptible accent & so she too switched languages.
“No. I’m eating on my own tonight. My husband has taken the children to see Mary Poppins at the cinema. I’m not really a big Disney fan but I have seen it once already and once is enough. My daughter could watch it every day”
He laughed, not just with his voice but with his eyes and she felt the flower in her belly begin to open.
“Ah Yes. Mary Poppins! Not one of my favourite movies but my son has dragged me to see it at least 3 times”
He had sat down opposite her, easily and gracefully.
“I didn’t realise you were Italian. At least I assume you are from your speech and your rather perfect accent? I had thought you might be French”
His eyes never left hers.
“Actually English is my first language though my mother was French and my father was Italian, from Naples originally. I was brought up in England & Scotland speaking all three languages. Now I live in Tuscany. I’m about to order some food. Perhaps you’d like to eat with me as there seems to be a place set for you?”
She smiled at him across the table. The words had just come out of her mouth. She couldn’t believe she was inviting him to join her, to eat with her, to....
“Thank you. But I’m on my way to a restaurant down the hill. I was walking through the square on my way there when I saw you sitting here framed by these geraniums”
He gestured to the large pots of pelargoniums on either side of the table where they sat. Still in their first flushing bloom of early summer. The abundant flowers in many shades of white, blue, pink & red.
“I noticed your scarf on the ground. Such a beautiful piece of material so I stopped to pick it up. I’m on my way to meet my brother and some of our family and friends to celebrate his birthday. You’d be very welcome to join us”
She felt a momentary sense of relief that this encounter would not go any further instantaneously followed by an almost overwhelming sense of regret. Their connection had felt so strong, the petals blossoming from her belly down into her sex and up into...
She found the words.
“ That really sounds like fun but I need to be back at the hotel in an hour or so. We’re catching an early train to Florence tomorrow morning. But thank you anyway. It seems I’ll be eating alone after all”
“Ah yes. But the food here is very good. I sometimes eat here with my wife Lucrezia and Daniel my son. Very special cuisine”
He pronounced the word with a perfect French accent.
“It’s been a real pleasure meeting you. My name is Salvatore Andiato”
He got up gracefully from the chair & reached out his hand across the table to her.
“Yvette Bleu.”
Damn! My real name. That was stupid....
“Yes it’s been a pleasure and.....most interesting”
She held out her hand. The left hand without the wedding and engagement rings. Why did she do that? The whole ring, marriage, husband, children, house in Tuscany was just a story....but then they were all just stories.
He took her hand, bent his lips to it and brushed it with a kiss that sent a tingle of pure energetic pleasure down into her belly and out into her sex.
He stood up, let go of her hand as she realised that from the moment he had handed her the scarf their eyes had not left each others until he had kissed her hand. He put his hand into his jacket. For a moment she thought he was going to take out a knife and stab her or a gun and shoot her, almost adopting an instantaneous defensive fighting position, then he brought his hand back out with a business card held gracefully between two fingers and handed it to her.
“ Perhaps next time you’re in Rome you would give me a call. We could have lunch or dinner together and grow our acquaintance”
She glanced at his card. A beautifully detailed coloured drawing on one side of a modern style villa with flowers around it set in rolling hills. On the other side his name and profession
Salvatore Andiato
Landscape & Building Architect
ROMA 749217
“I’d like that. My sister in law lives just outside Rome and I always visit her round Christmas”
“Wonderful. I love this city in December. But I love it at all times of the year of course, I’m a Romano. I’m sure we’ll meet again”
“I hope so. Goodbye”
“Arrivaderci. A bientot”
He inclined his head slightly and broke eye contact with her. She watched him as he walked quickly and easily across the square, stopping to say something to the three young people with their Vespas. A joke between them and some laughter as they all shook his hand like they knew him already, then he was crossing the square, onto the cobbled street that turned right down the hill.
Just before he disappeared behind the square’s corner house he stopped for a moment. Turned round. Raised his hand in farewell. She did too.
Then he was gone
Alone again she had ordered the lasagna with a side salad of olives, tomatoes & ricotta and half a bottle of the Chianti. Sitting there slowly eating the delicious food, some of the ingredients she was sure had been growing in a garden only that morning, reflecting in the cooling evening of the square with the delicate scent of the bougainvillaea & the sound of the cicadas around her on her journey so far, on her encounter with Salvatore, wondering where her friends & allies were right now. She knew if she wished she could use the Illyrium pendant to find any one of them but......not now. She wanted, no needed, to be alone.
She had paid the waiter for her meal after completing it with possibly the best tiramisu she had eaten for quite some time & resisting a strong black coffee he had offered her, knowing that she needed to sleep and dream well. She had complimented him on the meal followed by a brief conversation when he told her that not only was he the waiter but also the owner sharing all the work, including the cooking, with his wife and son. He hoped she would come back and eat there again.
“ Lo spero. La prossima volta che sono a Roma. Buona notte”
She had walked slowly down the hill through the evening crowds out for their pasegario through the squares and streets of this ancient and fascinating city, knowing already that she would be leaving here in the morning, not as she’d told Salvatore to Florence but to....where?
She suddenly had a strong memory of a café she knew in the Plaka in Athens. Sitting there with Slinger & Isabella a few days after the British troops had driven the last of the Germans out of the city.
Athens.....why not? But not directly. A circuitous route to try and throw off anyone who had picked up her scent. She reminded herself, as she did nearly every day, that eventually they would find her. They were the best at what they did....
She was a little drunk from the chianti and needed to sleep.
So she quickened her pace. Picked up her room key from the desk at the hotel.
“Buona notte Signorina. Dormi Bene”
“Grazie”
“Prego”
She climbed the flights of the wide curving staircase to her room on the 2nd floor. Undressed in a matter of moments and fell into bed. She was asleep immediately.
As she slept she dreamt of her imaginary husband and children and their life together in Tuscany. She dreamed a whole lifetime with them and when she woke before sunrise in the morning she was still weeping and sobbing, her pillow wet with tears. Tears of anguish and regret for what had....could...never be.
There was no one at the desk so she left her key and the lira she owed for her stay with a good tip before walking out onto the street as the pink light of morning began to grow, signalling the beginning of another gorgeous early summer day in the eternal city.
She easily found a taxi which took her to Roma Termini railway station where she bought a ticket to Venice.
Then a day and a night in Venice, where she struggled to avoid being pulled back into the past with all the memories it evoked. Pulled back not just emotionally & mentally but physically as well, as always the possibility of actually being back in those times again.
She visited a travel agent and booked a train ticket to Brindisi, a ferry from there to Syracuse another ferry to Malta and an open ticket for a flight to Athens.
Though she could of course have caught the ferry direct from Brindisi to Valletta but she preferred to make her route more circuitous and she really wanted to eat a pizza or possibly even two at a mama & papas restaurant on the harbour front in Syracuse where they made possibly the best pizzas in the universe.
So here she finally was after over a month of travelling through Europe, disembarking from the Syracuse ferry feeling the intensity of the late June sun high in the sky, bouncing off the great limestone battlements, bastions, walls & turrets of Valletta dazzlingly reflected in the deep green waters of the Grand Harbour.
Maybe here......
Medium shot of Blue walking down gangplank from the ferry with a bright blue sky and the Grand harbour behind her.
Pull out slowly to long shot of her from behind as she walks down the quayside towards the Baracca lift rising along the outside of the bastion wall for hundreds of feet.
Pan up alongside the lift, through its metal stanchions and along the stone wall supporting them, into the gardens above, then out through the trees into the bright almost blinding sun.
Fade out to white.