own.
“I’ll see you at the Vatican,” said Sister Bravo. “The driver will tend to my things.”
Father Tolbert heard shouting and a commotion behind them. The driver and Sister Bravo bolted from the car. Father Tolbert turned and saw several men, including the driver, run into a crowd gathered on the other side of the street, with Sister Bravo in tow. Confused, Father Tolbert jumped out and headed in that direction.
The driver quickly ran toward him, waving him back to the car.
“Sister Bravo says that we should continue on to the Vatican,” he told the priest.
“What’s all the fuss about?” asked Father Tolbert.
“Nothing to worry yourself about, Father. We should go on to the Vatican. She’ll catch up with us later.”
“But we shouldn’t leave her stranded,” Father Tolbert pressed.
The driver, dark and robust, with long thick fingers scowled. “We should leave immediately,” he growled.
Father Tolbert felt a shiver. The driver’s face said it was not a request. y slid back inside the back seat, perspiration pouring down his forehead into his eyes. He pulled his already wet handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his drenched face. He continued to look back, but there was still no sign of Sister Bravo.
The engine revved and the driver sped off, sending nonchalant patrons crossing the street, diving for cover.
17
S amuel bolted down the sidewalk, arms and legs pumping like mini pistons, his jaw as tight as a pit bull. Everything around him zipped by in a blur. He crashed into several angry Italians, including, to his chagrin, an old woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, fell hard to the pavement, chest-first. Then he sprang to his feet and kept running, with no idea where he was or where he was going. Terrified, he looked back.
Nobody was chasing him.
Legs aching, needles prickling his lungs, he slowed down to a trot, then a fast walk, constantly glancing back over his shoulder. Samuel squinted through the sweat searing his eyes, but there were no galloping hooves or cursing priests rocketing in his direction. Five blocks later, he leaned up against the brick wall of an old antique shop, breathing hard, heart pounding, and his legs rubber. Eyes glued down the street, he was ready to take off at the first sight of Father Sin’s gargoyle mug, but the faces that stared back at him flashed only mild interest and curiosity, not the intent to kill.
Samuel stomped his feet hard on the concrete to fend off the numbness in his legs, a trick he learned during cold winters in Chicago.
He pressed his face against an antique shop window, but only old furniture, dusty lamps, and an assortment of dull, lifeless figurines, the kind you might find on many grandmothers’ mantles, stared back, sparking not a single bit of interest. His stomach tightened. I want to go home.
He looked around the dimly lit, nearly barren, street lined with small shops and stores all closed for the night, and felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He sobbed. I’m lost. He steadied his breathing, lungs grateful for the rest, took another long look down the street, and then headed in the opposite direction at a brisk pace.
“Excuse me, can you help me? I’m lost,” Samuel pleaded to an old man toting two brown paper sacks.
The old man reminded him of the cartoon character he’d seen on old cartoon reruns on Nickelodeon, Mr. Magoo, with his big bulbous head, thick glasses, and total confusion. The old man gave an indifferent huff, humped his shoulders and kept walking, mumbling under his breath in Italian.
Samuel spotted a young couple walking toward him, arm in arm, and stepped in front of them. “P-P-Please, I’m lost,” he stammered, his eyes filled with tears. “Can you help me?”
The young man, a Brad Pitt clone, pulled out several coins and dropped them in Samuel’s palm. His girlfriend, apparently moved by his generosity, kissed and hugged every inch of his face. The young lovers crossed the street, lips locked tight, as though the ten year old was never there.
The darkness brought a stiff, cold breeze that cut through Samuel to the bone. He continued down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward for warmth. Most of the buildings he passed were empty. The longer he walked, the more the area took on the ambiance of a cheap horror film. Samuel forced himself to think, what should I do?
He looked around for a policeman, a taxi driver, anyone who looked official, but saw nobody. Think! Think! Samuel stopped. Of course, the Embassy! The U.S. Embassy!
He spotted a woman, who looked to be about his mother’s age, walking across the street in the opposite direction. He ran over to her, shaking, nervous. “Please, I’m looking for the U.S. Embassy. Can you help me?” he frantically asked.
The woman, tall with long reddish hair, and a mosey nose, furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?” she asked.
“The Embassy,” said Samuel, struggling not to scream. “I need to get to the U.S. Embassy.”
“I no understand,” said the woman, confused. “What’s Embebe?”
“No, Em-ba-see,” he repeated, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“American’s Embassy.”
The woman ran a hand back through her long, silky vines. Finally, a look of recollection lit up her face. “Oh, American’s, Em-baa-see.” Samuel, encouraged, wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Yes,” he said. “I need to get there. Can you help?” The woman, now happy she could be of assistance, pointed down an alley to a well-lit street about fifteen hundred feet on the other side.
“American Embassy on Vittorio Veneto.”
Samuel slowly repeated the street named. “Vi-tor-ia Ven-e-to.” He said his thanks and gave her, to her astonishment, a tight, extended hug, then sprinted across the street into the alley, a smile chiseled on his face.
He wondered what his parents would say to him. What he would say when he talked to them. The pain in his legs disappeared. His head cleared, which made him run faster. I’m going home!
A sudden slap burned across Samuel’s face. He saw a spark of light, flew backwards up off his feet, and crashed to the ground, hitting the back of his head on the pavement.
“What are you doing in my alley?” a voice demanded in broken English. “You don’t have permission to be here.” Samuel dazed, his head pounding, tried to shake it off, and wobbled to his feet amid scattered laughter. When his vision cleared, he saw four boys, two who looked to be around his age, and two older, standing in front of him.
“I said, what are you doing in my alley?” repeated a skinny kid with dark hair and a handsome face. He appeared to be the oldest.
Samuel continued to shake his head, trying to rid himself of the ringing in his ears. “What, huh?”
The skinny kid moved closer. “You’re trespassing. You’re not supposed to be here,” he repeated in Italian.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Samuel. “I don’t speak Italian.” The boy turned to the others. “Americano, a fucking Americano.” He looked back at Samuel. “My name is Carlo,” he said, in butchered English. “What are you doing in my alley?” Samuel, his heart a bass drum, bent over to catch his breath. “I’m lost, and I’m trying to get to the American Embassy. Please help me.” Carlo, his green eyes pools of fierce deceit, pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it between his lips, but didn’t light up. “Why should we help you? What’s in it for us?”
Nervous, Samuel stood up straight and examined each boy closely.
They looked like hardened criminals to him, and even if he were at full-strength, he knew he couldn’t take them all at once. Two of the boys circled around to his rear.
“I don’t have anything,” Samuel told them through gritted teeth. “I just want to get to the Embassy.”
Carlo signaled to one of the boys behind Samuel, who proceeded to rifle through his pockets. He found the money the young couple gave him earlier. Smiling at his apparent discovery, the black-toothed boy with a pug nose handed the money to Carlo, who examined it, then stared hard at Samuel.
“What is this?” asked Carlo.
