Foreign Deceit

A wave of nauseous second-guessing hit him for a split second. What was he expecting here? Sure, he was getting his brother’s body and bringing it back, but he had much larger aspirations for this trip. How the hell was this going to go down?

Pushing the doubt out of his mind, he set out to find the train.

Chapter 11

The next two hours were an exercise of faith. Never once had he been completely sure he was on the right train, or going in the right direction. The air outside was a dull gray, ground revealing no shadows. Coupled with the flat landscape and towering buildings, there was still no way to get a bearing on direction.

Two trains later, however, he was now reasonably sure he was on the right route. Twice he caught a glimpse of the word Lecco on signs, and the Alps finally came into view amid the haze ahead, indicating he was at least heading north. The train stopped often, slowly weaving its way into the green hills. A large slow moving river flitted into view on the left hand side. There were boats pulled up along the shore on each dry river bank, looking like the water line was a few feet lower than it had been in the recent past. Still, the amount of water sliding by looked to be more than a few of the largest Colorado rivers combined.

Brightly painted buildings of sorbet orange, sky blue, purple, lime yellow, and other electric shades were everywhere; next to the river, halfway up the steep inclined hills, even directly on top of the mountain peaks. Nature was choked out by thousands of years of settlement, but the foliage was rampant at the same time. It was thick, dense, wiry and thorny. Grass grew in feet, not in inches.

Vibrant shades of painted stucco gave way to a consistent powdery gray stone color as the train continued north. Each roof on the thousands of buildings of all shapes and sizes was topped with the same tangerine-hue clay tile.

Moving steadily north, the gaping river widened into smaller lakes, then narrowed into a tighter bottleneck before ultimately opening up into a gigantic lake.

Towering steep mountains, densely green with deciduous trees, calved with talk chalk-white cliffs, lined both sides.

Lake Como, he recognized from his Googling. The lake was one of the deepest in Europe, and looking at the steep mountains that dove straight into it, it wasn’t hard to imagine.

The train was now in a the city of Lecco, where his brother had been living for the last five months. Wolf recalled his study of Google Maps on the internet from the other night. Lecco sat on the geographical lower right tip of the lake, which was in the shape of an enormous upside down “Y”. They were on the southeast tip, and the northern most end was nowhere near in site.

“Dahveed Vowlf?” The Caribinieri officer pulled his cell phone slightly away from his ear. He was no older than twenty five, dressed in a dark blue, sharp looking uniform with white leather belt and shoulder harness for his Baretta, a sharp billed military style hat in his left hand, cell phone in the right.

“Yes.”

“I am Tito, come with me.” He turned, resuming his phone conversation.

Wolf thought back on the phone conversation he’d had with Tito and resisted the urge to drop kick him.

Stepping out of the station, Tito’s hair glistened in the sun — hat still tucked under his arm. His sideburns were shaven to a precise point halfway down the sides of his face, a pencil thin goatee was etched on the skin around his mouth. It looked like it took him well over an hour to get ready in the morning.

Wolf felt his own hair, a greasy mat, painful to the touch, and surmised he wasn’t in a place to be making any sort of judgments on appearances.

Tito talked on the phone, walking painfully slow, finally coming to his Alfa Romeo Caribinieri cruiser. It was sleek looking, with three cylindrical lights on top. Wolf sat down and appraised the car with an internal thumbs up.

He gave Tito’s driving, however, an emphatic thumbs-down as he drove half brained; cell phone still in his right hand, shifting gears cross-over with his left, narrowly missing pedestrians and other cars through tight streets and roundabouts as he shifted.

Ten minutes later, they thankfully came to a stop, pulling into a parking lot along the lake shore to the rear of an old looking gray building; how old, Wolf couldn’t tell.

A strong damp breeze came off the lake, and the air wasn’t as hazy as just a few miles down towards Milan had been. There was a train of criss-crossing sails in the distance moving at high speed — kite surfers and sailboarders.

They walked the short distance to the back of the building and entered into what seemed to be hell, or a waiting room for it. A cram of people poured out of a steamy room that wafted the spicy odor of human sweat immediately to the right. The room’s collective impatience and despair was a palpable force.

The art work on filthy dirt-yellow walls outside of the room was a collection of askew black and white pictures of various buildings in rubble, as if after an earthquake, or an intense aerial shelling. Directly in front of them in the distance was another entrance with a metal detector. A young Caribinieri officer armed with his own Baretta was at the entrance was interrogating an Asian couple with a baby, while people streamed in behind them setting off the alarm. No one of authority seemed to care about the blinking light and incessant beeping, so Wolf guessed he shouldn’t either.

Directly above them was an immensely vaulted ceiling, and a stone stairway to the left that spiraled upwards to each level above. Wolf hoped to God they were going up, and to his relief Tito was already halfway up the first flight, wrapping up his phone conversation.

Upstairs was open, light, and had a beautiful view of the lake. The windows were all propped ajar letting in the pleasant breeze which carried nondescript mouthwatering aromas Wolf couldn’t put his finger on. Caribinieri uniformed officers bustled about.

Tito stopped and looked to his right with a big inhale while he pulled down his uniform top with both hands. Colonnello Marino said the door label. A booming voice shook the frosted glass from within. Tito stepped to it and knocked gingerly three times.

“Dai!” The door shook on its hinges.

Tito poked his head in hesitantly, and then entered, opening the door to let Wolf in behind him. Colonnello Marino had a phone up to his ear and looked towards the windows to their right. He waved his hand towards two chairs against the wall to their immediate left without looking.

Colonnello Marino yelled loudly in rapid Italian, slamming his fist into his leg. Tito squirmed in his chair and his face drained white. Sweat beaded and ran down his perfectly manicured hairline.

Marino finished his conversation and twisted in his chair violently. Tito flinched, and Marino held up a finger to them, still not resting his eyes on his new visitors, pushed his finger on the plunger, then dialed a phone number and twisted to the window again.

Wolf watched Marino bounce his head, speak in pleasant tones, laugh heartily, hand gesture animatedly, mumble niceties — Wolf began wondering just what the hell was happening. He waited patiently.

Marino swiveled back to the phone again and Wolf noted on his watch the seven minutes that had already passed. The Colonnello brought his non-phone hand to the ancient rotary, pressed the switch again, then dialed another number and held up a finger as he swiveled slowly towards the window.

“Excuse me, sir,” Wolf said. “I’ve come a long way and would like to speak about my brother. My brother John Wolf?”

Colonnello Marino pulled the handset from his face and swiveled his chair, shooting a hot glare that bore deep into Wolf’s eyes. He pause for a breath and then his face melted into sympathy in a split instant. “Ah, yes. Mr. Wolf. I am-a sorry about your brother. And I am-a sorry about-a-my English-a. It is terrible.” He gently hung up the phone, then launched into a fast paced pleasant sounding paragraph, speaking directly to Tito.

Tito turned halfway to Wolf, taking on the role of interpreter.