2. They burned my passport
TWO
THEY BURNED MY PASSPORT
Tourist
Mr. Grump had his way with me in the bar, and when I say he had his way with me, I mean he bent me over the bar and the bar chair. In fact, he spent more time eating me out in the span of two hours than my ex did in all the years we dated.
After my first two orgasms, I thought we’d go our separate ways, but he offered to pay for a room in the hotel so I didn’t have to walk all the way to the other side of the island. The island’s owner banned cars because his sister died when she was hit by one, so I couldn’t take a cab, and the carriage services stop at two in the morning.
I accepted the offer.
It’s four in the morning when I wake up and sneak out of the hotel the same way I used to sneak out of the bedroom I shared with my ex. Quieter than a mouse walking past a napping cat. The sun’s not up yet and the streets are dark, but I’m not afraid. This island has been voted one of the safest places in the world, which is one of the reasons the travel magazine I write for sent me here during my last few days in Europe.
We’re curious how the island manages such a high influx of people from all over the world. For one, it caters to the wealthy. Two, the carriages make a difference. There’s no traffic noise, no rush, nowhere people have to be, and if they do, they’re used to getting there on foot, by bicycle, or in a horse-drawn carriage.
The locals know one another, and they set the expectations for the tourists. Much like Antonio from the bar, they’re friendly. He wasn’t rude, just factual about them being closed and that I could still get my drink elsewhere.
Also, in the summer, there’s a high concentration of families that keep the peace for the sake of their kids. Officers patrol the beaches but don’t seem to enforce anything. They’re also approachable and often take pictures with tourists, as tourists want to take pictures with cops on horses.
I’m making my way down the street, toward the other end of the island, when I hear someone call out. I turn to see a man peddling a bicycle toward me. He stops and tips his baseball hat. It’s Antonio, the bartender.
“Do you need a ride?” He points at a red sidecar attached to the bicycle.
“I’ve been meaning to get into one of these ever since I saw one.” I climb inside the small space, and Antonio starts peddling. It’s a little awkward to have a man puling all my weight but when in Rome (or close to it), do what Romans do.
I’m not sure if Romans did what I did with Mr. Grump, but it sure was fun and something to take back home with me, quietly. Tonight’s sexcapades won’t make it into the travel magazine, though I bet if I mentioned even a tiny bit of how that man fucked me, the magazine would sell out the print copies. Even if I have no pictures of Mr. Grump.
Not that I didn’t try. I asked if I could take a picture of him in bed. He declined.
We pass a bakery, and inside, a man turns on the light, probably starting his day while I’m finishing up mine. We move past two men on horses and a few joggers and reach the roundabout with a church on my left.
Antonio slows down. “Where are you staying?”
“At Luigi’s Palace.”
Antonio nods. “Pink or blue side?”
“Not sure.”
“Is your apartment’s door pink or blue?”
“Pink.”
“We call that one Luigiana’s Wing.”
We ride a few more minutes before Antonio drops me off. I try to tip him, but he seems offended, so I apologize and thank him profusely before climbing two flights of stairs to reach my apartment. Once inside, I shower and plan to nap for an hour before I have to catch my flight at one o’clock.
A knock on the door wakes me out of deep sleep. I check my watch. It’s not time to check out for another few hours, but the other days I’ve stayed here, I noticed housekeeping chatting loudly outside as they went about their work. Maybe that’s them, thinking I left already.
I remain in bed, hoping they’ll go away.
They knock again. Still, I don’t rise.
Knock-knock.
Persistent mofos.
On my way to the door, I swipe a pink robe and shrug it on. There’s no peephole, so I secure the door with a chain before opening it and peeking out.
It’s housekeeping.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Yes,” a tall, large woman says, slapping her hand on the door. She throws her weight at it, the chain gives, and the door slams into my face. Blood spurts from my nose, and I pinch it while three different people file into my room. I hold my nose, hoping it didn’t break, fully aware that these people are here to rob me. So much for island safety, huh?
“My suitcase is in the closet,” I say. “Money is in the sack inside it. Take whatever you want, but please leave my passport so I can travel today.”
“Come here.” The tall woman in a housekeeping uniform grabs my elbow and leads me to the bed. She forces me to sit down on the mattress.
The other two intruders are men. One stays by the door. The other is going through my suitcase. He takes out my passport.
Yes.” I nod. “I only need that. You have no use for it.” Blood’s dripping down my chin. I taste copper in my mouth. I’m terrified and but remain as calm as I can so they don’t hurt me. The man hands her my passport. She pulls a metal lighter from her pocket and flips it open, then holds my passport above it.
“No, wait, please. What are you doing? Take the money. Earrings?” I start unhooking the diamond earring from my left ear. It’s hard to part from them since my daddy bought me those, and he’s passed away, but I’m parting with them because they’re not worth my life or my passport. I have to get on the plane. My flight leaves at one. Isola di Monteverro to Rome. Rome to Washington. Washington to Louisville. That’s it. That’s my day.
Not this. This can’t be happening.
I hold out my earrings. “They’re real gold and diamonds. Take them. Please take them.”
The woman’s fat thumb slides over the flint. Flame springs up and catches my passport.
“Noooo!” I lunge to save it.
She backhands me, and I fall on the bed, bouncing off it with blood seeping through my fingers. I’m holding my nose and feel a bump forming on my cheek. Disoriented, I blink through the haze her blow caused and sit up again, holding up my bloody hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re not here for the jewelry or the money.”
A million reasons why these people are here run through my head. All of them are worse than a robbery. Kidnapping and trafficking are at the top of the list.
I put my shaking hands in my lap, my palms facing forward the way Mr. Grump showed me while we were having a good time. He said this signals submission. It’s not how he meant it, for he never hurt me, but I’ll use whatever I know to get out of this situation alive.
The man who rummaged through the suitcase notices my gesture and sits at the desk under the window, where only yesterday, I sat while I wrote about how safe I felt on the island. Thick black sunglasses rest over a nose that curves downward like a beak, giving him a somewhat menacing appearance. Sunglasses cover his eyes but not the thick, bushy eyebrows.
He wears a beige shirt, shorts, flip-flops, and a baseball cap. He looks like someone’s dad. Or a writer on an island retreat. Not a typical criminal with hardened edges to his personality that go along with a tattoo or two.
He opens my laptop and starts typing.
I offer up my password, but he’s already on and turns it toward me. There’s a video playing, and I lean in because clearly, these people want to show me something. But my vision is blurry now with possibly a broken nose, so I can’t see well.
“Do you wear glasses?” he asks.
The woman next to him hit me with the door and the back of her hand. I can’t see because she rattled my brain. I bite back a smartassed response and shake my head.
“Look closer.” He passes me the laptop. “Don’t touch any buttons, or she’ll shoot you.”
“Got it.” I accept the laptop in my shaking hands. I lay it on my lap and watch closely. The camera moves down a narrow hotel hallway with modern gray carpets just as I’m sneaking out of Mr. Grump’s room this morning. The camera follows me as I walk down the steps and out of the hotel, then loops back to the hallway, showing me sneaking out again. I look up from the screen.
“That’s me, yes,” I say in case that’s what they want.
“Good.” The man nods. “And who were you with?”
I swallow. “A man I met at the bar.”
“Ms. Wilder, I’m asking for his name.”
“We didn’t exchange names. I called him Mr. Grump. He called me Sunshine. We didn’t talk a lot.” Heat rises in my cheeks. “If you know what I mean.”
The guy at the desk snorts. “Are you lying to me?”
“No.” Even though I’m a fairly good liar. When you live with a violent alcoholic, you train yourself to lie well. The trick is to stick with the truth but not quite the whole truth. It sounds paradoxical, but it’s not.
“You’re saying you don’t know who you slept with, and prior to this evening, you had no idea who the man is?”
“That’s right. Who is he? Oh no, wait, never mind. Forget I asked. I don’t want to know. You know what this is?” I lean in. “This is what I get for venturing out of familiar territory. Typically, I get together with losers. That guy at the bar and in the hotel room didn’t look like a loser. I bet that’s why you’re here.”
The guy glances at the woman, who takes a step toward me.
I screech. “I swear I don’t know who he is!”
“Shhhh.” She presses a finger over her lips. “Just making sure.”
I scoot as far away from her as I can. She burned my passport. They burned my passport, which means I can’t go home. Oh my God, I’m stuck on an island with no way home.
“What do you want from me?”