Day 7
Friday afternoon—Ligurian coast, Italy
T he wildflowers are resplendent in the afternoon sun as I hasten down the dusty path toward a colorful village built into the bluff above the sea, but I’ve got no time to stop and appreciate the view.
My legs are wasted from the climb, my throat parched. A couple of sunburned hikers talking excitedly in German stall as I hurtle past them down the trail; I can only imagine what I must look like: dirty, sweaty, bloody, probably sunburned and wholly improperly dressed. But it’s all downhill from here. I’m ten minutes from water—and, I’m hoping, cell service.
The path empties out onto a cobblestone street that winds through the quaint town toward the port. I follow it past a bed-and-breakfast with all its windows open, under laundry flapping in the breeze, past a restaurant with a sign in the window that says they will return at four…and then, like a mirage in the desert, I spy a small café.
My focus narrows. I beeline into the dark interior, to the refrigerator, and grab the biggest bottle of water they have. My mouth salivates as I peruse the premade sandwiches displayed in the case, pointing to one with what appears to be salami. The owner eyes me curiously, but takes my money without argument, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting on the curb, guzzling cold, refreshing, delicious water. I’ve never been so thirsty. I drink all of it but the last inch or so, which I use to splash my face and wash my hands. When I’m finished, I make quick work of the sandwich, hardly noticing the spicy, perfectly cured meat, earthy olive oil, and soft focaccia.
I could lie down and take a nap right here, but I know that’s a bad idea.
I toss my trash and fish Amythest’s phone from my purse. It’s completely dead. Damn it. Can’t I catch a break?
I head back into the café and show the man behind the counter the phone. “Charger?” I ask.
He shakes his head and says something in Italian that I don’t understand.
“ Telefono? ” I beg. I dig a five-euro note from my purse, show it to him, and point to his phone. “ Un minuto. ” I make prayer hands.
“ Tutto bene, signorina? ” he asks, eyeing my disheveled appearance.
I nod and smile, having no idea what he said. He shrugs and slides his phone across the counter.
“Grazie mille.”
I scoop up the phone, google the number for the American embassy, and hit dial. Immediately a recording clicks on, informing me that walk-in embassy hours for emergencies are Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Appointments for nonemergencies may also be made within those same hours.
It’s 1:46.
The shop owner raises his eyebrows at me, and I give him my most winning smile. “ Un momento ,” I promise again as I keep googling, finally coming up with an emergency number for American victims of crime abroad.
I key through the automated menu until the line finally rings on the other end. “American Consulate Emergency Line, what’s your emergency?” a woman answers.
“Thank God.” I exhale. I urgently outline the events surrounding Amythest’s death while she listens quietly. When I’ve finished, I ask if there’s someone who can help me.
“I’m sorry, Miss Carter, I can’t help you with investigation of a crime. It’s out of our jurisdiction,” she says politely. “But I can make a passport appointment for you on Monday if you like?”
My brain shorts. “But an American citizen was murdered,” I object.
“And it will be investigated by the Italian or maritime authorities, depending on the exact location. We can’t interfere in the justice system of foreign entities. We provide support for victims of crime. Have you been the victim of a crime?”
“I witnessed a murder,” I say. “My passport, phone, and computer were stolen. I’m afraid for my life. What am I supposed to do?”
“If you’re afraid for your life, you should report to the nearest police station. I can give you the address for the closest branch if you give me your location?”
Oh my God.
“Is this how you help victims of crime? You tell them to go to the police?”
“We provide options for resolution, and your best option is—”
“Is there nowhere else I can go? Somewhere American?” I interrupt.
“Walk-ins are accepted at the embassy Monday through—”
“I know,” I cut in. “Anywhere else? I really need help.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “The embassy has closed for the day. I advise you to go to the local police. Do you want that passport appointment for Monday?”
“Sure,” I say.
Once the woman’s taken my personal details for the passport appointment I’ll never make it to, I hand the man his phone and return to the sidewalk to count my cash.
I have thirty-seven euros left of the fifty that I pulled out of an ATM in Saint-Tropez yesterday, plus the eighty Vince gave me. Not enough to make it to Monday unless I want to sleep on a park bench for three nights. I assume a wire transfer would take at least that long as well. I know I have another hundred or so in my bank account, but I don’t want to use my debit card if I can avoid it. I haven’t forgotten Vinny’s warning that accusations can go both ways. For all I know, Summer may have told the authorities that I killed Amythest; if I show up at a station, they could consider me a murder suspect. Or John could be using his nefarious connections to keep tabs on me for his own purposes. I need to get back to the relative safety of the States as quickly as I can.
At least I still have the evidence on Amythest’s phone. I desperately wish the damn thing had power—but truthfully, I have no useful phone numbers memorized anyway, and I’m afraid to communicate by email because I stupidly didn’t have a password on my computer, so my emails are completely accessible to John and Bernard. I have to pin my hopes on Vinny’s help and find the address he gave me by tonight. If La Quessine is near Saint-Tropez, I’m guessing it’s about four or five hours by train, which means I can make it, if the train schedule is favorable.
I march back into the café for what I hope will be the last time. “ Treno? ” I ask.
The man points east. “ Nel prossimo città .”
I can gather that prossimo means “close,” or “next.” I don’t know città , but I hope one of the water taxi operators will be able to clarify. I trek down to the water, where a dock stretches into the waves, a handwritten sign in Italian and English advertising boat rides for ten euros. A swarthy, round man in his fifties sees me eyeing the sign and approaches with a grin.
“Boat ride. Bellissimo. You like, I take you.”
I look over at the boats, little blue and green motorized dinghies, half the size of our tender. Getting in a boat that small with a man this large is counterintuitive, but he must do it every day, and he seems friendly enough.
I quote the man in the café, pointing east. “ Nel prossimo città? ”
“You want, I take you,” he says amiably. “You want watch the town, I wait.”
“Is there a train station there?” I ask.
“ Sí, signorina. Ten euro, good price.”
“Is five okay?” I plead. “I’m really low on cash.”
He shrugs. “For you, okay.”
“ Grazie. ” I give him a five-euro note, and he hops into the boat. The dinghy rocks under his weight as he hands me down and helps me to sit on the bench. I see him register the scratches on my arms and dirt clinging to my torn dress as he releases me, but before he can comment, I give him my best smile. “Beautiful day,” I say, sweeping my arm at the coastline.
“ Sí. ” My cheer must convince him I’m fine because he fires up the engine, and we’re off. I gaze at the picturesque town as we bump across the surf, the sea spray cool on my burned skin. I feel like I can breathe for the first time since I slipped out of the jewelry shop. I’ve been in survival mode, able to think only of the next steps, but now Amythest’s face comes back to me, and I’m racked with grief for the girl I’d just begun to know…and guilt. I should never have told her the truth about Summer, should never have given her my watch. Her words just yesterday about not wanting to be buried near the sea haunt me, an eerie foreshadowing of her watery death. Somewhere beneath the waves, her lifeless body undulates with the tide. She’ll wash up on shore swollen with seawater in a few days or weeks, only to be discovered by some unsuspecting passerby, who will be forever scarred by the sight of her unrecognizable corpse. I stifle tears.
Around an outcropping of rocks, another village comes into view, probably twice the size of Terralione. This one is full of life. A narrow strip of sandy shore speckled with blue umbrellas is ringed by yellow and terra-cotta buildings that climb up the green hills. At the far end of the harbor, a small port curls into the azure water like a fishhook.
Sunbathers have spread towels on the biggest boulders, and the water is so clear that I can see little fish flitting in and out of the shadows cast by the rocks on the seafloor. We dock next to a row of boats no bigger than ours, and the driver hands me up to the cobblestone promenade.