Day 7
Friday evening—Ligurian coast, Italy
A fter the twenty-four hours I’ve had, the lazy pace of a seaside village in the late afternoon feels like a dream. Remnants of the adrenaline that has kept me in motion all day still surge through my veins, making me jumpy, and I’m so exhausted that my whole body is buzzing, my thoughts a jumbled mess. Your sister is on her way to your grandmother’s. What did Vinny mean by that? Remember why you’re here. What does he know?
I can’t be sure I can trust him, but there’s no time to worry about it now. I have to keep moving. I need to get to the train station.
It can’t be that difficult to find, right? This place isn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis. I survey the old-world buildings that line the sun-drenched seaport and head toward what I’m guessing is the center of town, scanning the passing faces for hostility.
There’s a group of teenage girls huddled together on a bench giggling over a cell phone, a couple making out with abandon in the midst of a crowded restaurant patio, a grown man eating gelato from a cone with gusto. None of them remotely hostile.
A young woman standing under the red awning of a restaurant offers a menu as I approach. “ Treno stazione? ” I ask.
Her face shows concern as she registers my appearance, and she begins to speak in rapid Italian. I stop her apologetically. “ No Italiano. ”
Unfazed, she calls back into the restaurant behind her, drops her menus on a table without waiting for an answer, and starts off down the bustling sidewalk, waving for me to follow. When we reach a narrow alleyway that cuts between two salmon-colored buildings, she gestures that I should go up the alley and make a left at the top.
“ Grazie ,” I say, but she’s already jogging back toward her restaurant.
The brick passageway is shaded and cool. I hurry up the path between the endless rows of vine-covered buildings to a set of stairs that lead up to the left. I follow the steps as my guide suggested, until they empty into a small square arranged around a fountain depicting a man wrestling with a lion.
On the far side of the square is an archway with a painted green sign above that shows a picture of a train.
I hasten across the square into the tunnel beyond the arch. The walls are rough-cut stone, the domed ceiling up-lit with blue lights. My beaten sandals slap the flagstone, echoing down the corridor as I push on for what must be a hundred yards or more, until it opens into a light-filled chamber with vaulted ceilings and brushed-concrete floors.
The station isn’t crowded: a few people mill about reading their cell phones; a backpacker is asleep on a bench, his head resting on his pack in the unguarded way only a man can doze in public. To my right under a board announcing train schedules is the ticket booth, facing three sets of double doors flung open to the track beyond.
I’m nearly certain passport checks aren’t mandatory between Italy and France, but I’m obviously going to have a problem if a spot check is conducted at any point. There’s no way around it, though. I guess I’ll just have to somehow elude the passport inspectors if that happens.
I study the board, unable to find La Quessine or Saint-Tropez. From the map, it looks like the closest station is a place called Saint-Raphael Valescure, which I’m guessing is still a good hour from La Quessine by car, but it’ll have to do.
The uniformed man in the booth looks up as I approach. “ Ciao ,” I say, smiling. “ Uno ticket por treno a Saint-Raphael Valescure. ”
Thankfully, he seems to understand my pigeon Italian. “ A che ora? ” He points to the board.
The next train is at 14:59, arriving at Saint-Raphael after one change at 20:07. I’ll just have to pray I have enough money left for a cab and that I find a driver willing to floor it to La Quessine to get me there by nine.
I have no idea how to say 14:59, so I go with “ La prossima treno. ” I’m wildly guessing at the translation, but he gets what I’m trying to say.
“ Quattro minuti. ” He points to a large clock that I somehow missed, right next to the board. It reads 14:55. I have four minutes. Not enough time to find a phone charger, but oh well. I’ve got the address memorized, thank God, and if I want to make it in time to meet Vinny, I’ve gotta get on that train. I nod wildly. “ Ventinove. ”
Grateful for the low price, I hand over the twenty-nine euros and he gives me my ticket just as the train pulls into the station.