Pushing further north by train, the ever-shifting landscape rushed by the windows of our train, reminding me of California. But the villages and cities couldn’t have been more different. Italy was a modern country that lived side by side with its past. Everywhere were reminders, from the Arena in Verona to the narrow cobblestone alleyways in Venice. People lived in harmony with their history. People adapted to it, and their lives moved on and were better off for it.
Venice was a city to be happily lost in. Again, Rachel paid for a very modest room which was better than anything I could afford. She reasoned that since she would’ve been paying for the room anyway, there was no reason to collect money from us. And I let it go because my funds weren’t inexhaustible, and I had no good reason to end my journey any sooner than was absolutely necessary. I was already pondering how many and what variety of cold-weather clothes it would take to get me through a winter in Europe, and where I could purchase them at a discounted price. Margaret let it go as well.
In Venice, we met two young men from Germany. They had hashish, they said, and would like to share it with us. I’d never tried drugs before—nothing beyond alcohol, which I considered to be in a different category—a remnant from Kitty Committee days. Nathan smoked weed, but never around me out of respect. But Rachel and Margaret were eager, so we joined them at their place, a nice hotel room on the third floor overlooking a canal. We shut the windows tight, lest the odor leak into the walkway below us. One of the Germans jammed a small wedge of hash into a tiny gold pipe and sucked in the flame from a match. The pipe was passed from person to person, a thin blue trail of smoke rising from its bowl, undulating like a cobra. When it got to me, I hesitated long enough to catch up with my doubts. Everything inside me screamed no, but I was on a mission to bust through all the rules of my former life, so I pulled the smoke into my lungs the way I’d observed the others doing before me. My explosion of coughing gave me away, but by the second and third round I’d gotten the hang of it, and by then it had gotten the best of me.
The lightning bolt from Heaven didn’t strike as I had half-expected—instead my hash-head led to an evening of circuitous thought and conversation that seemed fascinating at the time, but in retrospect was often ridiculous. It led to boundless energy and appetite, followed by mild dizziness and extreme fatigue. It led to impassioned longing for Nathan and much second-guessing of my sanity. By the end of the night, I’d broken a Kitty Committee commandment and vowed never to do so again. And by the end of the night, something else had happened. We’d picked up a fourth member of our traveling group—one of the young men whose name was Gunther. Gunther decided he was more interested in going wherever we were going than heading back to Germany with his countryman.
“We’re the four musketeers now,” Rachel claimed once we were tucked in for the night. A familiar and unwelcome chill skittered down the back of my neck.
“There weren’t four musketeers,” I said.
Everyone should travel blind at least once in her life. And Rachel was right—it’s better if you share it with someone. I’d traveled my entire life but always within the confines of family, so it just felt like moving from home to home until I got to Indian Springs. And once I got to Indian Springs, all I wanted was a way to lock myself down in a solid social foundation, to make myself invincible to forces which otherwise had the power to crush me. But facing each day as a surprise-in-waiting was a new experience for me. Every day, every hour, every minute was a chance to reinvent myself. Life, time, identity—each one became a moving target. Aim. Shoot. And then aim again. I wondered if I could work out a way to make it never stop. To always be one step ahead of myself. But no matter how kind and fun and relatable Rachel was, I knew our eventual destination was Mike, her boyfriend in Spain. Rachel and I were on an adventure, not our adventure. I was only a piece of the puzzle that would eventually lead her away from me. Although we were less than halfway to that conclusion, I could already feel its hot breath on my neck. Margaret had paired off with Gunther soon after Venice. Everyone had someone except for me, and I only had myself to blame. I missed Nathan. He had wanted me, but I thought I could live more easily without him. Without anyone. I’d been willing to take that risk but I’d begun to suspect I was wrong.
From Venice, we doubled back to the Dolomites—the Italian Alps. We hiked on trails through mountain-top pastures so high that the clanging chorus of cowbells sometimes seemed like a heavenly orchestra concealed in the clouds. From there we slowly made our way to Lake Como, where we traveled by ferry from town to town, each time being greeted by a scrappy terrier that precisely resembled the dog in the town we had just left behind. Gunther and Margaret, in their near constant state of hash-induced euphoria, found this highly entertaining and had no end of conspiracy theories to explain the doggy clones everywhere we went. It was only when I caught sight of a crate near the boarding ramp that we discovered the dog belonged to a crew member and had been traveling with us all along. His name was Dolce, and he was let loose to take care of business well before the passengers were allowed to disembark.
Those were the lighthearted moments I remember. I also remember my blacker moods. A few weeks earlier in Milan, we came across a couple from France who spoke English well enough to hang out with us. They were somewhat older than our group—perhaps in their thirties, maybe even into their forties. We spent an evening visiting clubs and bars until we were all bleary from lack of sleep. Even then the couple, Michel and Veronique, wanted to keep going, proving that age didn’t equal stamina. Instead we invited them to our room, where Gunther lit up the hash pipe and invited them to share a bowl. Although I wasn’t imbibing, the closed windows and small room gave me a contact high. As the night wore on and my eyes grew heavier, I felt an acute unease about our new “friends” and wondered if the others were feeling the same thing. Veronique had bruises on her upper arm, and another on the back of her neck. To my foggy brain, she seemed damaged—like Maggie. Michel, on the other hand, gave off a whiff of something else that was uncomfortably familiar. Slowly, over the course of a few hours, he had taken control of our loose free-wheeling conversation. There was a distinct shift in the others’ behavior—they were beginning to defer to him, maybe because they perceived that since he was older, he must be wiser. He had an opinion on nearly every subject, and his opinions weren’t negotiable. Even Rachel, ever-trusting soul that she was, sensed something amiss. By the time she suggested we call it a night, I saw a diabolical glint in Michel’s eyes that I couldn’t convince myself was the product of my imagination. They left with promises to meet up with us the following day.
“I don’t know about you guys,” Rachel said once they were gone. “But I don’t want to hang out with them tomorrow.”
“I agree,” I said, relieved I didn’t have to be the one to say it.
“I think he’s evil,” Margaret said. “Did you see the bruises on Veronique? Wonder if he hits her.”
“Do you believe that?” Gunther raised his eyebrows. “That a person can be . . . evil?”
“I do,” Margaret said without the slightest hesitation. “One hundred percent.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You do realize this is probably the most discussed question in all of history.” Margaret lifted Gunther’s lax arm and snuggled underneath it. “Philosophers and theologians have been debating that question for thousands of years. We actually talked about it in one of my philosophy classes.” Her eyes grew alive with interest.
“I don’t think so,” Rachel said. “I’m not religious, so I don’t see it that way. I think everyone’s born pure and innocent. There’s no such thing as a bad baby.”
“Evil baby,” Gunther said, and we all laughed. “What if this evil baby picks up a machine gun and shoots a hundred people? Should he go to jail?”
Rachel smiled and shook her head slowly. “I’m serious,” she said. “I think it’s wrong to say there is such
a thing as evil because societies use it as an excuse to go to war or to enslave entire populations . . . like thinking that people are godless and, therefore, inherently evil was justification for colonialism and the crusades.”
“You should’ve been in my class,” Margaret said. “You would’ve been so awesome.”
“I think Michel is evil,” I said, and they all turned to me. Surprised.
“Why do you say that?” Rachel asked. The hurt in her eyes made me feel as though I had personally wounded her.
“I dunno.” I shrugged my shoulders and slouched forward to let my hair cover my face. It was a terrible response. If I was ready to seat Michel in the throne of Beelzebub, I should at least have a thought-out answer. I should at least have kept my mouth shut.
“I mean . . .” Rachel wouldn’t let it go, and I believed at that moment it would shake the foundation of her world were she to buy into the notion of evil. She must have a very lovely family, I thought. A lovely childhood. She must have been very lucky in life.
“I think that what happens to a child after they’re born can influence how they’ll react to a situation. Bad parenting, for example. Abuse.”
It was as though Rachel had slapped me across the face, but of course she knew nothing of my life. My parents weren’t bad parents. They certainly weren’t abusive. They were loving parents who had taught me right from wrong. So what did that make me?
“What if a person has good parents?” I asked. “And that person was raised with all the right values and morals. Could a good person become evil? Can they grow up to do bad things?”
The scent of hashish hung thick in the room. The light was low, casting my friends in a less than benevolent light. Dark shadows dropped from their brows to leech all compassion out of their eyes. Their faces, darkened by the weak overhead lights, looked gaunt. Hungry. I felt my senses in danger of spinning out of control. I grabbed onto the leg of the chair I was leaning against, feeling my fingernails dig into the palm of my hand.
“I don’t believe that a person who was raised the right way would ever behave in an evil manner,” Rachel insisted. “I just don’t believe it.”
Margaret watched us, her head swiveling back and forth as though she was observing a tennis match. Gunther had sunk to the floor, his head resting in her lap. Margaret absentmindedly sifted her fingers through his wavy, blond hair—silver in the dimness of the room.
“Is there an age when a person’s value system isn’t fully formed?” I asked, desperate for a convincing answer from Rachel, whom I’d grown to respect. Who seemed to have all the answers, as naïve as I knew they were. “Can a person be lost during that time if they have the wrong influences outside of their family? When their morals are still squishy?”
Rachel considered this. “I suppose that’s possible,” she said. She regarded me as though we were meeting for the first time. Rachel, this is Grace. Grace, this is Rachel. I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Evil.
“Wow, I think we may have smoked more than we realized,” Margaret said. Her eyes glazed over. Her eyelids were at half-mast. Her plump lips parted slightly, pushed aside by her endearing front teeth. “This is intense.”
I loosened my grip on the chair as my breath returned to its easy rhythm. “I agree with Rachel. I don’t think we should meet up with them tomorrow.” It was no longer important for Rachel to reassure me—I knew she didn’t have the answer. “Let’s ditch them and check out of here early. I have a bad feeling.”
“Okay, Grace,” Rachel reached out and covered my hand gently with hers. “I’m glad you agree because I trust your instincts.”
“Come, Evil Baby.” Gunther rose to his feet and pulled a reluctant Margaret to her feet with a hand under each of her arms. “Let’s go to bed.”
There were other bleak moments such as the times when my traveling mates shopped for sundries while I lingered near the postcards searching for an image that could somehow convey thoughts that weren’t even clear to me—express my forgiveness and regret via airmail straight into Nathan’s heart. Sometimes I’d go so far as to buy one, and then in the evening, after dinner when the others were curled up with a book or with each other, I’d formulate an entire speech in my mind as to all the ways I’d wronged Nathan and all the reasons he might consider forgiving me. Then I’d shorten it to the few sentences which could actually fit onto the back of a postcard. Sentences distilled from the thick stew of confusion boiling inside of me into a palatable and easily digested consommé. I’d pick up the pen I always carried with me and squeeze out those few words into the tiny space meted out for the message, equal in size to the card’s destination. Then I’d read it once. Twice. Sometimes three times, before tearing it into shreds.
Nathan didn’t know my heart, and he didn’t know my history. But he’d been the one person in my life who had tried to get to the bottom of both.
I was sorry to say goodbye to Italy after a month of traveling through its cities, towns, and villages. Between Italy and Turkey, I’d been nourished and, in a sense, reborn. Entering Switzerland, witnessing firsthand its harsh, cold beauty, staring into its glacial eyes—breathtaking yet forbidding—I felt a sense of foreboding as though I’d forgotten something. Something in a dream that would come to me at the most inopportune moment. Walking down a street. Sipping a cup of tea. Losing myself in a book. Or when the hour was late; the night was black and scarred with starlight; and I was laying myself down to sleep, eyelids closing against the cares of the world.
I’d promised Luke constant reassurance in the form of regular communication, but I hadn’t upheld my part of the bargain beyond the occasional few words jotted on a postcard on the fly. I had prearranged pick-up locations for receiving Luke’s letters, and my previously booked hostel in Bern was next on my list, even though we’d be staying elsewhere. We arrived in that capital city and walked around the entire perimeter in an hour, stopping along the way to see the famed city bears and admire its breathtaking views. While the others relaxed over lunch, I visited the hostel where two letters from Luke were being held for me.
The first letter was mainly chatty about the baby, Linda’s pregnancy, and even Bob the cat. The second contained the news that I realized I’d been dreading. Dad was feeling poorly, and the doctors couldn’t figure out why he was having this recurrence of malaria or why the medication wasn’t working. He told me not to worry (impossible), to enjoy myself, and to get home quickly. It cast a further pall over the country, deepening the uneasiness I’d already been feeling. I wanted to get back to warmer, more familiar climes, but we still had the rest of Switzerland and Amsterdam to explore before heading south for our ultimate destination of Spain.
“I was thinking,” Rachel said that night after Margaret and Gunther had retired to their private corner where, by mutual agreement, we didn’t look, “do you want me to ask Mike if he could get you a position in the English language school? Since you said you don’t have other plans, and you’ll be needing the money.”
This seemed like the opportunity I’d been waiting for. A way to prolong my travels. To avoid having to make serious life decisions. I spoke Spanish fluently, and Spain was a country that felt familiar to me even though I’d never been there. Rachel would be there for at least a little while until I got my bearings. It was perfect.
“Would you mind?” I asked.
We continued our travels through Switzerland: the alpine villages, lakeside hamlets, and the bustling cities of Zurich and Basel, where Gunther looked wistfully across the river toward Germany. We discussed venturing into Germany, but Margaret, Rachel, and I had laid out our plans, and Rachel and I were anxious to move on. By then, I was already wishing we hadn’t included Amsterdam as a destination. Rachel, who could feel Spain and Mike calling to her, was with me, and we assumed Margaret felt the same way. Her time was limited, although she’d already extended it once after receiving a wire transfer of funds fro
m home.
I wish I could remember the names of all the people we met along the way. Of all the countries demarcated on a global map, it seemed one crucial country was missing. It was a realm inhabited by global citizens constantly on the move, searching for something new, seeking something better, looking for answers to whatever they’d left behind. Young people mainly, but also middle-aged and even elderly people. It was a country of shifting borders which I imagined looked something like an amoeba—a giant blob, continuously adapting to its restless population. The country of lost and adventurous souls.
Our last day in Basel, we met for breakfast after an evening of exploration that ended with Margaret and Gunther sleeping on the sofa of Gunther’s childhood friend, and Rachel and me in a hostel.
“Well, ladies.” Margaret sipped from her cappuccino and then placed the steaming cup on the table. It was a cold but brilliantly sunny day, and a halo of sunlight glowed just behind her head. “You two have been amazing, and I’ve loved traveling with you, but I think this is where we say goodbye.”
I hadn’t expected this, although I knew that our bonds were temporary at best. Even Rachel seemed to be caught off guard. “What’s up, Margaret?”
“Gunther really wants to show me his home.”
Gunther smiled and nodded agreement. He wore a knit beanie with exposed tufts of blond hair curling down over his startling blue eyes.
“And he wants me to meet his family. We’re so close to Germany, so it seems like a logical time. Who knows? If all goes well, maybe he’ll come back with me to Canada and meet my family.”
The Kitty Committee Page 18