Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  * * *

  —

  I awaken to the sound of a quiet knock on my door. Scrambling to my feet and wiping away the crust of drool from one side of my mouth, I throw the lock and peer out to see a young woman dressed in a crisp blue uniform. She is standing beside an elaborately laden cart.

  “Tea or coffee, mademoiselle?” she asks, and when I point to her elegant silver teapot, she leaps into action.

  Before I know it, my table has been extended and reset, and a full tea service is laid out, complete with china pot, cup and saucer, and a three-tiered tray loaded with tiny rolled sandwiches and a variety of pastries. By which I mean dark chocolate and whipped cream in every possible configuration.

  “Bon appetit!” she says, and steps out of my room. Before she can close the door, I reach over to catch it.

  “Wait—can you tell me where we are?”

  “We are not long past Rimini, mademoiselle,” she says politely. “Because of the delay in the Alps, our anticipated arrival in Brindisi is now nineteen thirty this evening.”

  She bobs her head and closes the door.

  I’m suddenly ravenous, and I tear through the entire repast in an embarrassingly speedy time. But the tea has helped, and as I brush away the last chocolate crumbs from my face, I begin to think clearly again.

  Checking my phone, I see that Italy shares the same time zone with France, which means I must have slept for at least six hours.

  Sliding gingerly past the table, which looks like a hurricane has swept across it, I reach for the recessed handle of a door in the wall. My hopes for a toilet are rewarded. But as I stand at the open door, the train swaying gently beneath my feet, I can’t help staring openmouthed. This is no public train car lavatory. The room is absolutely tiny, containing a sink, cleverly situated above a compact toilet, and to one side? A private shower stall.

  Half an hour later, I emerge from my cabin in a cloud of rosemary-scented steam—hair washed and fashioned in a chic high ponytail, and with a clear goal in mind.

  I need to find the Evil Nephew, otherwise known to the world as Dominic Madison.

  * * *

  —

  Over the rest of the journey, I search the train from end to end, and back again. No luck. There’s no evidence the Evil Nephew has ever been aboard.

  When I return to my cabin, all signs of my nap, my meal, and even my steamy shower have been completely eradicated. The gently swaying room is perfection once more.

  I plop down on a seat by the window. Now my stomach and brain are once again working in concert, I try to make sense of everything that has happened.

  It can’t be a coincidence that Frank Venal’s nephew—or gopher or whatever Dominic is to him—is trying to steal this opportunity out from underneath me. And regardless, even if he is legitimately going for the ExLibris position, it will still ruin my chances to help my uncles hold on to their bookshop.

  My brain ticks along with the wheels of the train. I think back to the snarling, slightly orange face of Frank Venal that day inside Two Old Queens. And further? The threatening e-mail from his lawyer. There can be no question. The Evil Nephew can pull his innocent act all he wants. Frank Venal is behind this, somehow. He has to be.

  Outside the window, the sun glints off water bluer than I think I have ever seen. We pass a cluster of windmills, all spinning in the balmy salt breezes off the Adriatic coast. Farmers are out in their fields, turning over the soil and sowing crops. The train flashes by a grove containing low, twisted trees that I don’t realize must be olives until we are long past. The lush rich soil of Italy provides a far more varied landscape than I ever imagined. I don’t know if it’s the hypnotic rocking of the train, or the beauty of the view, but my thoughts feel more focused than they have in days. As the train slows down, one thing is obvious.

  I run my fingers across the packet of papers that I’ve carried since they blew out onto the tracks behind the train. A certain Mr. Dominic Makana Madison is going to need these visas. And I will happily exchange them for my own. But not before a few questions get answered.

  Suddenly, this trip around the world takes on a whole new dimension. No matter what happens, I decide to keep a smile on my face and to update Teresa with the sunniest and most comprehensive tour information ever. There’s exactly zero chance I’m going to let Frank Venal and his nefarious nephew Dominic have things their way. The prize money is going to keep the bookshop safe for Uncle Merv and Tommy. After all I’ve been through so far, I have to succeed. And whatever happens next, I know that I’m 100 percent up to the challenge.

  After, perhaps, I find a decent plate of pasta. This is Italy, after all.

  chapter twenty-four

  IMAGE: Ancient Pillar

  IG: Romy_K [Brindisi, Italy, March 29]

  #Mediterranean #AppianWay

  99

  ExLibris Transit Report, submitted by Ramona Keene

  TRAVEL SUMMARY: True luxury is not a thing of the past. Case in point: Pendolino high-speed trains, with their superior-class cabins, which have a tilting technology that allow them to travel the rails of Italy at speeds up to 200 mph. This speed is, of course, limited by weather conditions and such things as landslides or avalanches.

  TOP PICKS TO SEE AND DO: First-class travel on this vehicle is unbeatable, from the downy pillows of the couchette to the ensuite shower for lovers of luxury. Let’s take a look at high tea as an example of onboard cuisine . . .

  The temperature when I step off the train offers the most pleasant of shocks. For the first time since I left New York, the air is warm. It’s got to be at least 65 degrees Fahrenheit this evening, and I’m definitely not unhappy about this at all. A gentle breeze blows my hair off my forehead as I walk through the town of Brindisi, and I feel like a new woman. Being clean and somewhat rested helps, and the plate of pasta that appears before me in short order does not hurt either.

  I honestly do feel different. The Romy who left New York what seems like an eternity ago bears little resemblance to the one lingering over fettuccini in this ancient seaside town. It’s more than my weird level of comfort, sitting here alone, eating pasta in a rich sauce of mushrooms and possibly almonds, in this most foreign of foreign countries. I feel confident for the first time on this trip.

  For the first time I can remember, if I’m being truly honest.

  My life since I left college has been—well, I wouldn’t want to say I’ve been drifting, but . . .

  The plan to go on to graduate school has always been there—it has—but now that I really stop to look at it, it hasn’t been anywhere near the front burner. For good reason; there’s no question Merv needs me. I know that Two Old Queens would fall apart if I wasn’t there, overseeing and improving systems every day. But while it will always be home to me, the shop is Merv’s baby, not mine. Of course, I love it. I’ve grown up within its walls. But halfway around the world, sitting here beside my now thoroughly cleaned plate, the significance of all this dawns on me at last.

  Immediately after departing the train station this evening, I secured my passage across the Mediterranean Sea. Just past the parking lot, I spotted a travel office, with an ex-pat Brit in the agent’s chair. Luckily, she only asked if I had been issued a visa to enter Egypt, and I wasn’t forced to admit the one in my possession doesn’t exactly have my name on it. Old Romy would have melted down right then, and gone to pieces over the missing visa and the nefarious actions of one Dominic Madison.

  New Romy is sitting here, dipping a biscotti so buttery, it actually melts away if I hold it for more than a second in sweet rich Italian tea. Not a care in the world.

  I have a place to sleep for the night. I have a berth on the only ship leaving port in the next three days. She is called the Isa Minali, and is a refrigeration ship, carrying some sixty tons of frozen fish across the sea to the Suez Canal. In three days, the Diamond Emp
ress will also dock here in Brindisi, and it was on that ship that I had set my sights originally. But the loss of three days in this place, regardless of its beauty, is something my schedule will not allow. I’m proud to say I easily won the battle of wills with the local travel agent, who was appalled at the thought that I would take a room on such low-class transport. After collecting all the agent’s cruise ship information for Teresa’s ExLibris client, I booked the faster, cheaper, and definitely lower-class transport without a second thought. And sometime soon? I will submit a report extolling the virtues of the Diamond Empress, without ever quite admitting that I didn’t actually float across the Med in one of her fancy cabins.

  I’ve just spent almost sixteen hours in a luxury first-class train cabin, with en suite shower. Nothing can ever top that, anyway.

  * * *

  —

  My wee room in Brindisi has the comfiest bed I’ve come across since I left home, luxury train accommodation included. The inn faces out onto the street, and my balcony is made from iron wrought more than a century ago. Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi is the main street leading down to the town’s inner harbor, where one remaining marble pillar marks the end to the Appian Way. As established by the Roman Empire, no less. Brindisi is one of Italy’s oldest and most important trade seaports, and the harbor is gorgeous.

  Aside from a cursory look at the waterfront while searching out my little inn, I don’t have time to check out the town any further, as there’s ExLibris work to be done. The Wi-Fi in my room is sketchy, so I spend the early part of the evening scouring tourist pamphlets culled from the innkeeper.

  Brindisi may be small in size, but it is mighty in history. The city was once the government seat for the Kingdom of Italy, but these days is better known as a bustling port on the Adriatic Sea. It’s about halfway down the heel of the Italian boot, and the closest natural harbor to the place where the Adriatic meets the Mediterranean. One of the innkeeper’s pamphlets insists (in poorly translated English) the city was founded by Diomedes, the Greek hero from the Trojan War, but since the Wi-Fi in my room has given up completely, I can’t really confirm. Regardless, it’s been a city since before we started keeping dates going forward, so it’s altogether too much history for one small ExLibris report, anyway. I settle on noting the balmy temperatures and the palm-lined streets, paved in ancient cobbles. And I reserve most of my space for the Italian cuisine, since I’ve got six local menus to refer to.

  I’m writing while sitting on the balcony, the better to keep an eye on the road below for a particular suspicious character. Dominic Madison’s dark hair will blend right in with the Italian norm, yes, but he can’t do anything about his height. Standing head and shoulders above most of the resident population of this seaside town is not something he can easily hide. So far, there’s been no sign of him, and now that it’s full dark, I’m beginning to worry that he’s somehow managed to surge ahead of me. Still, Brindisi is one of the checkpoints from the novel, and even if he managed to stay hidden on the train, he’s going to need to come out at some point, if only to take a photo to prove he was here.

  Around nine, I tuck my laptop into my daypack and head out to see if I can find a local cafe with better Wi-Fi. The door to my little inn hasn’t even closed behind me before I am swept up in a spontaneous parade leading down to the waterfront. I never do discover which saint is the focus, but without any warning, the entire main street is teeming with celebratory Brindisians. Led by a brass band, all the local clergy are represented. White-frocked choir members in full voice are trailed by a collection of priests in varying levels of clerical garb, followed by an abundance of nuns, most of whom appear to be in their eighties. Just as the parade of clergy slows, the rest of the town leaps into the street in solidarity. By the time the last of the children in strollers are wheeled by, almost all the shops are closed. So much for any shot at better Wi-Fi.

  I manage to squeeze into a gelato place just before they shut the doors. The girl behind the counter twists my arm into sampling three varieties, served in a large, pressed paper bowl: stracciatella, which tastes like vanilla studded with tiny dark chocolate chips; nocciola, which I’m pretty sure is filled with hazelnuts; and something called zuppa inglese, a rich, custardy concoction which the card on the wall translates to “English Trifle Soup.”

  It might be the best Italian food I’ve ever eaten.

  I have an early morning departure on the Isa Minali, so even though I still haven’t heard from Teresa Cipher about the mix-up with the paperwork, I head back to my little inn with a full stomach and the goal of a fresh start in the morning. I’ve gone from frosted rooftops to palm trees in a single day, and I have to believe that things can only get better from here.

  * * *

  —

  Leaving Brindisi turns out to be both easier and more complicated than I expect. The complicated part comes first, when the balance of my temporary credit card runs dry as I go to pay my bill at the inn. There’s a long moment while the innkeeper and I stare at each other, and then, out of pure panic, I pull the card with Dominic Madison’s name on it out of the tattered manila envelope. I stumble through an offer to read the numbers out so he won’t see the name, but the innkeeper holds out an imperious hand, and like a schmuck I fork it over.

  I fully expect him to ask for my PIN or at least check the signature on the back, but to my everlasting relief, the innkeeper doesn’t look at the card at all. Instead, he taps it against his machine, the machine beeps, the transaction goes through, and my complication disappears. I have a moment of vindictive satisfaction at the thought that Dominic Madison is now paying my bills, but it passes when I remember all the charges go through to ExLibris.

  While a round Italian girl with no English makes me a cup of tea in the cafe across the street, I have enough time to log in and upload my e-mail. Reasoning that I’ll have plenty of time to read and reply on board the Isa Minali, I grab my tea, drop the last of my change into the tip jar, and head for the water.

  Dockside, the Brindisi harbor smells of salt and seaweed and tar, and is packed full with bobbing boats. As I hurry along the oldest end of the docks, heavily armed guards patrol the entrance gate leading to an Italian naval vessel moored behind razor wire. Outside the fence, a couple of tiny, decrepit rowboats have been discarded on the shore, next to a collection of multicolored fishing vessels. Above them all, the morning sun reflects off the Sailor’s Monument, memorializing Italian sailors since sometime between the two world wars. At the far end of the cobbled street, I find the commercial port, which, like the naval section, is behind a guarded gate.

  No submachine guns here, though. Commercial fishing vessels are moored next to high-end yachts, two of which sport visible swimming pools on board, and one with its own helipad.

  The Isa Minali is moored in the outer harbor, and I have to pass through a customs facility before I can even get close. Like the moment with Dominic Madison’s credit card, I stand with my heart in my throat, waiting for the customs officer to ask to see my visa. Instead, he stamps my passport, wishes me a buon viaggio, and waves the person behind me forward.

  I’m through, and on my way to Egypt.

  * * *

  —

  The captain of the Isa Minali introduces himself as Giuseppe, though I never learn if this is his first or last name. He tells me that given good seas, the ship is expected to approach the Suez Canal in as little as two days. He also tells me there’s no Wi-Fi available on board. The idea of going incommunicado for the length of the journey is unnerving, but I don’t really have any other viable choice, so I follow a crew member down to the tiny quarters assigned to me. One of the walls of my room is frost covered, which is something I don’t recall ever seeing before.

  “We’re a refrigeration vessel,” the crew member, whose name is Joachim, explains. “All the rooms on this side are up against the freezer.”

  He leaves me to my unpacki
ng with a wink, and an offer to “warm me up anytime” that I have no intention of taking him up on. After dumping my bag on the cot, which proves to hold a single sheet of worryingly thin foam over a metal frame, I lock my door and head up on deck. I’m in time to get a last view of beautiful Brindisi, the first checkpoint on this trip where nothing has gone wrong.

  I can only hope it won’t be the last.

  I spend most of the day on the deck, trying to stay out of the way of the crew, and taking pictures of the glittering Mediterranean for my Insta page. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many shades of blue.

  When the light begins to fade, I find a spot out of the wind to read through my e-mail. Tommy writes me, reporting on Frank Venal’s first rent-collecting visit. He says that when Merv expressed surprise at seeing Venal instead of his nephew, Frank Venal complained bitterly that he’d gone off on some wild goose chase. When Uncle Merv remarked on the coincidence of my departure, the two men got to comparing notes. Tommy said Venal became incandescent with rage, convinced that Dominic has applied for the ExLibris internship to shirk his family duties. Apparently, he loudly blamed my bad influence before stomping off.

  Without thinking, I write Tommy as reassuring a note as I can muster, insisting that of course I have zero influence with Venal’s nephew. After pressing ‘send’ twice, I remember the lack of Wi-Fi. It’ll be almost two days before my reply can go through.

  Swallowing my frustration, I turn to the second e-mail. This one is from Teresa’s assistant, Powell, in response to my frantic questions about the switched paperwork. Irritatingly, this note informs me that I will still need to connect with Mr. Madison—Mr. Madison!—before entering customs in Port Said, Egypt, as replacement visas cannot be forwarded in time.