by A. Sparrow
Angelica came up behind me. “The march, it is leaving. Are you ready to go?”
“Hey, how do you get to Switzerland from here?”
She seemed taken aback. “Switzerland?” She shrugged. “You can fly. You can go by train. However you want.”
“Is it far?”
“Nine, ten hours by fast train. You must change in Milano.”
“The train would be cheaper, right?”
“Not necessarily. There is EasyJet. But I am so sad to have you leave so soon. We have hardly got to know you.”
She looked genuinely disappointed. It kind of startled me.
“I was just passing through, anyhow.” I got up from the table. “But first … we march.”
***
People from all walks of life marched with us: white collar and blue collar, teenagers and elderly, farmers and city folk, families and neighbors, hippies and bikers, cliques and loners. You name it, they were there. I couldn’t understand any of their chants or read any of their signs, but I couldn’t help being impressed by their enthusiasm.
If I ever settled down, I decided I would work hard to make myself fluent in another language. I just wanted there to be some place other than America that I could hobnob with the locals without feeling like such a dumbass. It didn’t matter where that turned out to be, but Italy would do. I already kind of liked this place.
I found myself gravitating towards the little knots of Black Bloc folks who kept to the fringes of the march. Angelica saw me with them and frowned, but I didn’t care. These guys had swagger and verve. So what if they liked to smash things for fun. I felt safe among them. I knew they would protect me.
As we marched, I kept scanning the faces of bystanders, looking for people fitting the profile of the flunkies and mercenaries that the Cleveland cartel had commissioned to find and teach me a lesson, probably with the promise of a bounty.
I must have passed at least a dozen likely suspects, glaring back at anyone whose gaze lingered too long. Most were probably just ordinary folk who thought I was some cocky punk. My attitude probably hardened their distaste for the Occupy movement’s politics, but really I was just trying to provoke any goons who might be in the crowd.
I overheard one of the Black Bloc-ers chatting with someone in English.
“Hey, I was just curious but … who are you guys?”
He scrunched his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“The Black Bloc. What’s it all about? How does one like … join up?”
“Simple. Wear black. Fight back. Black Bloc is not a political party. It is just a tactic. It is not like we are all anarchists, like some people think.”
“Huh?”
“It is just a way of dealing with authorities. When we wear black we blend together. The police cannot target one so easily. They have to deal with all of us.”
“But you guys seem … uh …. different … from the regular Occupy folks.”
“Okay, so maybe we are less afraid of the violence, yes. But we have the same goals.”
“Like what?”
“Fairness.”
A guy squeezed by us wearing a Guy Fawkes ‘V for Vendetta’ mask perched on his head like a hat. He wore no black. I had seen a smattering of these mask wearers in the crowd and had no idea what group or ideology they represented and how they meshed with everyone else. Maybe it was just a fashion statement?
This Occupy stuff was turning out to be a lot more complicated and fascinating than what the media made it out to be. Those talking heads on the news made it sound like this was just a bunch of unwashed hippies protesting rich people.
The march stalled. A wave of people staggered back. I pushed ahead to see what was happening. A can of spray paint rolled against a curb. Fresh graffiti dribbled down the side of an ATM. A ring of people shouted and chanted around a bunch of cops who had some girl restrained on the ground. Some were yelling at the cops, some yelled at the girl, others just yelled at each other. Meanwhile, blood trickled down the girl’s forehead.
The police tried to get people to move back but the crowd was getting more and more agitated and started shoving, and there weren’t even any Black Bloc-ers around. The mob surged forward, carrying me with them, straight into two lines of police with face masks and riot shields.
When in Rome, do as the Romans. I gritted my teeth and threw my shoulder into a shield, bouncing off and stumbling back into the arms of those behind me. Batons bashed ears and noses. Blood sprayed. People screamed and fell to their knees. The mob came at the cops harder. We were human waves breaking against a shoal, one after another until a particularly massive surge bowed back the phalanx and broke through the lines. Helmets flew. Batons were snatched away.
A whistle screeched. The cops turned and ran, reforming their lines a hundred meters further back. The protesters cheered and helped the girl with the bloody forehead to her feet. Someone freed her from her plastic cuffs with a pair of garden clippers.
One group had broken free from the march and was actually chasing the cops farther down the alley where they had gone to regroup. An old man at a sidewalk café sipped his cappuccino and casually watched the whole affair unfold as if it were some street performance staged for his amusement.
As for me, my heart was going a million thumps a minute. I had never been part of anything so invigorating.
I rejoined the march, which had become a great river of people flowing uphill. We came to a circle with a big fountain and I saw a sign for ‘Termini’.
I tapped a woman on the shoulder. “Termini … that’s the bus station, right?” Again, such an ugly American I was, just assuming she would understand and speak English, but she did—perfectly.
“It is a transportation hub,” she said. “For the bus … the train … the metro … everything.”
“Train?”
A police car came squealing around a corner and knocked into a group of people, sending them flying. Some people screamed in pain, some in outrage. A mob swarmed the little car and started banging on it and rocking it. The windshield shattered. The cops were hauled out onto the hood. The car was flipped over and set aflame.
All hell broke loose. A squad of motorcycle cops zoomed down a side street and nudged the people back. All kinds of stuff came flying their way—rocks, shoes, water bottles. Someone threw a hammer into a bank window. A series of loud, concussive pops brought billowing clouds of tear gas. Alarms and ambulances wailed.
I slipped away, jogging through a park full of bus stops and vendors selling kick-knacks to tourists, making my way to the squat and massive Termini building. I hated to leave in the middle of all the action, but I had a train to catch.
Chapter 33: Termini
Walking into the Termini station was like switching channels into a different world. Though my eyes and nostrils still stung from tear gas, tourists and locals went about their business as usual, totally oblivious to the presence of a massive and violent protest march only a half a block away.
But they weren’t completely unaffected and insulated. Some people fretted over the ‘mysterious’ bus delays even though folks with protest signs ran through the station, late to the march, trying to catch up. My hoodie alone emitted enough traces of CS gas to draw the occasional wince or cough from those I passed.
It took a few minutes of wandering in a daze before my heart calmed down and I got myself oriented. I quickly found the main train platform and the big mechanical screen displaying track numbers and destinations, but it took me a while to figure out that I would have to go upstairs to buy tickets.
I waited in this long queue only to learn it was for the wrong set of trains. The second time was the charm, though, and a kind and patient man behind the counter was able to sell me a second class ticket on the slow Intercity train to Milan, with a late night connection with the Cisalpino to Geneva, Switzerland.
“A hundred eighty Euros!” The price threw me for a loop. And this was for the slowest, cheapest possible routin
g.
“But that is an excellent price for two legs,” said the man. “They are off-peak.”
I waffled a bit. I considered taking Angelica’s advice, going to the airport and trying EasyJet, but I was already here, I could see trains pulling in and pulling out. Why dilly dally? Why expose myself to more chances of being discovered by those druggies?
I had been stingy with my cash up till now but when I shelled out for that ticket it was like the flood gates opened up. I went on a spending spree in the sprawling mall that surrounded the station. I bought two new T-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt lined with fleece, cargo shorts, painter’s jeans, undies and a daypack to stuff it all in. I chose all of it in black in honor of my new buds in the Black Bloc, not to mention, it wouldn’t show the dirt as much.
As I was heading back to the platform to wait for my train I passed a little gift shop with a big window display of German pocket knives. I realized that I was staring at another advantage of traveling by train—no security checks. I could actually carry a weapon with me.
So I bought this inexpensive blade with a spring release. It looked relatively innocuous, maybe one step beyond a Swiss Army Knife, but nothing designed for serious hand-to-hand combat. More like something you would buy to carve ducks from blocks of wood.
And I wasn’t done yet. I still had an hour before the train left so I went and got my hair chopped off—all of it. I had never shaved my head before and it felt glorious. Not only would it change my look, but it would be easier to maintain if I was going to be sleeping on the streets.
My splurge had put a massive dent in my cash reserves, but I had needed clothes. And if I didn’t find Karla soon, I wasn’t going to have a need for money much longer. Like they say, you can’t take it with you when you go.
But I had a feeling something big was going to happen in Geneva. Luther was going to help me find Karla in one world or the other, whether he wanted to or not. On this side of Root, I had the upper hand. I even had my own stinger now.
***
The train was delayed a little bit, so I bought a limonata and a panini with tomato and mozzarella to bring along for dinner. When the train finally rolled up, I scrambled onboard and got myself a window seat.
That turned out to be a most excellent move. The scenery we passed outside of Rome was way more epic than I had imagined Italy could be. It felt like I was in a movie. It didn’t seem possible that this could be real.
How could there be real people living among those picture perfect hills and fields and precious little villages? Oh, sure we passed some trashy architecture and nasty industrial complexes from time to time, but the contrast only made the other landscapes look that much more awesome.
I kept thinking back to that march and the Occupy folks and the Black Bloc. I had gotten a sense of camaraderie and belonging with them that I had never experienced anywhere else. It was almost like a drug, this feeling. It almost didn’t matter what they were protesting, just being there with them was enough.
How strange it was to have to come all this way to feel at home, a place so far from the land of my birth. I could say the same thing for Root, though. Bern and Lille were family now. They certainly treated me that way, much more so than Uncle Ed ever did. I didn’t know what lay in store for me in the days ahead, but I could tell you one thing, I wasn’t going back to Florida any time soon.
***
I had half an hour in Milan to change trains. As I meandered through the station, I kept noticing these solitary guys leaning against posts and walls who would scan the crowd and occasionally glance my way. It was crazy to even think any of them would be connected with Cleveland. How many lookouts could those guys possibly hire? I wasn’t that important.
So who were all these other loners I kept seeing? Were they gays looking for pickups? Straights wondering the same about me? Had these lost-looking young men always been around and I was only noticing them now because I was paranoid about bounty hunters?
Maybe they were just stray wanderers like myself, caught in adventures and tribulations even stranger than mine. Perhaps, like me, they oscillated between worlds. I didn’t dare ask any of them. I didn’t think I could handle the truth.
I hopped on the next train—the Cisalpino—as soon as it was ready to board, anxious to get underway again. This train was a mite newer and spiffier than the first, but just as slow.
After maneuvering through miles of factory yards the landscape opened up and we commenced to follow a tortuous route up into the mountains. I never thought it would be possible, but the scenery was even more mind-blowing than the countryside outside of Rome—castles perched on gorge walls, waterfalls, real fairy tale villages. I kept my face glued to that window for hours.
When nightfall robbed me of my entertainment, I took to wandering the aisles to quell my restlessness. I was startled to discover that one of the cars had an actual sit-down restaurant. And I peeked through the glass of the first class compartment just to see how the other half lived. It didn’t look all that special for the price.
Back in my seat, there wasn’t much to see but the wash of moon glow over fields or the outlines of some burly peaks silhouetted by stars. We soon reached a section where the absence of daylight didn’t matter because we spent most of the time shuttling through tunnels that did nasty things to the air pressure in my ear drums.
All that rattling over the rails eventually rocked me off to sleep, and I dreamt. Oh, man, did I dream!—of this enormous mass of humanity marching through Luthersburg, Black Bloc and all, intimidating the dogs, smashing through Luther’s walls and sending the Reapers squealing for their burrows.
I especially liked the part where Karla came to my side and took my hand. I asked her where she had gone. “Nowhere,” she had said. “I’ve always been right here.”
A glint of sunlight off a window startled my eyes open. I awakened to meadows and vineyards sloping down to the shore of a big, green lake flanked by jagged snow-capped peaks.
This had to be Switzerland.
Chapter 34: La Coccinelle
The Cornavin train station in Geneva was a grim, urban monstrosity, much like any other train station, I suppose. It harbored the usual array of newsstands, watch stores and snack shops. It smelled of coffee, diesel and urine.
Its nether spaces were populated with skate punks and neo-Goths who looked and acted just like the few we had in Ft. Pierce. I smiled and nodded at them as I walked past. One of them gawped at me like I had a third eye and showed me his middle finger. I laughed.
I took a walk to get my bearings, finding the lake front just a couple blocks away. The most bizarre promenade lined the shore. Rows of alien-looking trees with knobby branches reminded me of the whomping willows in Harry Potter. My eyes were further startled by a grid of topiary evergreens tapered into blunt cones like Mercury space capsules. I stood a while, mesmerized by a hundred foot fountain shooting up into the air out in the middle of the water.
I crossed a bridge over this really large river that gushed out of the lake. I wondered what kept the thing from draining completely, unless there an equally massive river pouring into it somewhere else.
Across the river I found a corner where a lot of buses seemed to stop and studied the maps and schedules until I discovered the best way to get to Chêne-Bourg. I exchanged some cash at a Bureau de Change and waited for the 31 bus to come. They used something here called a Swiss Franc. Who knew? I thought all Europeans used Euros these days.
When the bus finally came, my nerves kicked in. I was counting on the element of surprise to boost my leverage. Just knowing Luther would not be able to pull any fancy weaving encouraged me, but I couldn’t help being intimidated by his mystique.
I had a lot questions for Luther, demands as well, but not a whole lot of confidence that they would be answered. Coming up here had sounded like a good idea in Rome, but I had to admit now that that I hadn’t thought this one out.
Luther might have had nothing or ev
erything to do with Karla’s disappearance from the ‘Burg, but he was totally to blame for Lille and Bern’s troubles. Maybe that should be my tact—ask him to call off the dogs, open the walls.
Finding Karla here was a shot in the dark. I supposed it was possible she was here in Geneva or Chêne-Bourg, but I was far less certain of that prospect than I had been of finding her in Rome. A picture of a lake in a tapestry was not much to go on. As far as I knew, she might be living on the shores of Lake Titicaca. The lakes depicted in her art might not even have anything to do with where she lived these days. I couldn’t even be sure that she was still alive, in any sense of the word.
All in all, I had little hope that I would accomplish anything here. But what else was I going to do?
When signs for Chêne-Bourg began popping up with some regularity, I got off the bus at this street called the Rue de Gèneve. It was a wide boulevard lined with modern apartment buildings. I studied a map posted on the side of the bus shelter and was happy to see that I was just a short walk from my destination.
I cinched up my daypack and went traipsing off around a corner down the Avenue de Thônex. I passed more of those knobby-branched whomping willows. They seemed to be everywhere around here.
I passed some more generic-looking apartment buildings, and then the neighborhood kind of opened up with old-style, single family homes, some of them so cute they looked like they could be made of ginger bread, with yards that looked like wild alpine meadows.
I rounded a hedge near this little traffic circle and there it was—a sign displaying a ladybug on a leaf—the EMS La Coccinelle. A trellised walk led up to a stucco building with a boxy roof and long balconies extending down either side of the upper floors. It was older and less fancier than I had imagined.
I circled around a bit to get a feel for the place. The neighborhood was a mix of old and new residences interspersed with remnants of its farming past—greenhouses, fruit trees and grape vines.