Tailwinds Past Florence

by Doug Walsh

  The name sounded familiar. He zoomed out and, sure enough, the city of Lyon laid to the southeast, not far from Switzerland, the Alps, and the Italian border. He tapped a few keys and stared as a map of the Eurail train network filled the screen with colored lines radiating like spokes on a bicycle wheel. One led south through Geneva to Milan, and down the length of Italy.

  The door bumped against the chain with a thud around noon. “Ed, you awake? Open up, it’s me.”

  Shit, she’s early.

  Edward cinched the straps on his duffel bag and added it to the pile. He limped to the door, his phantom injury returning.

  It will be okay. She’ll understand.

  Kara leaned forward to give him a kiss, then hesitated, holding him by the shoulders as her eyes grew with concern. A shopping bag hit the floor, but it sounded miles away.

  “You’re as pale as a ghost. Are you still sick?”

  He didn’t know. His skin itched with nervous pinpricks, anticipating the conversation to come.

  “And you’re soaked. Look at your hair. You look like you’ve run a marathon,” Kara said, stroking his head.

  He shied from her touch and ran his hand across his face. It glistened, slicked with sweat. Trembling.

  “You’re panting. Let’s get you in bed.”

  His breathing was the only sound in the room. Fast, nervous breaths, his nostrils flaring wide while his chest heaved like a bellows. “I was packing,” he confessed, unblocking her view.

  Kara’s eyes flashed to the bed, where their panniers and duffel bags sat, freshly cleaned, packed, and arranged in identical piles. “What’s going on? Do we have to change rooms?”

  “Sort of.” Then, in a whisper, he said, “To Madrid.”

  “What?” she demanded, grabbing him, turning him to face her.

  “An overnight train to Madrid.”

  “We just got to Paris last night!”

  Edward shuffled his feet as the floor seemed to undulate beneath him. He placed his hand against the wall for balance. “We need to keep moving,” he said between breaths. He clamped his eyes shut, wishing the panic away. “To see the art,” he added, struggling to explain his reasoning, his thoughts swirling like finger paint.

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  Through the din of the attack, he imagined telling Tom to go to hell. Telling him that no job was worth the strain he was putting on his marriage—or his health—but he couldn’t. The Edward Vaughan standing in the decrepit Parisian hotel wasn’t that brave.

  He almost called it off a few hours earlier, before he bought the train tickets. Before he realized he could hire an assistant to set up the office and perform the candidate search. All he had to do was make one more leap ahead. Just a train ride. He had four months. It was still possible.

  He hated how each successive lie came easier. Even to himself.

  “You promised no more sudden changes.”

  He looked away.

  “Dammit, Ed, I’m sick of this,” she shouted, shoving the pile of panniers onto the floor. She stared at the tangle of bed sheets, her breathing as intense as when pedaling a mountain pass. “What about the Eiffel Tower?”

  “The train leaves at seven.”

  Kara felt the train slowing, the subtle rhythm of the steel wheels clicking and clacking along the rails had changed from a tango to a waltz. She stretched her neck and looked at her watch. It was nearly five in the morning. Ten hours to get to Barcelona? It seemed preposterously slow. No wonder we had the berth to ourselves.

  Edward sat across from her, the upper bunk on his side of the couchette flipped out of the way. He bit his fingernails as his bloodshot eyes studied the tickets. Presumably, to see what time they transferred for Madrid.

  Aboard the train, Kara read while Edward played Solitaire. Their picnic dinner of baguette, ham, and Brie was consumed in awkward silence, the macarons and wine untouched. And now the silence continued as Kara wondered why he avoided her, pretending to be distracted by the tickets, when she felt him staring at her moments ago.

  Kara reached to open the curtains when the gargled static of the intercom broke the tension. The voice, speaking in French, instructed the passengers to prepare to disembark. They’d be arriving in Milano shortly.

  Milan?

  Before she could question her own ears, the speaker crackled to life again. A different voice now spoke—in unmistakable Italian. And the gist was clear. They were on the wrong train.

  Kara jumped from the bunk, catapulted into action. “Did you hear that? We ended up in Italy.”

  Whatever response she was hoping for failed to arise. Edward’s gaze didn’t shift, he didn’t blink. He only stared at the papers in his hand, saying nothing as his legs bounced nervously on his toes.

  With every bump of the train, Kara’s suspicion hardened, arming her tone with an edge. “I’m talking to you, Ed. How the hell did we end up in Milan?”

  He glanced briefly at her then looked away, as if searching for an excuse in the folds of the curtains.

  “Let me see those.” Kara snatched the tickets from his hand. Milan to Florence, leaving in twenty minutes. “Florence! Why Florence?”

  “It was an accident,” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t know what happened. I must have bought tickets for Milan by mistake.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense. The tickets are for Florence. See,” she said, thrusting them at him. “It says, Firenze!”

  “I bought them last night from an attendant. Once I realized we were headed to Italy.”

  Kara spun her back to him and grabbed the stuffed Sasquatch she used as a pillow. She twisted it, winding its fluffy spine, wanting to rip it in two.

  “I thought you’d be excited. Isn’t Florence the cradle of the Renaissance? There’s probably dozens of Picassos there.”

  She buried her mouth in the plush animal to muffle her scream. The cradle of the Renaissance? Picasso? She could almost forgive him for thinking they had anything to do with one another—though it would certainly be nice for him to have some elementary knowledge about her interests—but it was as if he’d never listened to a thing she said. Kara hated the Renaissance period. Ever since her high school art history class. “Nothing but Bible paintings and portraits of rich dead guys,” she’d said at least a thousand times.

  Kara felt his hand on her shoulder. “Babe, I’m sorry. I should have woken you. Heck, I should have had you buy the tickets in the first place. The damn website was in French—”

  “I’m sure there was an English version,” she seethed, bristling under his touch.

  “I know. I panicked.” He sighed. “There’s no excuse, but when I saw we were headed to Italy, I bought us tickets for the first place that came to mind.”

  She wheeled on him, kicking aside his red duffel bag. Could he really be that stupid? That clueless? “Why not just ask for tickets to Spain, or back to Paris? Or, I don’t know,” she said in her most sarcastic tone, her head shaking in faux astonishment, “maybe ask where I want to go. Has it ever occurred to you that I might like a say?”

  The train lurched to a stop as the conductor’s voice intervened. “Benvenuti a Milano Centrale,” he said, like a referee separating fighters at the bell.

  “We’ve got to hurry to get the bikes,” Edward said. “The train leaves in twenty minutes.”

  “How convenient,” she said through gritted teeth. She then realized she could refuse to go, that she could buy a one-way ticket to Madrid for herself. A tempting thought, but a trigger she wasn’t ready to pull. Kara shot Edward her most incensed look, a promise that this discussion was far from over, then turned and thrust the Sasquatch and her copy of The Sun Also Rises into her duffel. “So much for the bullfights.”

  An hour later, Kara stood alone at the end of the passenger car, staring out the vestibule window, watching the northern Italian countryside slip past at high speed. In the light of day, with the stress of changing trains behind her—not to mention her first
espresso kicking in—the pieces of the puzzle started to fit together.

  The hypnotic motion of the train awarded Kara the clarity and time to reflect back to Paris. They were in front of the train to Barcelona, she was sure of it. Then, suddenly, Edward came running and asked if she heard the announcement. “They changed the platform,” he said. Kara hadn’t heard anything, but didn’t give it a second thought. There was no time. Only now, in hindsight, did she realize that they were the only passengers rushing to a different platform.

  And once aboard, Edward effectively quarantined her throughout the night, gently discouraging any wandering, diverting her from the dining car, and even shadowing her to the restroom. She thought it odd, a little protective, perhaps. Or just funny timing between the two of them. But now she wondered if it was his way of preventing her from discovering the truth.

  Would he really do that?

  She didn’t want to believe it. Kara picked absently at a sticker on the vestibule’s bare metal wall, wondering if she ever had a reason to suspect Edward of lying.

  But if Milan was a mistake, he would have woken her. And he would have laughed, or been angry. He wouldn’t have hidden it. That wasn’t like him at all. And he certainly wouldn’t have gone in search of an attendant to buy tickets from.

  So what happened?

  The door opened, releasing a cacophony of wind and rumble as someone passed between the cars. Stepping out of the way, Kara noticed the rail operator’s logo on the door and stiffened with fury as the truth hit her at once. They changed train companies in Milan. There’s no way the attendant could have sold him those tickets!

  “My husband lied to me.” Kara’s eyes watered as a pit formed inside her, like a black hole, expanding, swallowing everything she thought she knew about her marriage.

  Her mind jumped to the previous morning, when she woke to the sound of Edward vomiting. He was worried, he said—about his knee. But just the prior night, while out getting dinner, she saw him running up and down the stairs and leaping to grab tree branches. She thought of the rush at the Paris train station, after the so-called announcement. Edward ran, lugging the two bagged-up bicycles without any trace of a limp.

  “He was faking it,” she said, whispering his lie to herself. He faked being hurt to leave Paris. But why?

  Kara braced herself against the cold, metallic wall as she stared out the window, her vision blurred. She hadn’t just been lied to; she’d been played a fool. He’d been hijacking the trip for months, ever since Canada. Maybe earlier.

  They should have still been at Cape Cod. Instead, they were almost clear across Europe, with little hope of going back.

  Outside the window, the Tuscan countryside rolled by, all hills and valleys she wouldn’t pedal, rivers she’d never dip her toes in. In the silhouettes of hilltop towns she saw the centuries-old alleys she wouldn’t stroll, the photos she’d never take. For months Kara had dreamed of the magic of the road, the countless postcard moments she’d share with Edward. And now it was over. Without ever happening. Almost from the start, the trip had been nothing like she imagined. Every day a test of endurance, a measure of their ability to cover miles and find water, food, and a safe place to spend the night. Ride, sleep, repeat.

  Kara sobbed, feeling more isolated than ever before. Halfway around the world, on a runaway journey, with a man who thinks her a fool. Worse, he didn’t care about her dreams.

  I should leave him, she thought, recalling the legal papers she had drawn up. Only a plane ride away. But this was her trip. She wasn’t about to end it early.

  The train slowed as a sign marking the border of Firenze passed. In the distance, the rust-colored tile of the cathedral’s cupola came into view.

  Behind her, the door slid open once more. This time, a familiar voice spoke to her. “There you are. I was wondering if you got locked in the toilet.” She felt Edward’s arm slither around her waist, as if everything was fine between them.

  Kara spun from his grasp and made herself small against the wall. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Whoa, what’s going on?” He looked genuinely surprised.

  “You’ve been lying to me for months. Admit it.”

  “What? No, that’s not—”

  “Say it!” She glared at him, challenging him to test her fury, to utter a single syllable that didn’t explain his actions. Her mouth opened in silent rage, ready to bite.

  Edward’s lips quivered, but he held quiet.

  “I can barely stand to look at you,” she spat, shoving past him as the train nosed into the shadows of the Florence station.

  Alessio stood and stretched his back, wiping the sweat from his brow as he did. He took a swig from the water bottle he carried ever since the heat of summer descended upon the Arno Valley. The scorching temperatures were unlike anything he had endured back home, where the sea breeze would funnel up the stairs and alleys of Valetta, providing relief from the heat radiating off the city walls.

  He bent to scoop a pile of weeds for the bin and noticed two bicycles leaning against the campground office. These were unlike any bicycles he’d yet seen, loaded as they were with clever luggage. Red and yellow pouches hung alongside the wheels like saddlebags. Alessio pulled his hair back, tying it with a blue rubber loop that had come wrapped around a bundle of asparagus, as he pondered the bikes, sensing something special about them, the way someone can sense an approaching storm.

  “I’d forgotten how hot summers could be in Florence,” Hiromasa said, a smile in his voice.

  Alessio grunted, not having seen him approach. Every day Hiromasa came calling for him, armed with another mundane pleasantry. Alessio rolled his eyes and bore the routine, grateful for the distraction nonetheless.

  “Have you seen those?” Alessio asked, pointing.

  Hiromasa followed his gaze and whistled, clearly impressed.

  “Are they Gypsies?”

  Hiromasa laughed. “Perhaps, in their own way. They’re bicycle tourists. The campground has special rates for them. They’re probably German or Dutch.”

  “What would make them travel that way, instead of by motor?”

  Hiromasa began to answer, but when his mouth opened, the only sound was a gasp.

  Alessio turned from Hiromasa in time to see a man exiting the office. Even from this distance, he could see the man’s legs and arms glowed blue. Just like he and Hiromasa had seen on each other. “Do you—”

  “Yes. Absolutely,” Hiromasa confirmed, stepping to Alessio’s side. From atop a small rise in the path they watched as the man leaned on the bike, his back to them.

  A woman exited moments later and walked briskly toward the yellow bags. Alessio watched as the man reached for her hand, only to see her pull it free and continue on. She yanked her bicycle away from the wall and started up the path, pushing it straight toward them while the man lagged behind, his head hanging.

  She didn’t look in their direction. But Alessio could tell by their posture—both hers and the man’s—that something had soured between them. And just as Alessio began to wonder what it could be, she raised her head and looked his way.

  Alessio’s heart leapt into his throat as the tremor in his right hand returned, this time matched by a nervous shaking in his legs. All over his body, he felt his nerves firing, as if the fibers of the aura he wore—the one only Hiromasa could see—were now alive and dancing, celebrating to a song only she could sing.

  Sylvia?

  Beside him, he heard Hiromasa gasp again.

  He senses it too. For as much as Alessio wanted to sneak a glance at Hiromasa, to see if his glow had intensified, he couldn’t bear to take his eyes from her.

  The man pushed his bike after her, yelling. “Kara! Wait up!”

  Kara.

  She didn’t slow. She, this Kara, pushed her bike with all her might, grumbling as she did. She approached, near enough to see her scowl.

  Kara looked right at Alessio, locking eyes with him for the briefest moment, but it was all h
e needed. His search was over. It wasn’t the body of the woman who spurned him for another man and tricked him into adultery. No, that woman was not here. But his heart—his soul—could see what his eyes could not.

  He found his pathway home.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 22

  Friday, June 19 — Florence, Italy

  Edward fed the poles through the tent’s nylon sleeves, a sliding swish of aluminum the only noise. A wall of hedges hemmed in the campsite and green netting hung overhead, casting the site in midday shade. Kara paced beyond the collapsed tent, gnawing on her anger, spitting silent invectives. His wish for quick forgiveness evaporated, leaving him as brittle and mute as the wilted azalea blossoms littering the ground.

  He dreaded having to set up the tent alone. While technically possible, it was infinitely easier when they did it together. So he waited, crouched in the corner, hoping she’d slot the poles into their pockets on the other side. An awkward minute passed before Kara eventually helped, their well-rehearsed routine allowing her to continue ignoring him. She then gathered the bedding from her duffel bag, tossed Edward’s items at the bushes, and set to laying out her own.

  Weren’t they still a team? Edward tried to imagine being so mad that he’d refuse to cook her dinner or fix her bike, but the betrayal that would require was too painful to consider.

  He picked up the bag containing his air mattress and knelt beside her in the sleeping area. Kara yanked the bag from his hand as he tugged on the drawcord. “I’ll do it,” she snapped.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I said I’ll do it.” She stared at him without blinking, the same way she dared him on the train.