by Dick Rosano
Chapter 15
Old Seamen Join the Plot
The two old seamen shed some of their somber persona once they pushed off from the dock at Tripoli. No one would describe them as happy or even content; but the sound of waves lapping up on the hull of their boat soothed each man in a way that the same waves up on the dock could not have done.
They were not men of words, personality traits that served many sailors well for long sea voyages. A talkative man on deck was usually considered a nuisance. It was like being seated next to a stranger on a plane who insisted on talking rather than letting you read your book. The sailor, like the stranger, was too close for comfort and nothing short of violence could shut him up.
So these men did their work and otherwise kept to themselves.
They had known each other since their school days; it would be too much to say they had been friends. But they both loved the sea and both had the same unrealistic dreams of what it would do for them. So they understood each other very well.
They spoke only when directions or actions were required, and when they sat in the galley to have a meal and drink tumblers of the clear, strong, alcohol that the Libyan people had tried to abolish, but failed.
“What do we do when we get the truck?” asked the man with the ever-present stocking cap.
“She said to move all our cargo into the truck and head for Alba. I'm supposed to call her once we're on the road.”
“What about the boat?”
“I know an inlet just east of the port of Genoa that shelters many of the fishing boats. Ours is a fishing boat so it won't be noticed if we leave it there for a few days.”
The man in the stocking cap looked at the other one with some skepticism.
“Locals notice everything,” was all he said.
“That's right. Which is why I bought this boat from one of them a few months ago. They'll see it and recognize it, so it'll take a while to realize that it doesn't belong. By then, we'll be gone.”
The second didn't smile often, and even this statement didn't make his lips curl, but he looked back at his tumbler, gave it a long slurp, and grunted with satisfaction.
Chapter 16
Too Many Truffles
Work at night, sleep during the day.
That's what the smugglers did for several nights running. Most truffle hunters would work a few hours just before dawn, but these two were working from the minute the sun set through until about two in the morning, leaving the fields only because they expected the trifolài to be coming out at any moment.
The haul was significant. On the first night they realized that the plan needed a new step. They couldn't hide these truffles in their hotel rooms; the strong aromas would easily attract unwanted questions.
“Don't worry,” she said. She told him to put them in a sack among this stand of trees, cover the sack with dried and decaying leaves, and she would get back to him later in the day.
Ah, day. Time to sleep.
He went straight away to the Hotel Savoy, stripped and stood for twenty minutes in a hot shower to cast the night chill from his bones, then he sought the comfort of his bed. He didn't recall whether the sheets were cold; he was asleep before the thought would register.
It seemed only minutes later – probably hours, the way sleep plays with our memory – that his cell phone rang.
“I have a warehouse we can store them in,” she said. “The location is written on a slip of paper that I put on the sack of truffles.”
He was still sleepy but realized quickly that she wouldn't have simply brought the paper to him. It was daylight and we couldn't be seen together. He started feeling like a vampire.
He rose reluctantly from bed and checked the time. It had indeed been a couple of hours, not minutes. But, still, a couple hours sleep is not enough!
He did as he was instructed. He knew he'd have to cover his actions somewhat because he could be seen now. But the sack was concealed far away from the truffle fields and he expected that most people would be about their business now.
The slip of paper gave directions, but also provided a series of numbers: 18-45-23-41.This must a combination, he thought, probably to the warehouse. It was. So then at the end of every long night spent in the fields, he had the additional task of driving the truffles out of town to this warehouse.
“Could you drive them tonight?” he asked.
“That would call attention to us,” she responded. “If we are both seen at the warehouse, people will think there's something suspicious. You, you look like a farmer and this is a farmer's warehouse. People will just think you work for him and you're delivering his vegetables before going to market.”
Chapter 17
The Port of Genoa
The sailors timed their arrival in Genoa to dock in the mid-morning hours. This gave them two advantages: It was the time many fishermen arrived with their catch and the port master would be up to his gills in arriving boats. It also allowed them enough daylight hours to find a truck, load it with their cargo, and relocate the boat. Afterward, they would drive north and disappear on the country roads of Liguria.
They motored quietly into one of the busy parts of the Genovese port. The first man's hand was at the wheel, and he knew the best place to hide was in plain sight. He never wavered and didn't scan the port with his eyes. He knew where he was going and he didn't want to attract attention by indecision.
His partner on board was preparing the cargo. They wanted to tie up, produce their counterfeit passes and fake documents, register with the master on duty, and go get some food on shore. They knew the port master wouldn't have the boat listed. They were delivering the day's catch of shrimp and eel; neither was interesting enough to be weighed and surveyed by the authorities. And their paperwork was very convincing. With all the demands on the master's time, their boat wouldn't be searched until late evening, when it would already be empty.
Empty, that is, except for the trails of shrimp and eel that they purchased along the way to stink up the hold.
Their meal was short, utilitarian, and gruff, like the men who consumed it. They didn't exchange a word the whole time; a restaurant table was no place to talk about their current plan, and they didn't have anything else in common that would produce a conversation of another sort.
They paid their bill and walked out of the restaurant onto the streets of Genoa.
The first man put on a barely more convivial tone when he questioned locals about where they might be able to buy a truck.
“We're new to Genoa and want to set up a ceramics import business here.”
The ploy was weak, but no one questioned it. They got some suggestions and a couple of brush-offs, and the second man had to restrain himself from flipping these rude people the finger.
By mid-afternoon, they had visited three truck lots. They had selected the truck they needed at the first one, but wanted to lower the possible suspicion by seeming too anxious. In the end, they simply returned to the first lot where the salesman was very eager for the sale and wouldn't be suspicious of their motives.
They drove the truck back to the quay and unloaded their cargo. The second man drove away to their rendezvous point while the first man piloted the boat to the hidden fishing port he described earlier.
They were on the road in time to have dinner in Asti, a half-hour drive from Alba, where they would wait for instructions from the lady.
The ride through Ligurian hills, merging into the Piedmont – literally, the “foot of the mountains” – further north, was a pleasant one, but held little interest for these wizened sailors. These men were drawn to the sea and the feel of a boat swaying under their feet, so the green hills and black asphalt, and the thud-thud of tires over the roadway held little interest for them.
They arrived at the outskirts of Asti and randomly settled on a little hole-in-wall restaurant for some dinner. The first man flipped open his cell phone, dialed a number quickly, and had to wait only two rings before a w
oman's voice came on the line.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, we're outside Asti.”
“Take A33 south toward Alba. There's a little town called Barraccone on the north side of the roadway. Turn right onto SS231 and go to the Hotel Vecchio. There's a room for you under the name of Santino. There's also a note left for you, describing a place to park the truck. Stay there until further notice. I'll be in touch.”
Chapter 18
On the Train to Genoa
Morning came early in farm country, especially on this particular day for Paolo who was eager to head to the train station and board for Genoa. The late-September air was cool and fresh, let in liberally by bedroom windows that were left open at this time of year. There were fewer human sounds – no pickers or vineyard equipment humming in the distance – but the music of farm creatures and birds still wafted in through his window. Paolo finished packing almost mechanically, with one ear tuned to the sounds of his farming life, but his mind fixed on the trip ahead.
Most of his clothes and other things he had arranged the night before in anticipation of questo gran gita, “this grand trip,” so Paolo could take time to enjoy la prima colazione, the brief first meal of the day, from Catrina's kitchen. Secondo colazione would be bigger and was generally taken at around ten o'clock when most Italians wanted a brief respite from the day's activities. By that time, Paolo would already be at the train station. But for a little while, at least, Paolo lingered over his mother's fresh rolls and bowls of fruit, then sliced liberally through the hunks of cheese that served to complete the meal.
Paolo returned to his upstairs bedroom and, from the balcony outside his room on the second floor, he stood to enjoy a last sip of espresso and stared off into the distance. He was surprised when a touch of melancholy took him unawares, and tried to shrug it off. Peering beyond the rooftops of pietra cotta, the baked stone tiles of the houses that surrounded the dell'Uco home, he could see farmland and rows of vines that stretched off into the distance. He wondered how many families had shared the land he gazed upon, and how many centuries these farms had provided sustenance to the people in the houses that now were slowly coming to life in the cool morning air. His second thoughts were fleeting, though, and he quickly downed the last swallow of espresso when thoughts of Genoa surged back into his mind.
Trooping down the stairs he gave his mother a thoughtful hug, then stepped out into the still-cool sunshine where his father was waiting for him next to the truck. Looking at his mother's little garden, then at the dusty cobble-stoned road at his feet, Paolo wondered again what his father saw in the parched earth of this farm, but his thoughts were distracted by the sight of a glimmering tear that Dito tried unsuccessfully to hold back. Dito looked down and brushed his toes against the stones, then turned to climb into the driver's seat.
Catrina stepped out through the doorway, prepared for this moment. She quickly hugged her son again, spun him around, and told him to go.
Paolo threw his bags into the back of the truck and climbed into the seat next to his silent and sullen father. Dito cranked the engine which started with a grudge, and they wheeled off in the direction of Arezzo, the nearest train station and about an hour drive along country roads.
Both men stared blankly through the dirty windshield, without speaking a word until Dito swung the truck into the driveway in front of the train station. With his fingers on the door handle, Paolo looked over at his father and offered a slight smile.
“I'll be back in a few weeks,” Paolo said, then he looked down at the floorboards when he realized he had already lengthened the “one week, maybe two” promise he made two nights earlier at the dinner table.
Dito's head turned in Paolo's direction but cocked to the side. He face was drawn and a little sad, revealing that he thought this trip was just the first of many, but he held the gaze for a bit until his son looked back toward him.
“Ritorna a la casa, subito,” he said while extending his hand. “Come home, soon.” Paolo took his father's leathery hand, shook it once and let go. Before either man could see a tear drop, Paolo pulled the door handle up with a jerk, and swung his legs out onto the pavement.
“Ciao, papa,” he said, and turned to enter the train station.
The train station in Arezzo is small in comparison to other Italian ferroviarie, the network of rail depots that serve the entire peninsula. The stations in Rome, Venice, Milan, and Naples serve as commercial hubs of those cities and include many adjacent hotels and shops; Arezzo's station located on the Piazza della Repubblica is smaller and exists mainly for its role in transportation, unheralded as a “destination” in itself.
Paolo stepped up to the window, exchanged the common pleasantries with the clerk, and bought a ticket to Genoa, known as Genova to Italians. For a brief moment – and with a wry shrug – he wondered why he was buying a round-trip ticket. Tapping the little piece of paper on his outstretched fingers, Paolo quickly chased that thought and swore to honor his promise to return to his parents. It was a thought that would impose itself on his mind more often in the coming days.
The clerk pointed Paolo in the direction of binario 3, the railside where his train would be waiting. La prima classe was for tourists with too much money to burn; Paolo was satisfied with the accommodations in la seconda classe, where he settled into a window seat and waited for the departure. The train's furnishings were comfortable, if not luxurious. The seats were cushioned and most could be stretched out to meet the seat directly across, forming a bed for overnight travel. There were racks above for one's bagagli, luggage, and the window would open by sliding the panes across. Paolo did this, in part to look out on the train station of his local region, in part to revel in the excitement of a trip alone, and in part to get a better look at the pretty ragazze who were also boarding the train.
Staring out at the scene from the window, he realized that the parting at truckside had distracted him and he forgot to buy provisions for the train ride. Vendors hawked their food and beverages on the binarii between each departing train, pleased to sell their sandwiches, sodas, wine, and water to the travelers before the train pulled out of the station.
Paolo opened the window and whistled for one of the cart minders to come over. He bought a bottle of water, a bottle of wine, and two sandwiches. The journey to Genoa would take just over four hours and he wanted ample sustenance, even though it couldn't match the food at his mother's table.
He settled in and waited for the sounds of departure. With a whistle and the hiss of brakes being released, the train lurched forward and began the slow process of acceleration. More whistles, the metallic ring of wheels turning on iron rails, and the sounds of the city washed together in an urban cacophony that Paolo loved. It was vibrant, unlike the quiet stillness of the countryside, and Paolo breathed deeply in the knowledge that he was now on his way.
The train left the station at about ten o'clock in the morning, stopping just before noon in Florence and picking up and dropping off some of its passengers. At the appointed departure time, groaning wheels once again announced the time had come to head for another city, Pisa, and the train began its next leg of the journey. Paolo reservedly sipped at his water, knowing that this bottle was as precious as the ubiquitous wine, and he ate one of the two sandwiches before the train arrived at Pisa Centrale.
Larger than the humble train station in Arezzo, Pisa's building is one of the most beautiful in the city. Damaged during World War II, its 19th century façade was restored and stands now as a testament to Italians perseverance during wars between invading armies.
The stop lasted about thirty minutes, time enough for Paolo to stretch his legs and wander out onto the binario and buy another bottle of water. He didn't want to leave the platform, fearing that a sudden departure – Italian trains were still notoriously unpredictable – would leave him stranded longer than he planned in Pisa.
“I will return to Pisa again,” he promised himself silently. “And climb th
e great tower.”
The next leg of the trip took him to his destination, Genoa, first passing through more of Italy's idyllic countryside. It was a transformative experience to come from the country's inner regions like Tuscany with its green rolling hills, orchards, and vineyards and travel to the coastal regions like Liguria, with its endless miles of beach and rocky coastline. Paolo had modest experience with travel and wasn't a stranger to Italy's shores, but he had not yet seen such wondrous places as the Amalfi coast, the Adriatic seashore, Taormina in Sicily, or the Cinque Terre. He had been to Genoa when he was younger, and was most familiar with Liguria, so he contented himself with the opportunity to return there.
“I will see all of Italy, then all of the world,” was another promise he made himself.
Chapter 19
City of Ships
The train's speed slacked as it moved into the maze of tracks entering Genoa Piazza Principe, the city's train station on Piazza Acquaverde. With a huff and the grinding of metallic brakes, the cars came to a halt beside the binario and Paolo grabbed his bag and stepped quickly onto the platform, and into the bustle and noise of this city.
He made his way out of the train station and stood on a corner, looking very much like a tourist with his bag in hand and slightly lost appearance. He turned slowly to take in his surroundings, not in confusion but to absorb every moment of his return to the City of Ships. It was a nickname he bestowed on it when he was a boy, a boy mesmerized by the ancient history of shipbuilding in Genoa, as well as its continuing role in world maritime commerce. Paolo's mother was right that he was suffering from a bit of wanderlust, but she thought the feeling had only just set in. Paolo knew that he had wanted to travel the world, preferably by ship, since he was five years old.