portals of the massive Ostia Railroad station, built by Mussolini in the halcyon days of trumpets and drums and marching boots and trains that ran on time.
Italian was not Michael’s best language, but he could read it well enough:
Biglietto per Venezia. Prima classe
. The line was short and his luck held. The famed
Freccia della Laguna
was leaving in eight minutes, and if the signore wished to pay the premium scale, he could have the finest accommodations by way of his own compartment He so wished, and as the clerk stamped his ornate ticket, he was told that the
Freccia
was leaving from
binario trentasei
, a dual platform several football fields away from the counter.
“Fate presto, signore! Non perdete tempo! Fate in fretta!”
Michael walked rapidly into the mass of rushing humanity, threading his way as fast as possible toward dual Track 36. As usual—as he recalled from memories past—the giant dome was filled with crowds. Screeching arrivals and wailing departures were joined in counterpoint; screamed epithets punctuated the deafening roar, because the porters, too, were obviously on strike. It took nearly five hectic minutes to shoulder his way through the huge stone arch and emerge on the double-track platform. It was, if possible, more chaotic than the station itself. A crowded train had arrived from the north as the
Freccia della Laguna
was about to depart. Freight dollies collided with hordes of embarking and disembarking passengers. It was a scene from a lower circle of Dante, screaming pandemonium.
Suddenly, across the platform, through the milling crowds, he caught sight of the back of a woman’s head, the brim of a soft hat shadowing her face. She was stepping out of the incoming train from the north, and had turned to talk to a conductor. It had happened before: the same color or cut of the hair, the shape of a neck. A scarf, or a hat or a raincoat like those she had worn. It had happened before. Too often.
Then the woman turned; pain seared Havelock’s eyes and temples and surged downward—hot knives stabbing his chest. The face across the platform, seen sporadically through the weaving, colliding crowds, was no illusion. It was
she
.
Their eyes locked. Hers widened in raw fear; her face froze. Then she whipped her head away and plunged into the crowds in front of her.
Michael pressed his eyelids shut, then opened them, trying to rid himself of the pain and the shock and the sudden trembling that immobilized him. He dropped his suitcase; he had to
move
, run, race after this living corpse from the CostaBrava! She was alive! This woman he had loved, this apparition who had betrayed that love and had died for it, was
alive!
Like a crazed animal, he parted the bodies in his path, screaming her name, ordering her to stop, commanding the crowds to stop her. He raced up the ramp and through the massive stone archway oblivious to the shrieking, furious passengers he pummeled and left in his wake, unaware of the slaps and punches and body blocks hurled at him, unconscious of the hands that ripped his clothing.
She was nowhere to be seen in the station crowds.
What in the name of God had
happened
?
Jenna Karas was alive!
4
With the terrifying impact of a bolt of lightning the sight of Jenna Karas had thrown him back into the shadow world he had left behind. She was alive! He had to keep moving; he had to find her. He ran blindly through the crowds, separating arms and gesturing hands and protesting shoulders. First to one exit, then to another, and a third and a fourth. He stopped to question what few police he found, picking the words from a blurred Italian lexicon somewhere in his mind. He shouted her description, ending each distorted phrase with
“Aiuto
!
”—
only to be met with shrugs and looks of disapproval.
He kept running. A staircase—a door—an elevator. He thrust 2,000 lire on a woman heading into the lathes’ room; 5,000 to a freight hand. He pleaded with three conductors
Italian was not Michael’s best language, but he could read it well enough:
Biglietto per Venezia. Prima classe
. The line was short and his luck held. The famed
Freccia della Laguna
was leaving in eight minutes, and if the signore wished to pay the premium scale, he could have the finest accommodations by way of his own compartment He so wished, and as the clerk stamped his ornate ticket, he was told that the
Freccia
was leaving from
binario trentasei
, a dual platform several football fields away from the counter.
“Fate presto, signore! Non perdete tempo! Fate in fretta!”
Michael walked rapidly into the mass of rushing humanity, threading his way as fast as possible toward dual Track 36. As usual—as he recalled from memories past—the giant dome was filled with crowds. Screeching arrivals and wailing departures were joined in counterpoint; screamed epithets punctuated the deafening roar, because the porters, too, were obviously on strike. It took nearly five hectic minutes to shoulder his way through the huge stone arch and emerge on the double-track platform. It was, if possible, more chaotic than the station itself. A crowded train had arrived from the north as the
Freccia della Laguna
was about to depart. Freight dollies collided with hordes of embarking and disembarking passengers. It was a scene from a lower circle of Dante, screaming pandemonium.
Suddenly, across the platform, through the milling crowds, he caught sight of the back of a woman’s head, the brim of a soft hat shadowing her face. She was stepping out of the incoming train from the north, and had turned to talk to a conductor. It had happened before: the same color or cut of the hair, the shape of a neck. A scarf, or a hat or a raincoat like those she had worn. It had happened before. Too often.
Then the woman turned; pain seared Havelock’s eyes and temples and surged downward—hot knives stabbing his chest. The face across the platform, seen sporadically through the weaving, colliding crowds, was no illusion. It was
she
.
Their eyes locked. Hers widened in raw fear; her face froze. Then she whipped her head away and plunged into the crowds in front of her.
Michael pressed his eyelids shut, then opened them, trying to rid himself of the pain and the shock and the sudden trembling that immobilized him. He dropped his suitcase; he had to
move
, run, race after this living corpse from the CostaBrava! She was alive! This woman he had loved, this apparition who had betrayed that love and had died for it, was
alive!
Like a crazed animal, he parted the bodies in his path, screaming her name, ordering her to stop, commanding the crowds to stop her. He raced up the ramp and through the massive stone archway oblivious to the shrieking, furious passengers he pummeled and left in his wake, unaware of the slaps and punches and body blocks hurled at him, unconscious of the hands that ripped his clothing.
She was nowhere to be seen in the station crowds.
What in the name of God had
happened
?
Jenna Karas was alive!
4
With the terrifying impact of a bolt of lightning the sight of Jenna Karas had thrown him back into the shadow world he had left behind. She was alive! He had to keep moving; he had to find her. He ran blindly through the crowds, separating arms and gesturing hands and protesting shoulders. First to one exit, then to another, and a third and a fourth. He stopped to question what few police he found, picking the words from a blurred Italian lexicon somewhere in his mind. He shouted her description, ending each distorted phrase with
“Aiuto
!
”—
only to be met with shrugs and looks of disapproval.
He kept running. A staircase—a door—an elevator. He thrust 2,000 lire on a woman heading into the lathes’ room; 5,000 to a freight hand. He pleaded with three conductors
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