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“My sister had a fallout with her husband,” he said. “I’m trying to get her home.”
The lie had returned. My sister. His voice never faltered when he said it. The farmer agreed to take us. For almost forty minutes, Demitri and I sat in the rear of the cab while the farmer complained about fuel prices, council taxes, and younger men who didn’t understand how to care for land. Demitri answered when necessary as I pretended to doze off.
When the farmer dropped us off, Demitri pulled me toward the small but crowded depot. The ordinary noise made me feel more exposed. I could not understand how the world continued to function around us. People bought coffee. A baby cried. A woman argued into her telephone about a cancelled appointment.
My father was dead. Men had shot at me in the street. Somewhere behind us, the Coccico family was searching for the car we had abandoned. Still, the departure board changed from one destination to the next as though time had not stood still.
Demitri slowed near the entrance. His hand remained around mine, but his attention moved across the terminal. He examined every face. Every exit.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Tuscany.”
Demitri turned towards the ticket machines, releasing my hand only when we reached the machine. The absence of his grip was immediate. Cold air seemed to settle between my fingers. He studied the departure list without touching the screen.
“There’s a direct bus leaving in six minutes,” I noted.
“We’re not taking it.”
I looked at him. “Why?”
“Because anyone tracing us will expect us to choose the fastest route.”
He selected two tickets for a bus travelling west. The destination was nowhere near Tuscany.
I lowered my voice. “Where does that take us?”
“To another depot.”
“And then?”
“We change buses.”
“How many times?”
“As many as necessary.”
He paid in cash. The machine printed two tickets. He tore them free and handed one to me. The bus had already begun boarding.
We moved towards the platform as an announcement sounded overhead. I couldn’t make out most of it over the noise, but the name of our destination matched the one printed on my ticket. The driver stood beside the open luggage compartment, checking bags before allowing passengers aboard.
A queue had formed. Demitri guided me towards the end of it. The queue advanced. Demitri placed both duffel bags in the luggage compartment and kept one hand against my back as we approached the steps. The contact was light. Still, I felt it through my coat.
I handed my ticket to the driver. He barely glanced at my face before tearing the stub and waving me onboard. I climbed the steps. Each one pulled at my ribs. I gripped the railing and forced myself not to slow. Demitri followed close behind. The bus was half full. We sat near the rear, two rows from the emergency exit. He gave me the window seat. From there, I could see most of the platform without exposing my face to anyone outside.
Demitri remained standing long enough to place one hand against the luggage rack. His body blocked the aisle while he watched the entrance through the windscreen. The driver closed the luggage compartment outside. Demitri sat beside me but kept his shoulders angled towards the aisle.
The engine started. Relief tried to rise inside me, though I didn't trust it. The bus left the town and joined a two-lane road bordered by fields. Rain began to strike the windows in soft, scattered drops. I leaned my head against the glass until the cold eased the throbbing behind my eyes.
9
DEMITRI
Adriana had not spoken for twenty minutes. Every so often, she turned towards the window, though I doubted she saw anything beyond it.
Rome passed around us in black stone and rain. Water streamed over the glass, pulling the city apart beneath the streetlamps. Narrow alleys shone between shuttered buildings. The cafés had closed. The churches were dark.
Somewhere beyond the bus, bells marked the hour. Their sound followed us through the wet streets, soft and holy. It no longer felt as though it belonged only to me.
