HOME - FICTION - NONFICTION - POETRY - PHOTOS/ART

Sundown in Pisa

by Michael Bryant

October 2010

We travel to foreign lands seeking an adventure. It is an escape from the boredom of everyday life. Sometimes we find ourselves. Sometimes we lose ourselves. Often times that adventure is created in our own minds. In a history class we sleep through the lectures and abhor the idea of memorizing dates and the facts of yore. When in a foreign country, however, we suddenly become experts at the local lore and revel in the idea that something historic took place in this very spot. At home to buy bread is nothing more than a common chore. Abroad it is an escapade to find just the right market, followed by a trained art in selecting the most perfectly baked loaf, then a delicate haggle with a shrewd shopkeeper, and then finally a victorious walk along a riverbank to feast on our spoils. That adventure is what drives us. It’s not just for the sights. The sights look exactly the same as in any post card or magazine you’ve seen back home. The experience is more important than the scenery. The impressions left on our souls by those met along the way and by what was encountered are more important than the unembroidered dialogs that were carried out or the factual means by which the actions were enacted. It is for the everlasting memories that we keep, no matter how fantastic. That is why we travel.

For any of this to make sense you have to understand that I'm not actually describing reality. I am not telling a tale of events as they literally occurred, though, make no mistake, they did indeed occur. I'm describing them as I remember them to be. My imagination throughout these dealings had much more of a profound affect then any of the insignificance of the actual happenings.

Like so many young people, I had dreams of seeing the great expanse. I wanted to know what other cultures were like, what kind of music they listened to, and what types of fashions they wore. I wanted to taste the different foods and to see what people did for fun in other countries. I had an aching in my soul that needed to explore the world beyond my home, so I marched into a travel agency and demanded a ticket to Europe. Where didn’t matter. I wanted to see it all. I bought a Eurail pass and slung a backpack over my shoulder and I set forth. I didn’t have much money, I didn’t have an itinerary, and I didn’t have a clue, but I was sure ready for whatever might come my way…or so I thought.

I was traveling alone, and consequently spending quite a bit of time inside of my head. I should mention that the books that I was reading played a major role in the remembrance of that trip. It’s in the strange way that a book will remain with the reader after the cover is closed. Those books came to life in my mind as I meandered through the mundane; another platform, another bus stop, another long walk in search of a hostel. When I first started out on my journey the book was Seabisquit. An hour on a bus, a few hours waiting in a station, nine hours on a train. Alone. Always alone. Let the book whisk away that reality. As I walked robotically through the subways and crowded streets, in my mind I was living as if in the book. I'd pass through a turnstile and hear an announcer call out "Seabisquit comes strongly out of the gate." I'd pass someone on the street and hear "...he makes his move coming out of the third turn..." Reality is different then remembrance. In reality, I was just a jerk wearing a backpack in a European train station, who for no reason at all, quickstepped needlessly in front of a random woman cutting her off. In my remembrance, I broke the record for the final quarter mile at the Santa Anita to overtake the lead horse in the stretch, and proudly took my place in the winner’s circle. By the time I had arrived in Pisa, I was reading Steven King’s "It". The mood had changed…

I stretch as I step off the train out onto the platform. Another station, another city. They're all starting to look the same. It sometimes feels like I'm taking a tour of the European train stations. Announcements on the loudspeaker in a foreign language. What country am I in? Italy now I think. I don't feel much like searching for a place to stay. Is there an information station? I bet they'll speak English in there; maybe they could even point me towards a good hostel. I start walking, at first with brisk determination, but I slow down as I begin to take in my surroundings. Somehow everything here is darker. I pass through a turnstile and it sounds like the cracking of bones. There is an eerie scent of decay clinging to the walls. A grey mist lingers about to offer an ominous cover for any of the evil deeds that might be committed by the city’s lurking criminals. I cautiously round a corner and I suddenly find myself amid a variety of street performers. The scene is a bit surreal, like a bazaar outdoor circus. One man is juggling some knives. Another is playing music on a medieval style lute. Yet another man is walking around on stilts. He has captivated an audience with what must be some witty banter, but it’s all in Italian, so to me, he just looks like someone who’s uncomfortably tall. Through the clutter of this crowd and some distance away I see a mime. His white face is as pale as a ghost. His silence reminds me of death. He is watching me. His eyes are piercing. I feel as though he sees strait through me. What is he looking at? He knows my every thought. Everything has slowed down. All the contiguous sounds grow faint. Each foot weighs a thousand pounds. Every movement is a terrible labor. Our eyes have locked. He knows me, somehow, in some inexplicable way he knows everything. He is taunting me. He is the very depiction of everything wicked. Stop looking at me! Leave me alone! I quickstep in front of a woman and use her to shield me from this demon. She looks at me with a shocked and painful disdain. My eyes meet hers with pity, knowing that I've just cast her into the very line of certain death. She turns her head and becomes caught in the gaze of that silent devil. I use the opportunity to make my narrow escape. Now where is that information stand?

On a sign above a doorway there is a large white letter "I" in the center of a green circle. That's a good sign. I bet they’ll speak English in there. That'll be nice and refreshing. I walk in and see a young man, really just a kid. He's dressed in all black and sitting behind a large desk that overwhelms the small room. He pretenses to be busying himself with some important task, but I’d be willing to bet he's really working on a crossword or some other pastime. He sees me as I enter, but he takes a few moments to make it seem as though he hadn't noticed. He's very busy after all. Must be a difficult crossword. Finally he looks up. I notice as he sizes me up. I'm dressed in ratted jeans and an unwashed fleece and I’m donning an overstuffed backpack. I have an air in my countenance that suggests that the world owes me their servitude. He immediately knows that I am American. In English he asks, "Can I help you?” I tell him that I need a place to stay for the night, and in the morning I'd like to see the tower. He again sizes me up, though this time it's different. He looks as a cannibal might view his dinner. I become engulfed with the feeling that I am but a fly caught in a trap. This boy, who at first seemed to be but a gothic crossword bungler, now takes the air of a formidable brigand. He glints at me with eyes beady and lifeless, then hisses, "One moment please..."and I am made to wait. The air in the room thins and my breathing becomes forced and deliberate. He shuffles through a rolodex, sliding his fingers across the index cards with precision. He hesitates on one particular card and slowly his eyes turn upwards and once again target me as he holds an ironic smile. He has mutated into a fearsome spider, exposing his position at the center of a complex network. I become aware that I've been ensnared in the glue of this web.

He picks up the phone and presses too many numbers. He puts the receiver to his ear and shifts ever so slightly away from me. Now he speaks softly in his foreign tongue. How rude. He knows that I don't understand what he's saying. He's hiding something. He obviously sees me as a mark. He wants to rob me or at least rip me off somehow, or maybe even have me murdered. I take one slow and calculated step back towards the door and carefully plan out an escape route, just in case. Maybe I'm not being rational. It's that clown. That damn clown. The spider asks how many nights I'll be staying... I lie. That way, somehow, for some reason, someone will know where I am. If he doesn't know the truth, then he won't know that I am alone. If I died, would anyone know that I am here? No one knows where I am. Why does he keep asking me questions? Don't tell the truth. He's out to get me. Pretend to be an Italian who just happens to be white, and has an overstuffed backpack, and is visiting the leaning tower. Blend in. He asks me how much I’d like to spend on my accommodations. He's trying to figure out how much money I've got. Lie...Lie...Lie! My heart speeds up. The pounding in my chest is thundering louder than an alarm. Beads of sweat form on my brow and I try urgently to act calm. "Let me stay in the cheapest place you've got”, I say with a quivering voice. That'll fool him. I have nothing worth robbing.

He looks at me blankly and his eyes narrow. Maybe he’s confused by my apprehensions. His expression is soft, but that must be a ruse. The devil always appears approachable. I feign control. I try my best to appear as though I don’t have any money filling up the front right pocket of my jeans and that lots of people know where I am. He tells me that there is a hotel very near the tower that has a room and that they will be expecting me. He gives me directions, but his English is accented and he names the streets with Italian fluidity. How is that supposed to help? I can’t understand what he's saying. He must be doing that on purpose. He wants me to get lost. He is going to have me trailed and then when I'm lost they will rob me. They will murder me. Don't give him the satisfaction. Lie! Lie! I understand exactly what you are saying. Those words make perfect sense to me. Everything you are saying is clear. I'm not confused at all. I'll easily find my way to that hotel. We exchange salutations and I begin the search for the hotel. In less than ten minutes I was utterly lost.

I walk around and around and around. I don't know where I'm going. The sun is starting to set and it casts shadows in every corner. I march on with all the directive purpose of a bat and the unparalleled wisdom of a moth to the flame, who’s trying frantically to cling to the fleeting light. Despite my efforts the sun retreats slowly into the dusk before finally flickering out like a candle. Darkness has overtaken the city. The traffic feels as though the locals are running towards shelter; like they are trying to escape something. I walk through the streets as a black stain on a white canvass. My pale complexion is incapable of intermingling with the locals. Round and round in circles I roam. I pass a fire burning in a large oil drum barrel surrounded by the local thugs attempting to keep warm. They are raggedly dressed and all wear hard eyes. They appear to be the most ravenous of sorts, though being encircled about that fire seems oddly like something out of an old time movie. I wouldn't at all be surprised if they suddenly cast aside their malicious stares and doo-woped out some four part harmony, snapping their fingers and flailing in a choreographed dance, the way innocent gangsters do, like in West Side Story. As I stroll by I ogle with curiosity. They catch eyes with me and the movie changes to a much darker theme. I apologetically hide within myself like a turtle. Nothing to see here. Pay no attention to that backpack. Nothing valuable in there. Please just carry on with your harmony.

I run into the city wall and it's time to pick....go left ...go right....what's the difference. Choose one and go. Try to find the city center. Why don't these streets just go straight! Walk and walk and walk and walk. These maps are worthless. Where am I? That damn kid at the info booth. He knew I'd get lost. He did this on purpose. He just wanted to get rid of me so he could finish his damn crossword. Walk... walk... walk....There’s nothing to see here all you robbers and thieves. I'm just some Italian native who happens to be stark white with an overstuffed backpack, ratted jeans and a fleece. I know exactly where I'm going, even if this is my third or fourth time walking by you. Anytime you want to start with your bee-bop practice and snapping those fingers that would be ok by me. Anything would be better than the hungry way you're all just staring at me now. This city sure could use some more street lights. Someone ought to write to the alderman. Not that I'm worried. I'm completely in my element. Who knows that I'm here?

Finally, on my last weary steps of desperation, the hotel appears before me. As if out of one of Grimm’s fairy tales the building materializes from thin air and shows itself to me within the thick of this dark and mysterious urban forest. The structure is run down and looks as though it had been abandoned by proper society many years ago, and is now only fit for the bandits and dregs that are drawn to such quarters. I peal open a filth ridden door and am forced back as a whiff of some foul stench evacuates from its prison and roots its musk upon me. Like the perfume of grave zombies this odor permeates so rank I swear I can see it. At the same moment that I am drenched in this fetor, a bell chimes cheerily, mocking this dark cascade of gloom. There, beyond the haze of funk, fixed within a high backed office chair, which is at first facing away, and then slowly and deliberately turning around, there forms a plump elderly woman, with her fingers tapping in a separated prayer formation upon her lap. It’s a strange scene and seems as though it were implanted by the director of a corny B film where the spy’s nemesis is revealed for the first time. Her mouth creeks open, in what she must assume is a smile, though to me it looks more like a laceration. I see her dried, chapped lips move, but I only faintly hear the grated noise that they're attempting. It comes at me from the distance, like the reverberation of an echo. Her words perforate my ears with the announcement of my doom as in a choked voice she whispers, "May I help you?”

Her expression hints at a caring and helpful persona, but I can see her for who she truly is. She is the puppet master. She is the type of malice that manipulates rather than enacts. She is the gate keeper, not the executioner. She is the key holder. She is the plotter, the manager of the evil dominions. She is the leader of the wretched army bent on causing harm to random travelers. Her teeth are yellow, stained with coffee and years of smoking. Each breath she takes is strenuous and premeditated. She coughs and it sounds like a steam engine gasping out its last puff of life. She tells me in a rasped voice that the spider has informed her of my coming arrival. I deny any knowledge of that and reassure her that it is only by random happenstance that I came to be here, and that I am from the Italian country side, and that this backpack is nothing more than a means to carry all my very native belongings, and that we should continue to speak in English, but only so that I may practice the language, even though I am quite fluent in Italian.

Imprisoned within her arms lies a mangled dog with ratted fur the color of hell's fire. It's one of those small dogs that constantly shivers, like it's choreographing some kind of dance. I take notice that I too am trembling. Our wavering becomes entwined and we are synced into a delicate tango. His large eyes look as though they are being pushed out of his head; like two balloons are being squeezed by an evil spirit inside of his skull and are ready to burst at a moment’s notice. They fasten onto me and our dance becomes that much more intimate. I try to shrink away but find that I can't. I am drawn into it, as though we are dancing to the music of the Sirens. My vision blurs. Tears form in the corners of my eyes and make their camp there without ever repelling down the cheeks. The stench of the room must be making me light headed. The world around me becomes smaller, tighter, like I am traveling inside of a tunnel. Everything seems to bend, like looking into the mirrors of a funhouse. I am caught in the stare of that wretched dog and my distorted sight sees his head slowly split into two. I place a shaking hand onto my forehead to try to regain my balance without success. I position my feet wider apart to try to keep my footing. The smell must be poisoning my brain. The mirrored dogs perform their osmosis once more and now three heads stem from the one body. I swear that I can faintly hear the aria’s of the mythical temptresses. Like so many sailors who have floated toward their doom, I too am destined on this path of destruction. This canine with his three heads has become Cerberus. The center head grabs me with its bulging eyes, intent on piercing into my soul with its depraved gaze, while the other two heads are bobbing in perfect time, keeping the beat as we trip the light fantastic.

The gatekeeper shuffles in her high backed office chair and the distraction snaps me back into focus. I am at once yanked from that tunnel like a doll on a string. I abruptly shake my head to wipe off the strange dreamland. She leans slightly forward in her chair to capture my full attention. Quietly she grates out, "I've got just the thing for you...." she pauses while ruffling through some papers on her desk. She is probably trying to find a challenging Sudoku to send over to the spider as reward for my deliverance. Without warning she is overtaken by a coughing fit. The loose skin on her neck looks like the wattles of a rooster and flap with each convulsion. Her phlegm, never quite able to manage an escape, rattles inside her throat, locked in the portcullis of her jaws. Fred Astaire’s reincarnate is jolted in his captures arm and our terpsichore is briefly interrupted. Finally, she recuperates with heavy breaths, as she takes on the strangest air of accomplishment, as though she had just finished her cardio for the week. She composes a half smile adorned with tedious eyes that find me. "It's a room very near the tower." she says in a hushed tone, the imprisoned phlegm conducting the symphony of every word. The disrupted dog flails a bit, then begins to settle, kneading into her oversized belly. Eventually, the ratted fur ball calms down enough to start shivering again and our dance recommences.

That bell chimes again, though this time it is the sound of a church bell announcing my funeral. In walks a burly man, as short and stout as any tea pot. I peer into his wild eyes and see that they are grossly enlarged and disagree with in which direction they should take. Like two disobedient teens fighting for attention they jostle about, never quite able to focus. His footsteps fall heavy in his thick boots, which linger in his stride, grating on the gravel. First a heavy step that pounds down with a strenuous thwomp, then the scraping sound that follows as the reluctant dirt is dragged beneath his sliding boot. He is slightly haunched with a protruding nose that seems to be constantly sniffling.....or maybe he's sniffing, as a wild beast might in search of its dinner. Fearing that I might fall prey to this hunter I cower into a corner. The gatekeeper rises in order to announce this gentleman interloper. She intentionally closes her eyes, and with a slight nod of her head she sweeps an overly grand wave of her hand as she says with a regal imitation, "This.....is my son."

The intruder stares at me shrewdly, as an emperor might peer at a peasant. His eyebrows are pulled tight and nose scrunched as though something needs to be scraped off of his shoe. For some reason memories of Paris suddenly flash through my mind. The gatekeeper, resisting another battle against her rebellious phlegm, says in a low voice, “He will show you to your room." It all comes clear to me now. The intruder is unmasked. He is to be my escort into the fiery depths of hell. Like Igor guides the unsuspecting victims into the grips of that blood sucking monster, so it is the intent of this villain to take me to my tomb. He saunters over to the door and pries it open. Weakly that taunting bell rings out its final toll. The fresh air sweeps into this sinful room and feigns a sardonic hint of freedom. Igor stands as a sentinel at the door, ready to patrol me out. I make peace with my mortality and take a feeble step forward. My senses numb and the world around me becomes dreamlike. I feel as though I am being carried by a vapor and merely floating toward the door. After all, we all float down here.

Captured in the shadow of my escort I make my way across the street. Igor turns to me with tapered eyes as he curls up a grey knotted finger crowned with a long yellow nail that beckons me. “This way”, he snarls as he lumbers his way into an alley. The buildings here are dank and run down. The concrete is cracked and the windows are barred. We wind through the pathway and there is a wall laden with graffiti written in blood red paint. The message is still dripping down fresh and reads, "Yankee, go home!" I invent a cackle as butterflies flutter in my stomach. I entreat Igor with imploring eyes. “Ha ha…well…I’m really more of a Cubs fan” I say, barely audibly. He takes no notice of me and continues to shepherd me into the depths. We snake around another corner and there is more graffiti. This time it reads, "Americano Merde". I don’t know what that means, but to me it looks like “murder”. My nerves begin to prickle. The hair on the back of my neck has a strange sensation, like a tiny rodent is scaling up my neck and trying to burrow inside my brain. I take a moment to reflect on this urban memorandum. So it’s true then, they plan to murder me after all; and all Americans at that. They are so brazen about it that they post it on their walls like a banner. I grow weak. The blood rushes out of my head and my skin becomes the color of paste. This is the end of me, I can feel it.

We make our way into another back alley and approach an old tattered door. Igor removes a large ring of keys from his pocket and begins to sort through them. He’s brooding over them puzzlingly, as though this were this first time he’s ever had to open this door. He shrugs and lets out a subtle grunt as he begins a trial and error method through what must be a hundred keys. A car turns into the alley from the far end and makes its way towards us driving slower than an idle. It flashes its bright headlights, as though it were giving a signal. Igor lazily glances at the car and makes the most imperceptible motion with his head, then continues to fumble with his loop of keys. I look up and down this narrow alleyway but there is no help in sight. There is no escape. The car drifts towards us, creeping like a fog. Igor tries another key unsuccessfully. He now utilizes both hands to navigate through his chain of picks, though he remains unsuccessful. One after the other he fights to fit the proper key into the lock. He becomes frustrated and I can hear him mumbling under his breath. That car is getting closer. I can smell the exhaust as it approaches. I can feel the heat of the engine. The brakes squeak as the car comes to a stop right at our heels. The passenger, with his eyes fixed on me, slowly opens his door and steps out. I keep drawing nearer and nearer to Igor, using him as a shield. As I press in I am rudely reminded of the musk from the gatekeeper’s throne room which is still festering in his clothes. I’m growing frantic and keep praying he'd hurry. With every passing breath and every pounding pulse of the heart I press in closer and closer. If this takes many more keys I think we're going to have to be married. The passenger starts making his way around the car walking slowly and with intent towards us. At last the door flings open and we tumble our way inside. I am quick to shut the door behind us. It slams heavily and imbues the room with thick dust. On the door is a large lock, which I can only assume is the same stubborn one that Igor has been battling with. I forcefully render it back to its fortified position and then press my ear to the door and listen. I hear nothing except the pulse of my blood rushing through my veins and the weighty toil of my breaths. It is dark and dreary in this room. There is a damp smell of mold that resounds within the corridor. Behind us lurks an old staircase comprised of rotting wood. Igor views my precautionary actions disapprovingly and he insists that I follow him. I first take a moment to recapture my breath, and then slowly we begin our accent up the stairs.

The stairs climb into the center of an open hall dimly lit by dreary lamps strewn haphazardly throughout. The hall encircles the staircase and its walls adorn many identical doors. According to Igor, it is a communal floor with only one water closet. The hanging artwork is cheap and there are a couple of un-watered plants clinging to life in the corners. The floorboards creak as we walk over them. I am trying to bring as little attention to myself as possible, but with every step there comes the resounding of a thousand marching bands. Igor hands me a key. It’s one of those old iron ones, with a large loop for a handle and has only one jagged tooth. He tells me that I am lucky because my room is right next door to the bathroom. I nod in agreement and take a moment to lose myself in reverie. Just imagine how incredibly difficult it must be for all those other tenants who have to walk so many extra feet. I, on the other hand, am able to save myself precious seconds in the middle of the night on the long trek to the lavatory. Of course it means that the pipes will run strait through my room and that I’ll hear every single flush as well as all the other delightful sounds associated with the bowel movements of strangers, but Igor is right, all that is a small price to pay in order to save a whole two or three full steps on a trip to the toilet. I really am lucky.

Igor opens the door to my quarters and a quick waft blows past us, as if a spirit were just banished from the room. I timidly enter and with an incomprehensible send-off Igor floats back into the wonderment from which he had materialized. Once again, I am left alone. I survey my interim home and am disappointed, though not at all surprised. There is a dilapidated bed taking center stage on the aged creaking floorboards. The linens are old with outdated colors which are faded. There is a large wooden wardrobe, covered in dust, dominating one wall. The walls are the color of putty and are littered with patches of thick spackle which no one has ever attempted to cover up. One rickety window is directly across from the door. It has a view of the run down brick façade from the building across the alley. The rest of the room is bare. There is no TV. There is no artwork. There is no refrigerator. There is no turning back.

I meander over to the window to try to reconnect with the outside world and maybe relieve some of the stale air. At first it is stuck, I imagine from a lack of use. With some effort I finally manage to force it open. I poke my head out with closed eyes and try to just breathe, letting the night fall over me. There is a gentle breeze that caresses my face and pets my hair. Suddenly, a strange sensation fills me, like maybe someone is standing behind me. I thrust my eyes open and jolt my head over my shoulder, but there is nothing there, only the empty room. A disturbing feeling of uneasiness seizes me. My wary eyes continue their investigation and focus their efforts back outside. I look down to the street below and see that the same car which had crept up on us is parked directly below my room. The driver is now standing outside the vehicle and is leaning on the door with his arms crossed at his chest. He has a cigarette dangling from his lips that he periodically takes a puff from and blows out the smoke fully into the night. His partner is nowhere to be found. The driver looks up and sees me staring back at him. He forms a pitiful smile and morphs his face into a compassioned gaze, the way one might look at a dog in the pound who is being led into the back room. He pulls another drag from his cigarette and lets the smoke vacate from his nostrils, never abandoning his leer. I become discomfited and force myself away from the window. A fundamental question forms in my mind; is it better to see the coming peril or to shield one’s eyes from it? Monsters only exist under the bed when your eyes are closed, though stare into the portals of the beast and your soul will be engulfed in flame. I am torn. I feel that there is a perilous danger looming.

I stand alone in middle of this barren room and listen. They say there is a silence that can drive men to madness. It is the echo of isolation that rings in ones thoughts. It is louder than any church bell, or any funeral gong, or even the knell of an old rusted out hotel door chime. It pounds its persuasions on you, like the ticking clock inside an execution chamber. It turns one’s mind against itself. It shutters out reason and allows panic to take the reins. A man becomes ensconced in his seclusion. Maniacal thoughts take command. He frets the mundane and shuns all logic. I am distressing too much. I am losing it.

I attempt to relax and to take solace in the safety that is awarded me through the impenetrable security provided by my one toothed lock key. I pace the room a few times trying to calm myself. All this worry is self induced. I am creating drama where there is none. I tell myself, it’s all in your head. There’s nobody out to get you. You’re perfectly safe. Breathe. Just breathe. Get a grip. Jesus…just calm down. You’ll be fine. Settle down. Who knows I’m here? Oh God, no one knows where I am! I could be kidnapped or murdered and no one would ever know! Settle down. Just settle down. I am alone. They’re coming for me! God just take it easy. Take it easy. Settle down. Everything’s fine. It’s all in your head. I cup my hands over my nose with the forefingers touching my tear ducts and both thumbs tucked under my chin. I listen for any sign of danger. It is still. Everything is quiet.

That silence is broken when I hear a scuffling coming from the hallway. I grow curious and I try to peer through the key hole to investigate. It is completely dark, which eases me a bit and I start to unwind. I sit on my feet near the door and I wonder. Maybe the tumblers are more secure than I originally thought. Maybe everything is going to be ok. I hear another disturbance from the hall. Again I put my eye to the keyhole. Still there is nothing but black. My leg is starting to fall asleep so I reposition myself, resting one hand on the door for balance and the other hand pulls my foot up into a genuflection. I scamper my eye back into its voyeuristic position, though am only met with the familiar darkness. I drop my shoulders in dismay. All of a sudden that darkness shifts and I stiffen up. A small ray of light makes its way into the spy-hole and I can see something on the other side. The keyhole keeps trading between a burst of light and utter darkness. It happens so quickly that I can’t quite focus in on it. I know that something is there, but it is too blurry to distinguish. I strain to try and make out what’s beyond the door. Suddenly, without warning, I see it clearly. My throat dries and my stomach tenses. I gasp a quick bit of air and hold it in my lungs. Another eyeball is staring right back at me. It is a large brown eye with a pupil that is overly dilated. The white of the eye is strewn with red strings. It blinks, and then fully focuses on me. I fall back on my hands and scuttle away from the door. I lose control of my breathing. My chest is racing furiously. I can feel my heart pumping in my ears and in my finger tips. I recoil into a corner of the room and pull my knees up to my chest. The door handle begins to jiggle as someone is attempting to enter. My eyes swell wide as I stare back at that door. It’s not really a door though; it’s more of a gate, a portal that unearths all the evils of hell. This is the end. I know it for sure. A cold draft comes through the window and scurries its way up my spine. The chill revolts me, as if a wraith’s frail fingers were grasping at my nape. The tremors in my hands retake the helm of my nervous system. My feeble body trembles unmercifully. I at once miss my old dancing partner.

One thought consumes me and that is to find a weapon to defend myself. The flight is over and I am cornered. Now is the time to fortify. I scan the bare room looking for any kind of aid in my endeavor. In desperation I rush to the large wardrobe. I fling open the doors frantically. It is empty, except for a couple of old wire hangers and a long, black, plastic pole shaped like a mop handle with a grip at both ends. That’ll have to do. I grab hold of the pole and ready it as an old cavalier might prepare for his joust. The door handle turns again, this time a bit more gingerly, almost secretly, though it is again thwarted by the awesome strength of that one toothed lock. A moment passes and I see the shadows in the light cast from the crack underneath the door begin to shift. Between my labored breaths I can hear the scuffling of shoes making their way off into the distance. Like a hunted fox, I prick up my ears and listen for any trace of sound from my predators. I sneak another look out the window and find that the car and its menacing driver are missing. I hear nothing except for the distant din of the traffic from the main street several blocks away and the heavy growls of my own breathing. In a few moments, the terrible silence of my segregation once again becomes prominent. I press my back against the wall for support. Through exhaustion I begin to slink down to the floor. With my weapon still in hand, I wait.

How much time passes is uncertain; minutes, hours, maybe even days. I remain still, waiting, maintaining my position and attempting to stay alert. My breathing in this stillness has a soothing effect, like the steady pulsating of a metronome, or the constant ticking off of seconds from an old clock. Imaginations flutter through my mind, and though I struggle to stay focused, my eyes begin to grow heavy. My weariness begins to catch up with me. I am caught in the quicksand. The more I resist the deeper I fall. I shift in my spot and secure a tighter grip on that pole and I wait. More time passes with all the speed of a clocks hour hand. I wait. My eyes never leave the door. I wait. The world is growing darker. The sounds are becoming more remote. Sleep is capturing me. I am fading deeper and deeper and deeper....

When I wake up the next morning and the sun is shining magnificently into the small room. I feel its warmth and welcome it gladly. The previous night seems like a remote dream, hazy, like some long lost memory. Everything is peaceful now. Serenity floods my soul. I exit my tomb and a waif of life fills me. I walk out onto the street like a new man. I can see the tower is just a couple blocks away. Huh...this hotel really was close, and pretty cheap too. I turn in my key at the office to some scrawny man who is seated in the Gatekeepers high backed office chair, and then I'm on my way. I eat a conoli and have some gelato. I get to the tower and yep...it's really leaning. I take a picture and head on back to the train station. It's a simple strait shot down the main road. Next stop, Rome. I've got several hours to kill on the train, but that's ok....I'll just read my book.