They went back to the apartment to retrieve their belongings before departing from Arsenale, preferring the waterbus as walking would take too much time and would run the risks of missing their inland bus.
Unlike the journey from Roma to Venezia, they would be boarding transports booked from Flixbus, which was said to be the only prominent bus-transport for backpackers looking for a cheap mean of crossing country boarders. Except hitch-hiking, the two had never done it before, at least not while traveling with half of their lives depending on their backpacks while in a tight schedule.
As expected, the waterbus took them to the only place where land vehicles (still limited to buses) were located on the main island. They took the one-hour travel from where they lived to the bus station as the last sightseeing in Venice, finding monuments and buildings along the way and hoping to visit them if they returned.
Cay was excited at the fact that they were finally leaving their first country for their next destination, Lyon de la France. Perhaps it was due time for the two to leave the exotic European country, much wonderful memories have been accumulated along the ones that would be better forgotten. The real adventure has just started for the two.
At the arrival on the shaky buoyant dock, the two immediately wasted no time and went for the departure station that would lead to the Mestre train station. The leave was unexpectedly quick as the two were at the bridge between mainland and the island soon after boarding. Cay did not like the speed of how things were going, perhaps he could find a way to slow down time if he asked Judas? The latter stared outside the window solemnly, almost looking as if he was sad to have left Venezia.
Once arrived, they walked straight past the busy traffic and to the opposite road where their departure awaited, or so the transport service provider suggested. During the wait, they acquainted themselves with a short but not stocky French who introduced himself as Ben.
“So, what brings you to Venice, or Mestre?”, asked Cay.
“I was cycling with my girlfriend about a week ago before we decided to go back to France.”
“Where is she now?”, he was trying not to sound interested in Ben’s partner.
“She left two days ago because I couldn’t bring my luggage with me.”, gesturing at the large box leaning on the wall.
“Is that your bicycle?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”, Ben scratching his shaved head with his hand holding a newly-lit cigarette.
“I’m sure they’ll let you in if you get it dissembled.”, Cay suggested, genuinely worried.
“Yeah, hopefully these drivers will.”, pointing at their bus that just stopped in front of them.
They shook hands and Cay wished Ben luck with his belongings and boarded with Judas, their backpacks carried with them onboard. The whole boarding procedure had been easy for them with only light baggage that met the tolerance of baggage size and passport in one hand, while the other contained the electronic-ticket on their respective phone. The overweight driver gestured them to proceed with the tilt of his pink, oily head. The two obliged and thanked him.
It was around ten in the evening when Cay put down his novel and discussed his plans with Judas, who seemed oblivious of what to expect in Lyon. Not to worry, Cay thought, we have concluded our first country, France should be just a walk in the park.
*
Alexandre’s growing anxiety regarding her quiet son had been in her mind since their last encounter a week ago. She thought about what to say that would never happen when it was time to execute them, all the while taking peeks at her son sitting on the far right of rectangular polished oak dining table. Sunday roast was always reliable because everyone was always present round the table, their postures suggesting a predictable weekly dinner served by the only female of the house.
Haze looked tipsy from the recently-increased alcohol intake, yet he had still made back home in half an hour before the feast started. He saw his wife making the final preparations prior to serving, her slender figure beaming with fragility and tenderness. The years have taken toll on her slightly sagging breasts and prominent cheekbones, but she was still his beautiful woman. Just how it used to be: Never changed, never would.
He hugged her from behind, kissed her by the back of the left cheek before stepping a few steps back to lean his hips on a counter top. He drew a small breath, and spoke.
“How is he doing?”
“Not well, darling.”, her slight accent always reminded her husband of her cold, foreign origin.
“Haven’t you spoke to him yet?”, he raised his left eyebrow, expecting a direct answer.
“No, I haven’t.”, concealing the fact her son had been staring at her while she cried a week ago.
Haze made a long pause, unsure how to proceed with his wife. He opted for a suggestion.
“Maybe we should talk to him, together, as a family.”, he blurted out the sentence under the moderate influence of alcohol that would otherwise be non-existent if he had been sober.
Alexandre stopped with whatever she was doing, he could not make up what she was doing. He had never been much of a cook, less talk about preparing homely meals. She broke down into tears immediately as soon as she heard the word family.
“I just don’t know what to do with our son.”, her face increasingly teary as she tilted her head up, the two little streams carving their way downwards and disappearing into her damping apron. He could not bear his wife’s cries, he had never been used to them. Grabbing her waist from behind, he hushed her behind her right ear, all the while chanting comforting words into her.
He had his ways with his wife, she always ended up receiving his calls of comfort and affection, as if the two were made for each other. He loved her, he thought and she had never shown signs of weariness from his gentle caresses, especially now.
She turned herself towards him when his hands on her waist loosened, allowing herself to do so.
“Yes, we should speak to him, darling.”, and boar her head into his wide chest, muffling her cry.
He stroked her curly, dark hair and saw what was originally obscured by his wife, a square wooden chopping board with garnish on the surface. It looked like it had been ripped off with bare hands. He buried his nose and took in her sweet scent and salty tears.
How did things ended up like this, Haze murmured loud enough for her to hear, who had been too deep in her thoughts to hear this time. The kitchen light flickered, answering him for her.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
