Gianluca’s eyes were still sticky and crusty from the night before. Some heartless virus-carrying fucker had left him a big surprise. Conjunctivitis on the hostel pillow. The only good thing about it was that he hadn’t crossed the Spain-French border and the Spanish-speaking pharmacy knew exactly what he was talking about. The meds were giving Gianluca temporary relief, but the fucking raucous northern Africans that surrounded him on the train wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace.
He could just about make out the sign at the station. Arles. What the? Gianluca was told he would be pa ssing Arles and then coming back to it. Or maybe in his hazy drugged up state he had misunderstood? Either way, it didn’t make any sense. Who cares if it was 4:30am? He could just drag his body and backpack into the station and sleep a few hours. He certainly wasn’t going to get any sleep by staying on the train.
Someone was shaking his body.
Now what?
“My God, can’t I get some fuckin’ sleep?!” Gianluca forced this through his teeth.
The only thing that filtered through his brain was rage. He swung out not really hoping to make contact; just to show force. The shaking stopped instantly.
Thank God.
Before he drifted away, his body began to shake again.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Gianluca blindly punched into the air again.
The shakes got more vigorous.
“What the fuck is your problem, asshole?!” He struck out again several times.
That seemed to do the trick.
Minutes later he was being shoved violently and kicked with – “Vous ne pouvez pas dormir dans la station! Lève toi maintenant!”
“Alright! Alright! Fuck!”
Gianluca had no clue what he said, but he certainly didn’t want to be kicked anymore. He squinted through the gunky streaks in his eyes, but still couldn’t make out anything.
“Shit, what was the problem? I’m fuckin’ sick, you bastard! I just wanted to sleep!” “Il est illégal de dormir dans la gare. Passeport.” His tone was extremely firm.
Gianluca understood the last word and he could just about make out that the man in front of him was extending his hand out to him.
This turned his rage up a huge notch – “Fuck you! I’m not giving you shit. I need to sleep. I’m fucking sick.”
“Je ne comprends pas. Passeport, s’il vous plait.”
“Not until you tell me what the fuck in going on here!” He raised his voice – “Is there anyone here who speaks English?”
Figures rushed over, but only to restrain his arms. “Passeport.” The man made one more attempt. “English” – was Gianluca’s only reply.
“Anglais au commissariat. Viens!” Before he could finish the last word, the people that had been restraining him began dragging him across the floor. The sunlight got brighter and brighter, so Gianluca knew they were taking him outside. This terrified him. He figured they were they just going to beat the shit out of him, and then dump him somewhere. Gianluca thrashed around, but he couldn’t break loose of their grip. He screamed out for help, but was ignored.
They shoved him through a set of doors. His mind raced and fumed.
The end was coming. I’ll be crippled or left for dead in some fucked up backwards foreign country. I’ll never get to see my family’s hometown in northern Italy. They’ll probably hush it up, too. I mean, why would they give a shit about one foreigner? They probably have some kind of good-old-boys network over here. No one back in the States would even know what had happened to me. Guess I should’ve sent more postcards! Fuck, this really could be it.
Gianluca stiffened, awaiting the first set of blows.
Instead, they shoved him into a corrugated metal room, slammed the door and slid the bolt in the lock. Next thing he knew he was moving. I’m in some kind of fucking car. Images of “Hostel” filled his head. They were taking him to some rich fuck so he could have fun torturing him in whatever way pleased him the most. Getting beaten up was sounding much better.
The meds were wearing off and pain was surging back into his eyes, like someone was trying to dig them out of their sockets. Gianluca slammed his lids closed and screamed, pounding wildly on the walls. It was so excruciating. He kept hammering the walls and shrieking, half to mask the pain and half to make them think he was crazy. Gianluca couldn’t image them just letting him go, but maybe it would make them think twice about letting someone rip his fingers off with a chainsaw or drill holes into his chest.
The vehicles sudden stop, nearly whiplashed Gianluca. The bolt screeched out and the bright blinding sunlight flashed in as arms reached in to grab him. Fueled by pure adrenalin, Gianluca kicked and squirmed violently. “Fuck you, you assholes!” These monsters weren’t having him, but they were determined. “Get the fuck off me! I ain’t goin’ be your piece of torture porn.” Kicking against hands, arms, and heads, he felt and heard the satisfying smack of each blow. “Take that, you fuckin’ bastards!” Gianluca twisted and writhed even more furiously as one of them reached for his belt below his back. “Shit!” He wasn’t fast enough and they dragged him out, letting his head whack against the ground.
Dazed, Gianluca was easier to restrain and they conveyed him into a building, down a few halls, into a big room and threw him into a chair. Through slits in the goopy strands in his eyes
Gianluca could see his was surrounded. His first thought was to run, but men on both sides of him shoved him right back down and held him there. He grit his teeth and prepared for the worst.
“Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas avec ce gars? Est-il défoncé?”
“Je ne sais pas. Est-il touriste. Nous l’avons attrapé en train de dormir à la gare.”
“Un touriste putain. Merde, quelles informations avez-vous obtenu de son passeport?”
“Il a refusé de nous donner son passeport.”
“Merde. Le chercher.”
Gianluca felt someone going through his pockets: jacket, shirt, and pants. He tried to squirm but was being held much too tight to affect any movement.
“Et que dire de son sac à dos?”
They seized his backpack, but Gianluca wouldn’t give it up. He dug his shoulders and chest into the restraints. But this was useless. They simply pushed him forward and torn it apart, so the contents slipped onto the floor. That was it!
Gianluca exploded with – “You guys are bunch of fuckers! That was my shit! I don’t know what you guys are up to, but I ain’t playing your fucked-up stupid game! Let me the fuck out of here! I can’t see shit! I need my medicine! Any of you fuckers speak English?!”
The room erupted with laughter.
Gianluca was about to burst. A tornado of emotions was flooding his entire body, building and building as the laughs persisted. He brewed with vengeance. His fury swelled into a form of anger that he had never experienced before, strong enough that he broke away from those holding him and he stood up. Through a torrent of thoughts, he managed to find the only hostile French phrase he knew, and he shouted it like a savage.
“Ferme la bouche!”
The punch came so quickly Gianluca had no time to block his ribs from the impact. As soon as he collapsed on to the floor, ferocious kicks came at him swiftly and repeatedly from all sides. When they finished with that, they dragged Gianluca’s bloody body across the room and chucked it into a small room. In a twisted blur of pain and perplexity, he heard a big, metal door slam. The sound echoed with finality in his head.
Now Gianluca couldn’t sleep. He was too wired up. He tried screaming for someone but no one came. Feverish and lost, he started to cry.
Through the tears, he said to himself – “Fuck! I’m in some French hell, and for what? Fuckin’ sleep. What a crime?! Wonder what they do if you take a piss? Draw and quarter you on the spot? Shit! What kind of place is so fucked up you can’t sleep in the train station? A Coruña didn’t hassle me! I mean, shit, I wasn’t in anybody’s way. I was in the corner, away from any doors! Why couldn’t they just let me be?! I was respecting your fucking people. I don’t fucking deserve this! What am I saying? You guys don’t give a shit! Is there someone out there?”
No response, not even one to be quiet.
Gianluca really felt alone now. He thought of his friends back in Cleveland. How he’d never see them again. How he’d never get to say sorry for being such a dick before he left for Europe. He’d go to his grave with them hating him for grasping the wrong end of their playful insults. His parents would probably more concerned about their reputations in the Chagrin Falls community. They hadn’t wanted Gianluca to go to Europe, but when he’d told them he mainly wanted to visit Piacenza, his grandfather’s birthplace, a place his father never got to see, they warmed up to the idea. He also assured them that drugs were not on the agenda, that he was done with all that. Gianluca could tell they didn’t really believe him, but he also knew they needed to let him prove himself. They’d probably assume he died of an OD.
There was a movement by the door and Gianluca froze. “Zehn minuten” – was all he heard.
What the…? That’s not French. That’s fucking German – he had taken German in high school – Now what? Have I been sold to some neo-Nazi group? And what the fuck does ‘ten minutes’ mean? What happens in ten minutes?
Before he could ask, Gianluca heard the speaker’s footsteps fade away.
It was the longest ten minutes he had ever experienced in his life.
The door opened with a crash and two men grabbed him. This time Gianluca didn’t put up a fight. He had neither the energy nor the will. He clearly couldn’t win. It was over.
All Gianluca could see was fluorescence. This room was brighter than any of the others. Through the blur, he could make out a man in a white lab coat.
Fuck, it’s Josef Mengele!
The man silently smiled a crooked-tooth smile and took Gianluca’s right hand and extended it towards him. The other men held his arms firm. With eyes clenched shut, Gianluca steadied himself for agony. He was sure he wasn’t going to leave this room with all his fingers.
Starting with his thumb, they twisted hard, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough for it to be painful. Twice. Gianluca winced each time they pressed hard on the bones, thinking any second they were going to snap. They did the same with each of his fingers, and Gianluca grit his teeth and held and released his breath with every painful twist. After this, they stretched him up against a wall and shot him with a blast of light. Completely disorientated, Gianluca was then locked back up in the small room.
Huh? What the fuck was that all about?
Gianluca figured it was a tease. They must be testing whether he was calm enough for delivery. He immediately wished he had shown some resistance. If he had given them another show of strength, their test would’ve failed. But that only made him think that failure would mean killing him sooner, so maybe by doing that he bought himself some time.
For what? Either option meant Gianluca would be dead.
He knew there was no negotiating with them, but that only meant he had nothing to lose by trying. Maybe if I apologized? Maybe if I groveled? Maybe they‘d listen to reason? They’re still human beings after all. I mean, they could’ve killed me already, but they haven’t. I’m clearly not an ideal subject for them. But I’m still here. If I only could find someone who speaks English.
He began screaming again for someone to come.
And again they ignored him.
Gianluca wasn’t sure how many hours had passed, but he could hear more noises outside of his room. New voices told him there were definitely more people there. There was the constant whirr of machines and the random echo of footsteps on the floor. It must mean the buyers were there. They were probably discussing price for services. All he could hear was French, so he couldn’t make out the detail. Gianluca wasn’t sure he wanted to know anyway. Knowing you’re going to be killed is terrifying enough; knowing the tools, people and procedures involved is whole other universe of terror. But then again, it could give Gianluca a window into when he might able to make a run for it. Either way, it didn’t matter; the casual choice to take German rather than French in school was now determining his fate.
The door slammed open and again Gianluca was seized and dragged down a couple halls and shoved into another room. The door locked behind him.
“Good morning.”
Were they playing tricks on him? Or was it him? Gianluca had longed to hear English so much that he thought he might be just imagining it.
“Good morning” – the words were repeated.
This confirmed he heard it right and he repeated it back.
“Monsieur Pagano. My name ee’s Benoît Morin. I ‘ave some questions for you.”
Now what’s this?
“Okay.”
“Can you pleaz tell me why you did not give your passeport to the officer when ‘e asked you for h’it?”
Gianluca shot back – “What? Officer? What are you talking about?”
“Oui, Monsieur Pagano. You were brought ‘ere because you would not give him your passeport.”
Gianluca tried to restrain himself and asked – “So I’m at a police station?”
“Oui, where did you think h’are?”
To this he unleashed – “Fuck if I knew! Nobody told me anything! I had no idea who the fuck asked me for my passport! He never identified himself as a police officer!”
Benoît held out his palm and lowered it slowly – “Now-now calm, Monsieur Pagano. H’I understand you. Je suis désolé. I h’am sorry for the confusion, but…”
Gianluca jumped in with – “You’re sorry! For the last few hours I’ve just been thinking that I’d be someone’s torture puppet and you’re fucking sorry!”
Benoît looked thoroughly confused – “Torchure pou-pée? Je ne comprends pas. They say you worrayd h’us, Monsieur Pagano. They say you yell, you bang, you ‘it. We do not understand your action. We think you h’are dangereux.”
“Well, that makes the two of us. I had no fucking clue what was going on!”
“Encore, I h’am very sorry, but…”
“But nothing! The last I don’t know how many hours have been fucking hell for me!”
“Oui. Bien sûr. I understand. Now pleaz tell me why you did not give your passeport to the officer when ‘e asked you for h’it?”
Gianluca didn’t want to answer. He felt like such a fool. He took a deep breath and let him body unwind a bit and then – “As I said I didn’t know he was a police officer and I wasn’t going to just hand my passport over to anybody. If I don’t have my passport, I’m stuck. I can’t do anything.”
“I see. Did you not recognize the man’s uniform?”
“Uniform?” He clenched a fist, trying to control the rage that was bubbling up again – “Listen. I am sick. Look” – he pointed at his eyes – “I can’t see shit! I have fuckin’ conjunctivitis, and you guys took my medicine away! I’ve been pain all day and now it’s beginning to itch.”
Benoît appeared genuinely surprised – “Oh Monsieur Pagano. I ‘ad no idea. C’est dommage. That is terrible. We will get your médicine tout de suite” – Benoît picked up the closest phone to him and dialed in four numbers and said – S’il vous plaît apporter les choses de Pagno aussitôt.”
Seconds later a young woman arrived with Gianluca’s torn backpack. The contents were beside it in three transparent plastic bags. Gianluca found his medicine and asked – “May I have some water?”
“Mais, bien sûr. Virginie, s’il vous plaît apporter de l’eau” – and the young lady disappeared, came back with water and left again.
After Gianluca took his medicine, Benoît began again – “I can see this ‘as been a total mis-uh misunderstanding and you h’are free to…to go.”
He wanted to blow up again, but kept his cool – “That’s it. After all this. I’m free to go. What about my backpack?”
“You h’are welcome to…uh…write a formulaire de reclamation. A complaint form.”
This just made Gianluca laugh out loud – “That’s not going to fix my bag. How do you expect me to carry my things around?”
“Oui. C’est vrai” – Benoît called Virginie back and this time she brought a sturdy plastic shopping bag big enough to put all Gianluca’s things in – I ‘ope this is h’okay.”
As he put his stuff in the bag, Gianluca said nothing.
Benoît repeated – “I h’am very sorry. I ‘ope you will stay and enjoy Arles.” Gianluca just smiled back. He was already planning a quick getaway.
They said goodbye to one another and Virginie took Gianluca to the front door, which bypassed all the parts of police station that he just spent the morning in.
Gianluca headed straight for the train station, but halfway there paused. He had actually chosen to stop in Arles for a reason. It wasn’t just some stopover on his way to Piacenza. He had read about its many Roman monuments and wanted to check them out, especially the amphitheater and the Eglise St-Trophime. Gianluca was also a huge fan of Van Gogh and knew it had been the place where he painted his favorite painting “Starry Night Over the Rhône” along with many others. Why should he let those assholes ruin his experience? Benoît was nice, so it doesn’t mean they’re all like that. He decided to give it one chance. He’d flag down the first person he saw. If they were kind, he’d stay.
An elderly man, cane in hand, approached him.
Gianluca dug out his travel book and asked – “Excuse me, do you know where the House of the pilgrim and the traveler is?”
The elderly man’s face beamed – “English! Well, ‘ello. Glad to meet you! Oui, I do know exactly where la maison du pelerine et du votageur is. H’It ee’s not too far from my ‘ome. I can take you there. My car ee’s just h’up the road. Okay?”
A broad smile grew across Gianluca’s face. The following short stories were written at various different points in my life. Feel free to leave your comments about any of them.