“Wow.” Jess and her mother stopped at the edge of the piazza.
She wasn’t sure what to expect. They entered the square from the center of the west side, in front of a large fountain topped with an Egyptian obelisk. Crowds filled the cafes and restaurants lining the piazza, candlelight glittering, tableware and plates clinking between the murmurs of conversation echoing off the five-story buildings lining the square. People walked by in groups, some pushing baby strollers. As if nothing unusual was happening.
And nothing had happened.
Not yet.
“Over there.” Jess pointed at a lit sign in an alley on the other side of the square, Desparo. “That’s the store.” It looked open.
They crossed the square, past the fountain’s splashing and bubbling water. Street vendors tried to sell them plastic replicas of the fountain’s obelisk, glow-in-the-dark Pantheons, and wind-up helicopters with LED lights that winked and flashed as they spun into the sky. Squealing children chased the helicopters across the cobblestones. A sense of unreality flooded Jess; she felt like she floated across the square.
Reaching the store ahead of Jess, Celeste grabbed a basket by the entrance. “What do you feel like getting…?”
“Whatever we can.” Jess pointed at the shelves inside. Empty.
The man at the checkout, balding and wearing a black apron, shrugged.
But not quite empty, Jess discovered as she walked inside. The refrigerated and freezer aisles were still half-full, and cans of tinned vegetables remained at the backs of shelves.
“We’ll make do.” Celeste filled her basket. “Look, here’s some pasta, sun-dried tomatoes…”
“Cash only, yes?” said the black-aproned checkout man behind them.
Jess turned. “Why? I’ve used credit cards here before—”
“The boss told me, cash only.” The man shrugged. “And the cash machine”—he pointed at an ATM at the corner of the shop—“it’s empty.”
Jess’s faced flushed. What stupid kind of…“How the hell are we supposed to—”
“I’ve got some money,” Celeste said quietly, holding Jess’s arm. “It’s okay.”
“Idiots,” Jess muttered under her breath. She returned to scavenging the shelves.
They paid, the checkout man withering under Jess’s glare, and walked back across the piazza.
As they passed a restaurant terrace filled with people, a man got up, swearing, and fell over, crashing into the table next to him. Clams and pasta flew into the air, followed by the shattering of glass and plates. Instead of apologizing, the man got up and swore at people whose table he wrecked. The man he shouted at stood and punched him square in the mouth.
Jess watched two waiters join the patio brawl. She grabbed her mother’s hand and urged her on. “Come on, let’s move.”
Some patrons scattered, screaming, but others watched and laughed. Jess looked closer at the faces of people she passed, at the strain in their eyes, the white knuckles of the woman pushing a baby stroller next to her. A man sitting on the fountain wobbled, drunk past his senses. Barely past eight p.m., but half of the restaurants now looked closed. Beneath the veneer of normality, a quiet desperation filled the eyes of people she passed.
She checked her phone. Still no messages. Dammit. Why hadn’t her father called yet? She quickened her step, pushing out irrational thoughts. Why had she cancelled the flight? They’d be in New York by now. Hurrying down their alleyway on the other side of the square, she fumbled with the keys and then opened the huge metal front door of Angela’s apartment building.
“Slow down, Jess,” Celeste said as she followed Jess inside. They climbed the stairs. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The overhead light was out on their landing. Almost pitch black in front of their door. Jess swore under her breath and pulled her phone out to use its light to find the keyhole. Pushing the door open, she let her mother in first and stepped in behind her, reaching to turn the light switch on. She tried to shut the door.
It wouldn’t close.
Clicking the interior lights on, Jess grabbed the door handle to open and shut it again, wondering what was wrong, when she saw a foot jammed in the bottom of the door. What the…?
The door flew back into her. She wobbled on her prosthetic leg, almost falling. Her mother grabbed her. Two men in long coats and hoodies filled the open door, the sour tang of alcohol wafting in ahead of them.
“The apartment’s not for rent,” Jess said, thinking maybe they were looking for somewhere to stay. People sometimes came knocking. The place was listed on a few websites.
But they didn’t look like tourists.