The Dust of Venice – the next step from Alexandrina Brant.
It had, for the moment, subsided, passed away, moved on if you will. When one had spent a year trekking until one’s feet bled, one learnt to distinguish between what was simply the aftermath of the shock of a no-event and what was actual ruin, in the form of cities and states and provinces failing to bring themselves into normality again when they’d all but destroyed themselves.
And I’d learnt not to refer to myself in a general sense.
I pushed the passport under the official’s nose and waved it back and forth a few times.
“Look. Here,” I croaked in the poor Italian I’d picked up tentatively hitchhiking through Milan. “Me. Pass I go?”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but nevertheless shucked a gloved thumb behind himself. I nodded a votive of thanks, and shuffled past the camouflaged militant, keeping my head down and out of sight, and…
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