Frank Scozzari
Two Men and a Gun
It’s hard to say exactly
how I ended up in this dreadful situation, although I could easily put all the
blame on the Thomas-Cook train schedule. If they had made their timetables a
little easier to read, and their columns more evenly aligned, I may have never
ended up on this midnight train to Athens. Yet there I was, sandwiched in among
all the dissolute of Southern Europe in a third-class train compartment, trying
to figure out how I was going to get some sleep.
It was bench seating
only, benches that faced one another with such little space between them that
one had to sit straddling the knees of the person opposite you. There were
smells of human body odor and of middle-eastern cooking, zeera and black cumin, the mixture of which was not a pleasant
thing. I couldn’t imagine someone cooking in such confined quarters. I looked
around but couldn’t make out where the smell was coming from.
Across from me was a
sinister-looking character, a man in his mid-thirties with narrow eyes and high
cheekbones. I assumed he was from North Africa, although one could never really
be sure about this kind of thing when traveling along the shores of the Eastern
Mediterranean. He had dark skin and an angular face and he was carrying a
canvas satchel with Nubian markings. He was a man of mixed races, and a man who
could not be trusted, that much I knew. Call it experience or traveler’s
intuition, after logging many miles through third-world countries one acquires
an instinct for this kind of thing. I had encountered this type before;
trouble, not in size, but in opportunist nature. In his eyes I saw the
furtiveness and cleverness of an accomplished thief. He was filthy and
unshaven. His clothes were soiled. Among the many odors in the train
compartment one was particularly strong, and undoubtedly it came from him.
And in the instant I was
thinking this, I caught his dark eyes studying my carry-bag. The satchel, which
I kept on my lap, had a shoulder strap securely over my neck. In it were my
most valued items: my passport and credit cards, what few euros I had left, and
some souvenirs I picked up along the way. His eyes went from the bag to the
attachment latch, and followed up the strap to where it disappeared around my
shoulder. When he realized I was watching him, he quickly turned his eyes away.
He had a satchel, too, and when he saw me looking at it, he pulled it closely
to his side.
I brought my hand
thoughtfully up to my chin. It was only then that I realized I was likewise
filthy and unshaven. Perhaps I was the one who smelled of body odor? I
discreetly took a sniff of my underarm, but could not tell if the odor was
coming from me or not.
It had been nearly three
days since I had taken a bath. Having crossed by ferry from Brindisi the night
before, arriving in Corfu in the early morning hours, there was no time to
shower or shave. By the time I reached Patras, sleepless and exhausted, I was
desperate to find a sink or washbasin. But the train station had only the old,
European-style bathrooms with a launching platform, no running water, and a
bucket for a flush.
It was an uncomfortable
arrangement no matter how you look at it. And despite the lack of
accommodations and the desperate guy across from me, sleep, I knew, was what I
needed most. I looked around the car. It was completely full. A group of young
Europass students had already commandeered the one small piece of floor space
and were sleeping there, piled on top of one another.
I pulled my carry-bag
close to me, keeping an eye on the man across from me, and I tried to get
comfortable. In shifting my body weight I accidentally bumped his leg.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He did not reply.
He was sleepy too, I
could tell, and as tired as I. His eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids looked
heavy and like they wanted to drop. He also shifted uncomfortably and likewise
pulled his satchel in close to his side. Then he curled his hand around it and
held on to it like it was filled with gold. It made me wonder what he had in
it. Maybe he’s a gem trader, I thought, or the thief of a gem trader.
If only he would fall
asleep. If he would sleep, then I could do the same. And almost exactly when I
thought of it, I saw his lids begin to drop. Go down, I thought. Yes. Let them
go down. Let them drop. But then the thought crossed my mind: What if he’s
faking? Lulling me into a false sense of security so that I would sleep, only
to wake up hours later and find my carry-bag gone, cut from my shoulder with a
knife.
We exchanged hard,
guarded looks, and bouts of drowsiness. His eyes would close, and his head
would bob, and then he’d snap himself back awake. And I, in one instant, lost
all consciousness, although just for a few seconds, awaking to see him glancing
at me with a little smirk on his face.
Not so easy, I thought.
I caught him pinching himself,
and then shaking his head, trying to shake out the drowsiness.
You’re going down, I
thought. I can outlast you. But each time I saw him struggling, I found myself
struggling too; fighting off the inevitable sleep that I knew would eventually
win over my body.
The night wore on. The
vintage train rattled over the tracks. The noise and motion helped keep us both
awake. Still, as the hours passed it became nearly impossible. The accumulation
of three bad nights had caught up with me. My eyelids were feeling like lead
shutters, ready to close for a long winter. I did everything I could to fight
it. I tilted my head back, and then sideways. I scratched my side though I
didn’t have an itch. The good news was that he was not doing much better. I
watched his head bobbing. I watched him fighting it, and clinging to his pouch
more protectively.
And finally I saw him
unclasp the middle button of his shirt and reach his hand deep down into it;
down along his side. His eyes gleamed at me. He gave me a little grin, and a
head-nod, letting me know that he had something, a knife or a gun perhaps? It
didn’t matter what, I realized. He had a weapon of some sort, down there in his
shirt, and whatever it was, it brought him fresh confidence, confidence enough
to sleep.
And now his eyes began
to close and his expression was sure. I watched him with one eye still open,
watching me.
And he’s probably a
light sleeper, I thought, with a hair-trigger finger that’s equally light and
fast.
It is unfair, I thought,
as my eyes, too tired and too heavy to fight it any longer, began to close.
There is no justice. This scoundrel would have a peaceful night while I would
suffer from frequent awakenings and sleep apnea.
Then it dawned on me
that I had a similar option. The idea seemed too obvious, yet likely to work. I
unbuttoned an opening in my shirt and reached down with my hand, down along the
side of my chest to where I kept nothing. I left my hand there, warm against my
side, and I watched him, his one eye still open, watching me, but fluttering
closed.
Okay, I thought, détente. And I smiled at him; a little
smile; a warning smile, and I closed my eyes and slept.
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