Memories of a Life That Never Happened

Chapter 101 - Meet Vittoria Lazzari

In the past, Buriti did not always enjoy the peace and tranquility for which it was now famous. Its main source of income, however, always came from the sea. Long before it was a fishing village, it had been the port of arrival for slave ships coming from Africa. 

To protect the precious merchandise from pillage, the villagers assembled a well-disguised labyrinth. It was so secret that to that date, most citizens were quick to dismiss the concept as just another old tale.  

Walking around the stone streets, one would pass by the attached houses with their white washed façades, bright colored doors and window frames and judge the book by its cover. Most never realized what an intricate system hid behind many of those doors.  

To confuse invaders in the event of a not so rare attack, many of these entrances were fake. Some lead to a wall, others to a dead end instead of a house. Likewise, there were doors that were passageways connecting secret streets and even, in a few cases, to a house entirely hidden from view.  

These concealed buildings were used as refuge only under extreme circumstances, for ancient villagers to hide their loved ones.  

It was to one of those secluded places that Escobar was taking Mica. He, himself, had never been there and the address had been passed on to him as a result of that hushed phone call he had placed a few days before.  

Stepfather and stepdaughter were standing in front of a deep blue door, with no number and nothing to help them discern it from the many others on that street. Save for two small but crucial details.  

First, the single step that raised it about 8 inches above ground. Second, a rusty gas lantern mounted next to the door, with a faded red ribbon tied to it and rippling with the breeze.  

"This should be it," Escobar said. He checked again a crumpled piece of paper where he had jotted down something unintelligible to Mica.  

He took the lantern from its wall hook and tried the handle. As the door yielded, a sickening smell of mold wafted out, giving Mica a coughing fit. In front of them, a black hole stretched endlessly. It was a tunnel so dark that it was impossible to guess its length. 

Escobar was the first to venture inside. He turned on the lamp but the flame was so feeble that it made little difference. Then he held out his hand to Mica.  

Reluctantly and with a mounting heartbeat, she followed him. It was all scarily dingy and even though Mica still did not know what Plan B was, she could see now why this was not Escobar's first option. Whatever it was, Plan B was undoubtedly more hazardous than Plan A. Anyhow, it was too late to turn back now.  

They wobbled in the skimpy light, skimming clammy wall stones with their fingers for a little guidance. 

"Try to keep an eye on the floor. It's old, slippery and uneven," Escobar instructed Mica. They advance agonizingly slow.  

The farther they went, the lower the ceiling shrunk and the narrower the tunnel became. In a minute, they had to bend their knees and bow their heads to continue.  

Although chances were slim that someone could listen to them, Mica whispered, "Where are we going?" 

"To get you a new life, in case you need to give up this one." 

Mica had no idea what that meant.  

"What did you say?" 

"You'll see."  

He stopped in front of a door half their height and painted the same greyish color as the stone walls.  

"Here we are." 

Escobar turned to Mica and, grasping her shoulders, instructed, "Do not say a word, unless he makes you a direct question. Try to keep your answers short." 

"Ok," she agreed, her anxiousness rising.  

Turning off the light, Escobar knocked twice on the door.  

A hoarse, deep voice called, "Come in." 

The wooden door protested, scratching against the floor as it opened to a room much larger than Mica expected. Thanks to a sickly combination of windowless walls and human detritus accumulated for immemorial decades, the cell smelled even worse than the corridor.  

Except for the man who was the spitting image of Gandhi minus the glasses, the room was as empty and provisory as a cocoon. On the floor, next to the man, a bigger and brighter version of Escobar's lantern was the only source of light. 

"Daniel and Maria?" asked the man whose body and voice were incongruent.  

Nervous, Mica had already forgotten Escobar's instructions. Auspiciously, he was quick and answered before she had a chance to speak.  

"That's us." 

"Not for long," the man replied.  

The skinny figure headed to the far corner of the room and brought back two stools. He dusted them with a piece of cloth so grimy that it would have made them dirtier if that was possible. 

"Seat," he ordered Escobar and did the same.  

Mica had no problem standing. 

"What nationality are you thinking?" 

"Italian," Escobar replied at once. Undoubtedly, he had been going over his choices for a while.  

"That'll cost you more." The man smiled. In that moment, he looked nothing like Gandhi. 

"Name your price," said Escobar. 

The man pinched a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and gave it to Escobar. "I'll take part in money and part in goods," he informed. 

Without even looking at the note, Escobar said, "We need it urgently." 

"Who doesn't? Bring the payment tomorrow. You'll have it all within one hour." Turning his attention to Mica, he continued, "I'll read a few names out loud. Stop me when you hear something you like." 

He reached inside the back pocket of his pants, unfolded a sheet of paper and started reciting. 

"Alberta Adessi; Bruna Battaglia; Ernesta Loretti; Leonora Marino..."  

Over twenty names were discarded until Mica picked one.  

"I like that," she interrupted at some point. 

"Vittoria Lazzari, is it? Humph. Well, your name, your choice." 

Escobar promised to return with the payment the next morning and, half an hour after Michaela Ortiz stepped inside that deceptive blue door, Vittoria Lazzari stepped out of it.