The burning rays of the midday sun fell on her eyelids, white and red dots dazzled her closed eyes, wincing under this imposition. The continuous rattling of the aging regional train kept putting her into a dozy half-sleep. She had given up on trying to find a comfortable position on the crumpled, bottle-green seat a while ago and had placed a blue neck pillow around her neck. Wearily, she gazed at the passing landscape, the seemingly endless fields and forest greens, the heat visible in the sweltering air. The weather report had proclaimed that this was going to be the hottest day of the year, and she had no doubt it was. The air in the compartment shimmered in the heat and most of the train passengers - the train was almost empty anyway - wore sleeveless shirts. It was summer vacation and she had planned a trip to Venice with her boyfriend, but after the recent events she had decided to go alone. The trip from Milano was supposed to take two and a half hours, but whoever was in charge of the railroad had apparently once again failed to take care of the track construction and the train had to take a circuitous detour, adding an hour to the trip. In fifteen minutes, she would finally arrive at the station of Venezia Santa Lucia and enjoy the six-day stay in Venice, away from jobs, cars and broken relationships. She looked out of the window one more time. The landscape was changing, the fields were replaced by a gray sound barrier, the station was near. She stretched and yawned, stood up, dragged her suitcase from the overhead rack - it almost fell on her head - and stowed the neck pillow in her small travel backpack. A loud whistle sounded, shrill and hollow. She winced and covered her ears. A sign appeared in her field of vision, 'Venezia Santa Lucia' was written there, in a somewhat old-fashioned newspaper font. Two meters away hung some warning signs, including 'Borseggiatori di attenzione' and 'Fai attenzione sui ponti fluviali stretti'. Beware of pickpockets and on narrow river bridges. She had heard from colleagues that there were many pickpockets in Venice, but as long as she took care of her valuables, nothing would happen. As soon as she got off the train, she looked around for street signs. She had booked a stay at a hotel on the other side of Venice, in Castello. On foot, it should take about an hour, past the Basilica di San Marco. She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out her cellphone, opened Maps, and followed the roads marked as the fastest route. She crossed the Grand Canal on the Ponte degli Scalzi, a white stone bridge with breathtaking views of the river, gondolas and Venetian pier houses. There she paused for a while, holding her face in the cooling breeze and taking some photos that she would later send to her family. The rest of the walk was reasonably uneventful, with her stopping only occasionally to photograph the buildings and bridges. Then, finally, she lifted her gaze to find herself on the Piazza San Marco. The sun fell on the Duomo and Doge's Palace, the white walls gleaming in the early afternoon light. The bells of the Basilica di San Marco rang out. It was noisy, many tourists were in Venice over the summer vacations, but that didn't bother her. Still caught up in the glow of the idyllic architecture, she didn't realize she was in someone's way until said person bumped into her. She was brought back down to earth as the stranger looked at her with a guilty smile, apologized profusely, and picked up his bag and some items that had fallen out. She recovered from the shock and made moves to apologize, but he beat her to it and assured her it was his fault.
"No, è stata colpa mia. Mi scuso abbondantemente. Non sembri locale. C'è qualcosa in cui posso aiutarti?"
It seemed to be written on her forehead that she was not a local, but if he was already offering to help, she would not decline.
"I'm looking for Hotel Indigo Venice, on Rio di Sant'Elena."
The Venetian pondered for a while before his expression brightened.
"Ma certo! Follow the road back there and always keep to the right by the water. Then keep walking until you reach the Giardini della Biennale. There you are already very close."
"Grazie mille! I have one more question..."
He tilted his head slightly and looked at her questioningly.
"If it's not too personal, what is your name?"
A bright smile spread across his face, his hazel eyes shining.
"Sono Marco!"
"I'm Ida. Arrivederci!"
With that, she waved one last time and followed his directions, a barely noticeable smile on her face. She hadn't expected the people of Venice to be so friendly and open, but she was delighted. The detailed directions turned out to be extremely helpful when Maps failed miserably due to poor network. She stopped one more time and let her eyes wander over the water, glistening in the warm light of the afternoon sun. She took a deep breath and enjoyed the fragrance of freshly baked bread, saltwater and seaweed. The seagulls laughed and made their rounds overhead. After a few minutes, she tore herself away from the breathtaking sea view and continued walking. After she had overcome the last meters with the help of street signs, she finally stood in front of the hotel's front door. It looked luxurious, with expensive curtains and a beautiful facade. As she entered, the small bell above the door made a pleasant, bright sound. She stood at the counter.
"Good afternoon, I had a room reserved under the name of Ida Bianchi. Five nights."
The receptionist searched for the reservation on her computer until she looked up at Ida.
"ID and reservation number, please."
Her papers were in her backpack, she had written the number down and put it in her wallet with her bank card. She handed the receptionist her ID card, but when it came to the wallet, she couldn't find it. The receptionist raised an eyebrow.
Ida paled as she remembered the hazel eyes.
The wide, almost childlike smile.
The sign that had warned her about pickpockets.
Had he even told her his real name?
