As tears go by

// 22 Venezia

As soon as she finished with Svagna, she decided she needed a vehicle to go to California. She didn't want to go by bus or train. On the mountains public transportation was slow and sporadic. She would have been like a sitting duck. She could have stolen another car or a van. In a car was easy to conceal stolen goods, drugs, people. Police used to flag down a lot a car or a van. By the way, sitting in a car the driver was like to seat on a pole, used to say her SpN instructor in maskirovka, the art of camouflage. The face, the hair colour, the eyes, the mouth, the clothes. An insignificant detail could give anyone away. There was video surveillance everywhere. Shops, banks, cities, gates, private houses, mobile phones. Digital eyes were everywhere and were implacable. Once one was captured on footage, authorities could have access to it easily. She needed something fast and able to conceal her looks without raising suspicion. So a motorbike was the solution. Not a huge one, neither a flashy one or very noisy one. A regular medium motorbike. None pays attention to a motorbike. By the way, on a motorbike one had to wear a helmet. It was like to shout "Hey, I am masked!" but none paid attention. A motorbike could squeeze easily in a traffic jam, disappear in a turn-off, run faster on winding mountains streets and also if required, it was possible to go off-road and lose tails in moments. To steal a motorbike it was a problem as to steal any other vehicle. It was necessary to take one the owner would not have noticed it was missing for some days. She could walk to someone and pay cash for a motorbike, but it could have raised eyebrows, better to steal one. So she thought Venezia. By the way, there was another reason to go there, maskirovka was also about deception. She could stop by at the international airport, get caught on cameras and sneak away in the other direction. Just to muddy the waters.

The gate of the Serenissima wasn't anymore Piazza San Marco, like in the glorious past. The gate of the Serenissima now day was its ass, Piazzale Roma, a seedy motorized rundown shabby area. It was the last point that cars and vehicles could reach, after driving through a bridge which cut in half the lagoon. Around the piazzale there was a cluster of dirty hangars, parking lots on one side, and touristic stalls selling cheap fake plastic souvenirs on the other side. Near there, they made an artificial island only to park cars and motor coaches.

She decided to lurk the entrance of one of the oldest garage in piazzale Roma. She waited near the ticket machine until she recognized the biker who went inside the garage San Marco with the motorbike she had chosen, coming back afoot. He was a sturdy red-faced fifty year old. He tucked his parking card and motorbike key in his left breast pocket. He walked out with a couple of motorbike bags straddled over his shoulder. He had a companion, the same size, only bald and lean. She followed them through the calle by the seaweed-smelly canals. It was easy to shadow them. They were tourists stopping in the Lagoon city for a couple of days. Accademia, Rialto bridge. A tour in traditional bars nicknamed "Bacari" to drink Spritz and eat cicchetti. They would be ripped off of all their money easily. Just sit instead of standing up and the coffee costs ten times more. Enjoy too much the view and you forget to check the price list. Everybody loves Venezia, but everybody forgot Venezia plundered the world in her history, to became Venezia. It made also a crusade to ruin Constantinople. She smiled. No thinking cup on their heads. Venice was a warren of walking streets narrow and winding like guts. She turned at least a hundred corners and climbed up sufficient bridges for all her life time. At the end of a long calle, the bikers stepped in at Harry's bar, one of the places to be in Venezia. She followed suit, hung at the counter, nursed a cold Bellini, discreetly watched them bursting in laughing talking shit. She waited for the right moment. A couple of Italian hairy guys cruised around her and offered another drink. She folded her legs slowly. Accepted. Flirted. Laughed at their jokes like a naive girl and forgot the hand of one of them brushing her keister. Finally the biker stood up. He headed for the rest room, staggering. He left his leather jacket straddled on the chair. She took her chance and stood up, glass in her hand, leaving her two new friends dumbstruck. Walked towards the chair and sat. The bald man blinked and gawked at her. She blinked at him. In her eyes a light of guilt popped up. She covered her open mouth with her hand. "Sorry, sorry, wrong chair, my mistake. Little bit drunk."

Before the bald man could say anything she was outside in the calle. Walking away she studied the parking ticket she fished out of the bikers' pocket. She left the key, because if the guy patted the pocket, and did not perceive the hump in it, he would have run to the garage. She did not need a key to start a motorbike, but she needed the parking ticket to get the motorbike out of the garage without arousing suspicion.