Page 5 of Enduring Caine
“Where were you born?”
“America.”
“And how did you obtain Italian citizenship?”
These were not standard questions. “My parents are from here and I lived in Roma for thirteen years when I was younger.”
The customs agent’s eyes traveled to Samantha and back to me. “Any intention to marry or have children here for her to obtain faster citizenship?”
Marry and have children with her, sì. But not for citizenship. My mouth opened and closed, no words coming. I was tired, on painkillers, my arm hurt, and I wanted to get to Mario’s for a nap.
“No,” said Samantha.
Her short yet firm word elicited the first show of emotion from the agent. Likely surprise that an American understood what he was saying.
He recovered quickly and pointed to my brown leather duffel. “Only the one bag?”
“Sì.”
“Pick it up and follow me, please.” He tucked my passport into his belt and waited while I lifted the bag.
I let out a small grunt with the effort. Not that the bag was heavy, but leaning over let my bad arm swing away from my body. The twinge of pain was a far cry from how I’d felt the last two days, but it was an unpleasant experience, nonetheless.
“We have a connection in an hour,” said Samantha, in her beautiful, flawless Italian, with a Roman accent.
The agent gestured to the exit. “Follow the signs out there.”
“But…” She glanced from him to me and back again. The tension from earlier gripped her once more. It was possible she hadn’t slept at all on the plane. She looked as tired as she had that day in August when she showed up on my doorstep in Napoli. Sharp words would come next, which wouldn’t help our cause.
I leaned closer to her and whispered, “Wait for me outside the door. I’ll be quick, I’m sure.”
She blinked several times, jaw clenching and releasing, before she nodded and left. No kiss, noI love you. It was appropriate for the moment in front of the agent, but felt empty. The words were so new from her and caused my heart to leap every time she said them.
“No checked bags, you said?” the agent asked.
“No, just the carry-on.”
The agent gestured for me to join him and walked with me in silence until we arrived in a small private room. Two chairs at least six feet away from a metal table at the center of the room, a desk with a laptop, and testing equipment against the far wall.
“Place your bag here,” he said, standing behind the table. “And then take a seat.”
I did as he asked. I’d been through this before with American customs, but this was the first time in Italy. The best thing to do was follow his instructions and remain quiet unless asked questions.
He unzipped my bag and removed the clothing, laptop bag, toiletry bag, and the book—a brilliant treatise on cultivating a positive mindset, whose lessons all seemed to escape me at the moment—I’d purchased in the Detroit airport. His fingers danced about the bag, opening the interior zippers, checking seams, inspecting the corners.
Twenty minutes ticked away without him sparing me a glance until he pulled out the bottle of painkillers I’d been given at the hospital. His eyebrow rose as he opened it, retrieving the radio from his belt. “I need a dog and another agent.”
I left through the “Nothing to Declare” door, wanting little more than to punch it open. An hour to go through a single duffel bag?
A hint of the rage left me as my eyes fell on Samantha, sitting in a bank of chairs along the wall by the door. Hunched over her phone, she scrolled through an app.
“Ciao, bella,” I sighed and dropped into the seat next to her.
She slipped the phone into her purse. “What happened? You were in there for over an hour. We missed our connection to Naples.”
I leaned my head against the wall. “He said traveling over Christmas to the States without any checked bags was a red flag.”
“Seriously?”