Via Dolorosa(13)

“No,” he said. “No pictures. No one I was with took any pictures.”

“That is too bad,” Isabella said. “People here, on this side of the world, they do not really know what it is like to be over there. People here don’t know what it’s like to be where you were, and to see the things you saw. They don’t know what it is like to be you.”

“I guess not,” Nick said, and thought, Who the hell knows anything about anything? Do you think a few photographs would make all the difference? Do you think a few black and white glossies could do it all any justice? No one knows. I was there and sometimes I think I don’t know, either. And maybe we’re not supposed to know. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. And as for pictures, taking pictures, maybe it truly is too bad that no one I was with took any pictures, but we were all too busy carrying our gear and our rifles and an extra pair of socks while we hunkered, in an attempt to stay cool, in the shade of a nearby Abrams MBT, its guns still hot and smoking and grease-smelling, and all of us with our prized personal possessions tucked away in the creased and hidden pockets of our fatigues. We worry about ambushes and we worry about turning the wrong corner and we worry about the hot desert dust jamming our M-4s and M-16s and not being able to use them properly or at all, but we do not worry about photographs, taking photographs. What’s a photograph?

“Will they be sending you back?” Isabella asked him.

“No.”

“That’s good, staying in the U.S.”

“Nick was injured,” Emma spoke up. “Show her your hand, Nick.”

“She doesn’t want to see that,” he said, amiable as possible. He lifted his espresso and hid behind it as best he could.

“It’s okay, Nick,” Emma continued.

“Come on,” he said. “Come on, Emma.”

Thankfully, Isabella was perceptive to his discomfort. She waved one hand, so casually and in control, and said, as if nothing in the world could possibly matter to her at that moment, “It’s all right. I was just curious to know if you would be going back, Nicholas. I was going to wish you luck if you were.”

“He’s not,” Emma said. “Once we leave here, we’ll be in Pennsylvania for good.”

Isabella Rosales smiled. “That is terrific for you.”

Nick finished his espresso and stood. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I need to get some work done. It was nice meeting you, Isabella.”

“Oh, yes, Nicholas. And I’m sure we will see each other again.”

“All right,” he said, and turned to Emma, his wife. “I can meet you for a late lunch, if you want.”

“That would be nice.”

“I’ll come by the room.”

“I can order in,” Emma said. “Do you know what you’ll want?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Make it a surprise.”





—Chapter IV—





He enlisted the services of a young, sturdy-looking bellhop to assist him in carrying his supplies trunk down into the lobby. It was heavy and the bellhop disappeared once before they even bothered to lift the trunk, and returned with a dolly. They hoisted the trunk onto the dolly together, Nick favoring his good hand, only to discover one of the casters was inoperable and refused to roll with such a weight pressing down on it, and so the bellhop disappeared a second time and returned with a new dolly with fully functioning casters.

“You have lead weights in here or something?” the bellhop said as they maneuvered the dolly onto the elevator.

“Painting supplies.”

“Hey, you’re not the guy they hired to paint that wall down in the lobby, are you?”

“In the tired flesh.”

“Really? Excellent. You know, I was looking at the drawing—the outline—the—what do you call it?—last night after I got off work. Some friends came by to pick me up and we were all just staring at it. You’re pretty damn good.”

“Thanks.”

“So you do this a lot?”

“What? Paint?”

“Paint murals in hotels and whatever.”

“No,” Nick said. “This is my first one.”

“No kidding? How much they pay you for something like that?”

“They pay enough,” Nick said.

“Yeah? Pretty good, man. Must be nice,” the bellhop said, “to have a talent like that, where you can squat at a hotel and paint all day and whatever. And get paid. Good deal. Know what I mean?”

“Sure. Good deal.”

“How long will it take to finish?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“They let you stay here for free while you work?”

“Yes.”

“Good deal,” the bellhop said again. “Listen, there’s a storage closet just off the main hallway where you’re painting the mural. I can see if I can grab a key from my boss so you can keep this trunk in the closet. It’ll be easier than lugging it back to your room at the end of each day, especially since your—” and the bellhop was about to say something about Nick’s hand, but happened to think better of it at the last minute.

Instead, he said, “Especially since it’s so heavy. Sound good?”