The day starts out fine, starboard view @ 7am offers Italian Alps beneath a low ceiling, soon to disappear, port side, just as nice.
By 9, sky's fine, transitional April in play, throw the kids in the basket, just we three as mio marito's left me for Geneva and Milan for a week, so we cycle to the station, hit Venice, just as nice as last time.
Heading back, not so much. Just two stops from home, The strangest and smallest of creatures moves in a crooked line toward me, in control of little but barely a phone and ticket in hand, all of 13, 14 maybe, completely swathed in nero and rosso, top to bottom, skirt, tights, shoes, red and black alternates everywhere. Hair combination not so rare in these parts, long, wavy, thick slices outline two large, sad sockets, covered in slashes of black liner applied to either eye with a large dome of coral red completing the effect. She's in deep need of braces, she's powdered her face heavily, losing the fight to cover acne ridden young skin. I'm captivated, saddened, deeply, she's more than tragic, inside and out, this rare gothic spirit, under some kind of influence beyond hormones, so odd as drink and drug are never evident in Italy, down South, in parts, but this isn't Palermo or the London tube, this is northern Italy, odd, very.
I watch her struggle with her phone and catch the woman facing me across the isle, smiling, cooing at Colette and Godot, everyone's oblivious but me.
C n G, so happy in their bags on either side of my lap, a portable Dorothy Parker in between, closed now, I have a live version, full of far more emotional angst than Dottie's tragic female characters, this one's got teen hormones to boot. She's so bizarre, I feel maternal, compassionate, confused as I watch her try and attach the black back to her red telefonino, the exercise alone causes such vexation she can only roll her head back slowly, her eyes try to close, open, both actions prove impossible.
Just then the ticket lady arrives, I offer my ticket, the girl struggles to do the same, unfortunately she suffers the same luck with phone. I'm thinking, 'something's gotta give'. I then lean forward to say, "tutto bene signorina?" and she tries to focus, saying, slurring, 'noooo', then everything changes pace, no more slow motion, her face defies makeup, turning bright red as I turn towards C n G, grab their bags and quicker than you have ever moved in your entire life, we are in the isle.
The ticket lady, in shock watches as the girl's head goes down and vomits over and over and over again. Maybe it's a metaphor for the Catholic church, maybe it's how the Italians feel in general about Berlusconi triumph, contrary to polling, he's done it again. maybe, maybe it's just about a very young, sick girl.
Who knows, all I do know is that it's a first for 10 yrs riding trains throughout Italy.
Not only do I move quickly but soon the entire cabin clears, Italians don't like to interfere.
But I'm not Italian so I stay. Another young Italian women is curious also, concerned, watching her as well. The ticket women calls for assistance. They arrive at the next stop, checking her pulse, trying to ask questions, it's all rather murky. Piano, piano, I've seen the Italians deal with street kids before, they move slowly, giving them time, room, respect, until they've proven otherwise. She can talk, her name's Miriam. She's just tired, out of sorts.
I take a picture, as if I'm here to bear witness, or somesuch. They check her arms, they're clean, they get a gurney and take her away, such is this wee slice of life, this precious girl, on Easter Pasqua my thoughts are with her all day long.
