Chapter 22

I STEP OUT INTO the cold damp darkness of Venice. I feel the cobbles beneath my booted soles, and the moist air against my face. The only thing I can remotely make out with my affected eyes are small, indiscernible blobs of light when I peer directly into a lamplight or one of the moving lights that are mounted to one of the motor boats slowly cruising the nearby feeder canal. I hear the footsteps of the tourists passing by in both directions. I feel their presence the same way a psychic will feel a world full of ghosts and spirits surrounding her. They make my pulse soar and steal me of my oxygen.

Swallowing a deep breath, I take a step forward. And then another. Until I run directly into a brick wall of a human being who is passing by. The collision nearly sends me to the ground.

“Watch where you’re walking, mate!”

It’s a man. An Australian, judging by the accent. I fought beside hundreds of Australians in both my wars. They are born voyagers. I regain my balance, try desperately for a point of focus. But without hearing his voice, I can only pretend I know where he’s standing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, making believe that I’m looking into his eyes. But I could be aiming my gaze in any given direction. “Clumsy of me.”

A weighted pause fills the air along with the cold humidity.

“You okay, mate? You don’t look so great, you don’t mind my saying. Your eyes are rolling around in their sockets.”

I nod.

I tell him I’m fine. But I don’t dare take another step or else risk knocking into someone else. I can feel the Australian standing before me. I smell the liquor on his breath. I feel stupid and exposed.

“You sure you’re going to be all right?” he pushes. “Because you don’t look so good. Maybe a little too much to drink.”

I know now that he isn’t about to make a move until I walk away first. The only thing I can do is take a shot and move forward. I do it. I take a step, and then another, until I feel two hands clutching at the collar on my coat, and I’m down on my back.

“Jesus, mate, you were about to walk right into the canal. You’re blind as a bat.”

Footsteps. A crowd is gathering all around me. Voices. Some of them in languages I cannot understand. Others in English. This was a big mistake. Venturing out. What the hell was I thinking?

“Call a cop!” somebody barks. An American.

“Please,” I beg. But it’s no use.

“You must be bloody soused,” the Australian laughs. “Blind and drunk. Just stay down, before you fall down again.”

In the distance I hear sirens. Didn’t take the cops very long to respond to my desperation. My stupidity. They are coming by boat. Coming for me, the blind man. The man who bombed a village where a little boy lived. The man who lost his fiancée. The man whose world has become a dark private hell.