Lord Huston waives his hat to follow and walks out the door. I grab a piece of sopressata, polish off a cup of wine in one gulp and follow Huston to a large white Rolls Royce, it must be a hundred years old. They say he drove it here through Franco-German lines after Paris collapsed. Dastardly with a knife they say. Crack shot with a long gun. A brutal beast at the battle of Bruges. But time has worn him down. He almost died in Bruges and ever since he’s stood as a grand leader for the rebellion. Kids chase us down the street as his driver and almost as impressive of a resume compatriot Enzo D’Bello the Italian button man turned bonafide national hero.
I was impressed by the notoriety of these men. Dozens of young Italian boys and girls chased as Lord Huston laughed and handed them bushels of grapes from a crate on the floor of the long stretched out convertible.
“You see sir, life is still strong down here. I doubt you can say the same for those under the great nation of Franco-Germany. Life is still of some sort of value here. We don’t dare to pretend things are perfect. Crime still exists, people still struggle, but at least they don’t hold the weight and confines of chattel,” Lord Huston got solemn as they reached the outskirts of the city, “But the big bitch looms. The blue eyes are coming. Chief Officer Mertz doesn’t know sympathy or grace, only the mighty hand of the unit.”
Lord Huston didn’t speak anymore after that in the car. We drove for maybe an hour along the coast of Italy, winding around mountains that had turrets with look outs watching in all directions, but keeping a keen eye on the open waters.
I took in every rebel’s position I could, every battery of weaponry, every gap between mountain peaks of the rebellion’s stronghold. Enzo and Huston knew I’d do this. It’s what they would do. I can’t decide whether this is a trip to a grave or what, but I’d imagine that at some point soon I’m going to find out.