Ilha do Desterro (Apr 2008)
Betrayal Betrayal
Abstract
The sharp clear whistle of the TEE nervously pierced the immense darkness that, like a medieval cloak, covered the valley of the Neckar. Fast and efficient, the train Advanced toward the Hauptbahnhof, where it was received with the ceremonious formalities of a centuriesold ritual. Along the platform, on worn-out benches, a few sleepy-eyed travelers patiently waited in solemn silent respect. Out of the second-class car, among throngs of backpackers in faded jeans and tennis shoes, a woman, alone, almost Inconspicuously descended onto the platform. She was small, girlish-looking, but her trenchcoat betrayed a certain caution, a preparedness that clashed with the adventurous freedom of youth. She glanced around her and, unnoticed but for a polite nod from the train officer, proceeded toward the central lobby. Her short hair bounced to the rhythm of decided steps, made somewhat uneven by the weight of the shoulder strap that sustained her one piece of luggage. "Need some help, miss?" Ramona thought she might have heard. Nonsense, she soon added in her mind with a condescending smile. That was a voice from the past when, eager and excited, she attracted companionship by the sheer curiosity stamped on her face. Now, in her midthirties, at that age when naiveté and innocence become dangerously incongruous, she had learned to conceal the spontaneity and trust with which she had once embraced the world. Her face showed no excitement, no awe at the foreigness of the place, not even the fear that rose within her as she faced the Bahnhof door and acknowledged the emptiness of the station plaza outside. The sharp clear whistle of the TEE nervously pierced the immense darkness that, like a medieval cloak, covered the valley of the Neckar. Fast and efficient, the train Advanced toward the Hauptbahnhof, where it was received with the ceremonious formalities of a centuriesold ritual. Along the platform, on worn-out benches, a few sleepy-eyed travelers patiently waited in solemn silent respect. Out of the second-class car, among throngs of backpackers in faded jeans and tennis shoes, a woman, alone, almost Inconspicuously descended onto the platform. She was small, girlish-looking, but her trenchcoat betrayed a certain caution, a preparedness that clashed with the adventurous freedom of youth. She glanced around her and, unnoticed but for a polite nod from the train officer, proceeded toward the central lobby. Her short hair bounced to the rhythm of decided steps, made somewhat uneven by the weight of the shoulder strap that sustained her one piece of luggage. "Need some help, miss?" Ramona thought she might have heard. Nonsense, she soon added in her mind with a condescending smile. That was a voice from the past when, eager and excited, she attracted companionship by the sheer curiosity stamped on her face. Now, in her midthirties, at that age when naiveté and innocence become dangerously incongruous, she had learned to conceal the spontaneity and trust with which she had once embraced the world. Her face showed no excitement, no awe at the foreigness of the place, not even the fear that rose within her as she faced the Bahnhof door and acknowledged the emptiness of the station plaza outside.
