IV.xiii. Public Drunkenness Punishable by Fingerprinting

"An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself."
- Albert Camus

Today was the end the first act; my first three months had gone by. The ending was a gradual one, since I left Italy via a night train (or rather four) that took eleven hours to travel three hundred and fifty kilometers. Before I could leave I had some loose ends to tie up. I bought a huge amount of Italian sweets that are on sale all over Bologna at this time of year, and some silk shawls that make useful gifts. Alaric helped me clean up my apartment, which had become somewhat of a mess. Upon my return to Bologna I would be accompanied by some important guests, so the place needed to be left in the best of shape. Finally, I dropped by on a dinner that my American friends were having, as they were leaving soon as well, and unfortunately those I knew best were not returning for a second term. We said our goodbyes and traded addresses. It was a pity, because I felt as though I would have to start over again come January, but in the end that might be for the best. I left Monday night after seeing Alaric off at the station few hours prior, and headed across the Apennines to the coast, to France.
    On the overnight train I met a friendly Arab who was retuning home after having visited his brother, a doctor, in Forlì. He was clearly an intellectual. "You're from Paris?" the man asked me, after we had bonded through both being forced to stand for the first two hours of the train ride. His French was heavily Mediterranean.
    "Me? Oh no, I'm not French, I'm Canadian. My mother is Swiss."
    "But you speak French like a Parisian," he said.
    "Oh, really I don't. You're kind."
    "It wasn't meant as a compliment."
    "Oh." Despite our initial misunderstanding, we got along well. The man's name was Samrah, or Samnah, or something to that effect. It turned out that he was an officer in the forensic police squad in Algiers, charged with fingerprinting suspects, dead and alive.
    "Sometimes I even have to collect fingerprints from murderers, rapists, IPIs,"
    "IPIs?"
    "'Incident Public d'Ivresse,' public drunkenness. It's a crime where I come from, you know."
    "Of course. Uh, as it should be."
    "Once in a while I even have to fingerprint headless cadavers, you know. Those terrorists do awful things. Have you ever been to Algeria, then?"
    "No, never. If I were to go, I could get around speaking French?"
    "Certainly. Everyone speaks French there. Just make sure to wear a Canadian flag."
    "Right." We continued to talk for a while. Eventually a few seats freed up in one of the cabins, and at dawn, in Genoa, we were informed that the train was going out of service. We transferred to a much slower Regionale and eventually we ended up in Ventimilia, the Riviera border town. He switched to yet another train and we parted ways. He told me to look him up when I get to Algeria.
    When I finally got off the train in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, a beautiful French Riviera town, I was dead tired. Alain and Denise, old family friends (far removed cousins, in fact) were there to pick me up. The three of us would drive over, that afternoon, to La Garance, the house where I was to meet up with my family for Christmas.