Alexander York kidnaps Delia

He did not understand what it meant, but the feeling of uneasiness did not leave him. Suddenly the crowd around him began to stir. Jerome turned and noticed a man standing out from the crowd. It was an old man in a white coat, with a dark cap on his head, who was confidently walking straight towards him. His face was weathered, with deep wrinkles, and his eyes were alive and bright, despite the obvious signs of old age.

He came up close and without any introduction began to tell:

"You know how a black man and a Jew once met?" The old man spoke with a clear accent, his voice was low and slightly hoarse. Jerome didn't know how to react to this. For a moment he froze, trying to understand what was happening.

"Sorry, I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Jerome replied, trying not to show that he was uncomfortable with the situation. He stepped back slightly, feeling his anxiety growing. Why did this old man approach him? Why did he start the conversation so confidently?

The old man did not pay attention to his words and continued as if he had not heard:

"The Negro, of course, asks: ‘Why is the Jew unlucky?' And he answers: ‘Because you, brother, don't believe in luck yourself!'" He paused, looked at Jerome with his piercing eyes and grinned.

Jerome frowned and walked quickly away from the old man, his thoughts in disarray. He couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was happening, that his meeting with this man was no accident. The anecdote the old man had told seemed out of place, and there was something in his eyes that reminded Jerome of a mosaic painting, each detail carrying a hidden meaning.

He quickened his pace, feeling the tension rising. As soon as the old man had spoken his last sentence, Jerome knew he didn't want to stay in this area. He turned up the collar of his coat to keep the rain out and, without looking back, continued on his way, away from these people and their strange conversations.

The crowd gathered at the shop window was left behind, and a few minutes later he found himself at the supermarket, where there were many more people. Everything was much quieter here: ordinary shoppers, couples, people queuing for bread and milk. Jerome paused for a moment to look around, feeling his heart calm down a little. Everything seemed normal – everyday.

But the inner unrest did not go away. Who was this old man? Why did he approach him? And what did his words mean? Jerome knew that these questions would not leave him alone until he found the answers.

Jerome paused at the supermarket window, unable to tear his eyes away from all the riches. The shelves were lined with cheeses he might have tried if he had the money, and sausages that smelled so delicious his stomach rumbled with hunger. He stood transfixed, looking at the packages of various delicacies, thinking how long it had been since he had eaten such simple and delicious food. There was too much stress in his life, too much intelligence work, to enjoy something so trivial.

But still, realizing that with so many temptations, he could easily spend all the money in a couple of minutes, Jerome quickly looked away from the display case and looked at his wallet. Empty. Not a single Roman coin. All he had left was waiting for Jo to return and give him his money back. And she had left early this morning, without explanation, as always leaving him in the dark. He had no idea where she had gone, or why she had left him with Delia.

"It's okay, I'll wait," Jerome thought, but the feeling of emptiness in his stomach did not go away. He again stole a glance at the shop windows and again felt hunger taking hold of him.

The silence of the supermarket seemed too loud, and the smell of food was irritatingly sweet. Jerome didn't even know how long he stood there, oblivious to everything. Deep down, he wanted to forget about everything and just spend a few hours in this corner, away from everything that was bothering him. But at some point, reason took over. He felt that he couldn't afford to waste time.

Jerome turned to leave, but suddenly a low voice with a strong accent called out to him:

"Ragazzo! Aspetta un momento!"

A policeman stood before him, a burly middle-aged man with a moustache and a serious look. He pointed at Jerome and then motioned for him to stop.

"I... I didn't do anything," Jerome tried to say, but the policeman didn't understand his words. Instead, he waved his hand briefly and harshly, pointing toward the road.

"Come with me."

Jerome wanted to object, but he understood that the situation had already gotten out of control. The policeman did not retreat and even tightened his grip, slightly pushing the boy in the right direction.

"Fine, just fine," Jerome muttered, reluctantly obeying. He knew that any attempt at resistance would only make the situation worse.

Ten minutes later they were at the police station. Jerome was seated on a hard metal chair in front of an old wooden desk, and a policeman called over a colleague, animatedly discussing something with him. The words were sharp and fast, and Jerome only stared gloomily ahead, not understanding a word.

"Squeeze, rajazzo, hai a documento?" the second policeman finally asked him, pointing at Jerome.

The boy understood only one word - "documento" - and shook his head.

"No... I don't have any ID on me," he muttered, hoping that at least someone here knew English.

The policemen looked at each other. They obviously didn't understand what he was saying, but that didn't stop them. They started asking questions - long, incomprehensible phrases in Italian. Jerome just sat there with a tense look and shook his head, showing that he didn't understand anything.

"Non parlo italiano!" he shouted, hoping to somehow attract attention to himself.

"Ah... inglese," one of the policemen drawled. Then he pointed at his colleague and quickly left the room.