Epi-Epilogue

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Looking up at the dark brick facade of the shelter, I was no longer so sure that coming here had been a good idea. What had I hoped to accomplish? It was the middle of the night, and the doors were long closed. Even if I had the courage to knock, nobody would answer, and certainly not the one I was hoping for.

But I simply had to come. After what I had found in my research...

A shiver went down my back. I simply had to come and see him. There was no other alternative. So I had snuck out to the shelter, where Giacomo had gone to stay after the police had come down on his secret hideout like a swarm of flies on a juicy piece of meat. He had taken his bedroll and clothes with him. I didn't know what he had done with the knives and machine guns. I hadn't dared to talk about that. I hadn't dared to talk about anything. There had been silence between us for days.

But now I had to talk with him. Yet how? Here I was, yet how would I get to Giacomo? Hidden from sight from everybody in the shelter behind a rusty old van that was parked in the street, I stood, and pondered.

And then, as if he had heard my thoughts, the door of the shelter opened and Giacomo stepped out. I slapped my hand over my mouth and wanted to run forward – but something held me back. Something wasn't right. He threw a furtive glance right, then left, then hurriedly set off down the street, towards the river. I noticed he had a backpack slung over his shoulder, his bedroll on top of it. He looked prepared for a long journey.

No. No, that couldn't be. He had promised!

Hurriedly, I set out after him, hidden behind the rows of parked cars that lined the streets. He walked slowly, deliberately, as if every stride cost him something. I had no trouble keeping up. Finally, we arrived at the beach, our beach, where we had danced, and from where we had set out towards towards the Gold Gate Bridge on that fateful night. When I saw the motor-boat, packed with weapons and supplies waiting on the shore, I knew I had been right, and it hurt.

He deposited his back-pack in the boat. If ever I had a chance, it was now.

"Giacomo, don't!"

I stepped out of the shadows. At the sound of my voice, he whirled around, metal glinting in his fist. It was too dark to see what he held, knife or gun, but as soon when he saw me, his mouth fell open, and he hurriedly dropped whatever he had been holding.

"Angela! What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I might ask the same of you." Stomping towards him angrily, I pointed to the packed boat. "But the answer is rather obvious, isn't it? You're leaving!"

"Angela, I..."

"You swore you wouldn't do this! You swore you wouldn't leave."

"That was before!" The words were hard, cold, and yet anguished.

"Before what?"

"Before they found me."

He gestured towards the dark shape of the Golden Gate Bridge, just visible against the night sky, because of the lights of cars rushing over it. They illuminated its edges and made it look like some giant, black, glowing spiderweb across the heavens.

"Angela, don't you remember? The guns? The knives? You..." He seemed to struggle for words. Finally he managed to say: "You were almost killed." It sounded like an accusation – against himself.

"I know."

"So you see I have to go."

"No! The gangsters are gone. We got through this. We will get through everything together. But if you leave..."

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