Termini
Michelangelo Samson
THE WEATHER surprised them, dressed as they were in jackets and sweaters, thinking Rome would be chilly in June. The shimmering heat that rose from the asphalt curb reminded them of the dry heat they had left behind twenty-six hours ago in Manila. “Are we there?” Jennifer asked, confused.
Mario had to laugh at that. He was also disconcerted. “Good question,” he said, stripping off his jacket, revealing his shirt underneath, mapped with sweat.
“Sure,” Cecilia said, stroking her daughter’s hair, “can’t you see the people here look different?”
So they did. From the crowd outside the airport, it was possible to pick out men with chiseled features, dressed in suits even in that heat, not sweating like Mario, but seeming, through their languid movements, to stay
