Innocenta for the Innocent

It seems I am ever and always awaking, Neesa was right. The pain and chaos of the world sends me too often seeking shelter in the land of dreams. Will Germany prove to be another dream that leads only to the nightmare of my reality? I open my eyes to look into the face of a complete stranger. His skin is pale, paler stubble apparent on gaunt wrinkled cheeks. His thin, wispy hair flutters freely about his head, tousled free as he dreamed. He grunts and turns to face the person on his other side as our half-awake eyes meet.

Somewhere, a small child has begun to complain about the length of the trip. I smile to myself and envy him the right that youth gives to be so honest about your feelings. He continues to complain despite the pleading of his mother to just be quiet and wait it out. I want to go to him, grab him by the shoulders, and tell him to just enjoy this time with his family. With the world the way that it is, however, I know better than to do this.

I would be thought mad or my words would be thought the warnings of some sociopath feeling a hint of remorse before doing something dreadful. Instead, I adjust myself so I am facing the curved roof of the plane, leaning back and hoping I can find some rest like this. It is not long before I have given up on this hope. I am hunched over the tray on the back of the seat in front of me, shuffling through the papers before me, hoping to find some advice on how to greet the woman that is to meet me at the airport.

I am still slogging through neatly typed pages on etiquette and key phrases when the pilot announces that we are about to land. I shuffle through the papers once more, glancing briefly at a picture of yet another breath-taking woman, Innocenta the accompanying documentation tells me, before sliding the papers back into their folder and from there into the bag. I am leaning over to slide the bag under my seat when a flight attendant taps me on the shoulder.

"Ma'am, you have to put your seatbelt on now," she says with a disapproving tone, but a warm and friendly smile.

It amazes me how someone's voice can say one thing while their eyes and lips say something entirely different. How often do we do the same thing and not consider the effect it can have on the people around us? How often do we think a false face is the way to go? As we taxi down the runway toward the gate, another stewardess passes me with a smile. Her eyes reflect her smile, or I could be deceived by her pleasure to finally be on land again, free of the burden of caring for the needs of so many.

I find myself standing up to let the more impatient passengers push out into the aisles. They seem to pile on top of each other to extract bags from overhead compartments. A few exchange pleasantries, but most voices grudgingly offer apologies to those they jostle or collide with in their attempts to be free of the tiny confines of the airplane. I wait until the chaos has died down to get my own bags and find myself one of the last to leave the plane.

At last I am standing next to a pillar peering out at the few people who wait to greet the stragglers and welcome us into their land. Even without the picture or the small number of choices placed before me, I could have picked Innocenta out of a crowd as the woman I am mean to meet. Somehow she seems to exude goodness despite her unconventional appearance. One can not see such things in photographs. (We should know that by now from all the things we hear about celebrities in the real world as opposed to the roles they are given on television.)

Yet here she stands before me, another lovely superheroine awaiting the chance to serve and protect one of her own. Her hair is long, cascading down her back in waves of red, violet, and black. The hues mix and mingle to fascinate the eye. Then the eyes focus on the glasses perched upon her nose, almost obscuring rich brown eyes as sunlight reflects back from their lenses. Those eyes light up as mine meet hers and she comes toward me with open arms as if we are old friends.

As I am enveloped in her arms, I feel warm and protected. The rich smells of graphite, oil paints, and flowers mingle to form a unique scent. She holds me for a second like a sister and then pushes me away a bit to look me over again.

"Well, I hope you're Bella or I feel silly," she says with a slight trace of laughter as she releases me.

I pause for a moment, fascinated by her accent. Her smile fades a little bit and then she addresses me again, this time in German. I assume she is repeating the same comment and realize she really did expect a response. I had expected them to send her a picture of me, but, perhaps, the one on my passport was the only one they had. After all, stages of my growth are undocumented on film.

"Yes, I'm Bella. Just a little out of it from the ride."

"Those long trips can do that to you," she replies, "Shall we get in the taxi. We have a long way to travel."

She gestures toward a white, four-door sedan with a taxi sign affixed to the top. In fact, it looks very much like any taxi one would expect to see in the States. It just doesn't have the words "Yellow Cab" or "Yellow Taxi" emblazoned across it. My stomach grumbles as my eyes alight on a small eatery just across the street.

"I'm hungry," I say, hearing the whine in my voice but not caring.

"I thought you might be, so I packed a few things into a basket in my car to eat on the trip back to my place. It's just a short taxi ride to my car," she replies.

"But there is a little restaurant over there," I say pointing at an outdoor cafe that looks quite charming, particularly to my hungry stomach.

"Yes. It is also in the middle of the city. The longer we remain here, the greater the chance of some minion of Decay taking an interest in you."

"Oh," I reply, feeling my mind waking totally up, "I didn't even think. I just thought..."

"With all the strife in the world, even Germans are not free of Decay..."

I find the irony in this statement, but decide not to comment as she helps me into the taxi.