Leo Lichy lives in the US. His work has appeared in numerous magazines.

Charades with Policemen (August 20, 2010. Issue 20.)

When we arrived at Napoli Centrale, I couldn’t seem to make out exactly where I needed to go to catch a connecting train to Sorrento. Staff throughout the station proved most unhelpful. I attempted pidgin Italian to coax them into speaking English, but it just didn’t work. They seemed intent on spewing out a deluge of Italian. I attempted English, but they refused to speak a word of it.

Eventually, I gave up trying to communicate with railway personnel. The final straw came when, in response to my desperate plea of “Doh-vay Sorrento, platform numero?” said with a embellished shrug and an apologetic face, a ticketing agent pointed to a departure board sign above my head. As neither our train nor the platform number was listed on the board, this was of no help whatsoever.

I began looking around for someone to take out my frustration on. It was at this point that Poppy’s sharp eyes came to our rescue.

“Quick, over there!” she said, twisting my head.

I gave a cursory glance across the station, my eyes resting on the platform, thinking she had somehow spotted our train.

“We should stop him before he disappears through those doors.”

I couldn’t work out what she was on about, but it little mattered. She raced off ahead of me, leaving me no alternative but to chase after her with our bags.

When I caught up to her she was having a strange conversation with a policeman. Under normal circumstances I might have found great humor in the exchange. However, at that moment I was deeply anxious and frustrated. Besides, I could see tears in Poppy’s eyes.

“Bon jaw-noh,” I said, trying to crack a friendly smile. “Par-la inglay-zay?”

The policeman shook his head.

“We want to go to Sorrento,” I tried, desperately. “What platform do we need?”

He made a series of curious gestures with his hands. At first, I couldn’t understand what he was doing, but then it all sort of began to make sense.

He pointed across the railway station. Then, in Chaplinesque fashion, he used his forefinger and middle finger to signify a pair of legs walking.

“Si,” I said, triumphantly. “I understand.’

He held out the back of his right hand at an angle, his fingers together, yet sloping upwards. Then he placed the index finger and middle finger of his left hand on the back on his right hand and these fingers wriggled up the knuckles, from the bottom knuckle to the one at the top.

“He’s climbing stairs,” I told Poppy, excitedly.

He nodded and then put his hands together, side-by-side, flapping them apart and then together again.

“I think he means we must go through a set of double doors,” I told Poppy, slightly unsure of myself now.

His two fingers scurried across the palm of his right hand. I could make nothing of it. Had this been a game of charades, at this point I might have thought about conceding.

His fingers scurried down the knuckles on the back of his right hand.

“Steps again,” I told Poppy, regaining my confidence.

The policeman dropped his hands. Our delightful conversation was at an end.

“Grat-see-ay,” I said, smiling.

He smiled also. Something about his smile made me put my hands in my pockets to make sure my wallet was still there.

Poppy thanked him and we waved goodbye. I determined then and there that never mind improving my Italian, I really needed to work on my charades.