[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
The remand prison was located outside the city, in suburbia. Art had to navigate the maze known as local public transport to get there. It made him wonder how people had traveled before the invention of smartphones and mobile maps.
The building sat on a hill, a ten minutes' walk from the train station. His steps took him in a twisted path through a huddle of houses that used to be a village a century ago. Now they were the local shopping and service hub for the residential district sprawling across the surrounding countryside. He passed three restaurants, a grocery store, a cheese and milk shop, a square with benches around a water trough, a hair salon, and a church.
The sidewalks were wide, and the cars were few and slow. A place made for walking, not driving—so different from the efficient checkerboard city layouts of his home.
The weather had turned balmy, giving the few remaining patches of snow a hard time.
The prison itself was lacking the fence or surrounding wall he had expected. It was a long, three-storied building with a gabled roof, vanilla-colored walls, and a good view over the flat valley. The bars that adorned some of its windows were painted in a subtle hue of beige. It looked friendly and innocent as if trying to blend in with the residential scenery.
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A polite, male receptionist already had Art's name on a visitors' list, checked his ID, and handed him a form to sign. Its small-print instructed him that his exchange with the prisoner would be recorded unless he was their attorney, that the duration of the visit was limited to fifteen minutes unless he was their attorney, and that he was under obligation to follow the staff's directions, even if he was an attorney.
After signing, the man guided him to a small room and asked him to wait.
The tiny cubicle was the first thing that struck Art as prison-like. Two chairs were facing a glass pane. A similar cabin with a single chair was visible through the glass. It was unoccupied.
There was one microphone for the visitors and another one for the visitee.
A loudspeaker mounted to the wall came to life with a clicking noise, and Monica appeared in the window. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him, then sat down with a blank expression.
"Hey... boyfriend," she said. The 'boyfriend' sounded like a question or a challenge. Her eyes bored into his.
He felt the heat rise in his face. "Hello, Monica. Your father's attorney meant that I, as your... boyfriend, have a right to visit you." Remembering that their exchange would be recorded, he avoided calling things by their name—he hoped that she would get the hint that the boyfriend thing had not been his idea.
"I see..." She looked tired. "My father sent you."
"No... It was my idea. I wanted to see you. I called the police, Betty Bossi... and she advised me to contact your family, which I did."
