Marco Lustig looked down at the girl lying on the hotel room bed. The early morning light streamed through the window and brightened the sensual form that had brought him pleasure the night before; the softly molded shoulders, the curves of the back and buttocks, and the long, smooth lines of the legs. Yes, she was a beauty. And she had been a delightful companion at that. She had a carefree way of laughing at things he said over her wine, a lighthearted, playful mood. She had talked of music. Monet and Renoir. Paris, New York, Hong Kong, Monte Carlo. Even football. But then, with a shrug, he turned away from her and resumed packing his bags.

The very idea of staying on here with her, of giving up his freedom for some kind of relationship and a life here with her, dried his mouth and set his teeth on edge. It was not that she was a bad girl, or that Lyon was a bad town. In fact, Lyon was a pleasant town with good restaurants and lively squares, colorful markets and cafes, and it was close to the mountains that always lifted his spirits. It was as good a place to stay on as any. And more than likely, she was as nice a girl as he was likely to find to stay with. But that was just it; it would mean staying on. It would mean securing an apartment or a house and the responsibility of paying rent or the mortgage, and when the inevitable children came along it would mean committing to buying them the food and clothing they would need, saving for their education and taking them to the doctor. It would mean decades of staying on with them. And that's what seemed so distasteful to him.

There wasn't much to pack, and he made short work of it. A pair of blue jeans, a couple of t-shirts, a long sleeved shirt and a jacket, a spare pair of socks and his underwear went into his duffle bag. The indispensable laptop went into its carrying case. His cellphone held the digital wallet, his brokerage account and bitcoin and that went into his pocket. An electric razor, a toothbrush, a comb and deoderant went into the little accessories bag and into the duffle. Then he put his sneakers on and that was it. The world brightening and murmuring outside the window was waiting for him. The girl would stay in the closed up room.

He paused to look at himself in the mirror. Yes, there he was; still that handsome young rake with life at his fingertips. He was doing the right thing for himself; in the end, he was doing the right thing for both of them, for everybody. He enjoyed making love, that was true. But at this stage of his life, maybe at any stage of his life that he could think of, he would not make a good husband or a good father. So what was the point of staying on, to even make an attempt at it?

In the end the whole thing would end in disaster, just as his parents' marriage had. He could still vividly remember his father leaving, his warped, angry face, as he picked up his suitcase and walked out that door. He could vividly remember his mother sitting at the kitchen table, crying. For years, he remembered her coming home from the two jobs she worked late at night, bitterly cleaning up and doing the laundry, night after night. For all he knew, the girl lying on the bed had been through the same thing. And what kind of background would that be for any children they might have? No; this was better, hard as it was.

He turned and looked back at her one more time. Her long, tousled, blond hair seemed to sparkle in the morning light. She would have made a lovely model for a sculptor, the way she was lying there, like a work of art. But then she moved her hand. It was time to go, before it was too late.

He turned away from her, grabbed his things and the key to the room, and walked softly out the door. Once the door was closed and he was out of the room with her and into the hall, his heart or his soul or whatever it was that was inside of him began to rise. There was something about being his own man, picking up and leaving and living on the run that was exciting, adventurous. There was nobody to answer to, only one thing to focus on. He had once seen a bumper sticker on a car somewhere else in his travels that seemed to sum it up: 'My body is not a temple, it's an amusement arcade.' He was already looking forward to the train ride to Zurich, to the mountains and the refreshing mountain air, the hotel on the lake he would stay at, the cafes and the beautiful girls he would meet in them, the dinners and the after dinner sex back at the hotel room in that city in the mountains. For the rest of the summer, it would be wonderful. Then, in the fall, it would be on to Budapest, Turin and Split, and as the winter came on, Crete. This was the life.

Down in the lobby he gave the key back to the clerk at the desk and received his precious passport, his key to the carefree, nomadic life. "Did you have a pleasant stay, sir?" the clerk asked him as he settled the bell and sent it to Marco's account.

"Oh yes," Marco replied, thinking of the girl from the night before, and the one the last weekend before that. Then he was out the front door and into the fresh air and the sunlight on the street, the space and the freedom, and his heart or his soul rose still higher.

The street was full of all kinds of people making their way to work or school or the stores from their places in the city. He considered their faces, frowning under the weight of their obligations, as they hurried by in their suits or their dresses. To stay one step ahead of them, to avoid being carried away by them to some office cubicle or studio apartment, was his main goal. Of course, some of them could end up being potential clients and here and there he spotted beautiful, young blonds. There was still some use that he could make of some of them, he told himself with a little chuckle.

He walked down the street for a bit towards the railroad station until he came upon a bench along the sidewalk. He sat down on it and opened his laptop as the people rushed passed him. Before they would get to their offices and check the markets he would start making his moves. Ah, some clients to take care of. Good. Commissions. Now to check his own portfolio. Apple, up 1%. Credit Suisse up 1%. Vestas Wind Systems, down 1/2%. Thyssen Krupp, down 1/4. Daimler, up 1%. Biontech, up 10%. A winner. Bitcoin up 1,500 Euros. More good news than bad. As he closed his laptop and resumed his way to the station, he felt head and shoulders above that crowd. One step ahead of them.

There was still some time before the train would depart for Zurich, he had made sure of that, as he always did. He did not like to rush about, as the other people did, chasing stocks and catching trains at the last minute, out of breath and losing their bearings. He liked to do things nice and leisurely, pleasantly, keeping his wits about him so he could keep an eye out for any opportunities that came along. For this, you had to have time, and for that, you had to be organized and prepared. He decided to reward himself for his preparedness with a grande mocha latte from a coffee shop.

There was a nice, little coffee shop near the station with flower boxes in the windows, and tables and chairs outside where one could sip a coffee, enjoy a chocolate croissant, and watch the beautiful girls go by. to his delight, there was a pretty, little blond actually behind the counter, and he smiled his charming smile and wished her a good morning, enjoying her coquettish smile and good morning in return. He ordered his mocha latte with a little whipped cream and his croissant, and allowed himself the pleasure of watching her move around behind the counter in her tight, little blouse and blue jeans. An older woman next to him on line snapped him an incredulous look but in his aloof position he ignored her, received his drink and croissant from the girl behind the counter with a wink and a smile, and made his way to the tables and chairs on the sidewalk.

The aroma of coffee was delicious, and the chocolate croissant was delicious too, and he enjoyed them both along with the passing scenery. That blond would do for a night. So would that brunette. Perhaps both of them together. Yes, that would be the ticket. That would be something to make a night of, perhaps with a bottle of champagne. Something perhaps to stay on for an extra day after all. But then he would wake up with them in that hotel room. There would be other girls in Zurich. Time to be moving on. Time to head for the station and take the train to Zurich. He would set up shop for himself in that nice hotel on the lake, take care of business and then go on the prowl for something to amuse himself for a couple of weeks. This was the life.

He threw out his empty coffee cup and wrapping paper, grabbed his duffle bag and laptop, and started for the station. As he climbed up the steps to the platform he checked the etickets on his cellphone. Track 3. 9:40. Still plenty of time.

There were all sorts of people milling about on the platform; business people in their crisp suits with briefcases and leisure travelers with their luggage. Beautiful people and stylish people and boors, but they bored him this morning as if they were elbowing in on him, crowding out the fields of vision and blocking the light. He longed to leave them behind, see the mountains, their white peaks shining in the pure, perfect light, far above the huddled and muddled villages with their mundane lives. He would finish with his clients on the train and that would clear up the rest of his day in Zurich. He could sit and relax with a drink by the lake and amuse himself. He instinctively wandered down the platform toward where the milling crowds thinned out.

There was a short stairway here that went down to the street. He thought he might sit on the steps for a bit and work on his laptop, but the steps were dirty. He frowned on this inconvenience conferred upon him by his less well groomed fellow men. At the bottom of the steps he found himself in an alley that ran alongside the train platform, lined by garages and ashcans and trash bins. He walked down it for a bit hoping he could find a crossing back to the main street and its cafes but it seemed to lead nowhere and he turned back.

He had just passed an old, battered garage door when something moved in the shadows behind him. Before he could turn completely around, there was a violent blow to the back of his head and at the same time an abrupt shove that pitched him forward to the pavement on his face. He thought he heard shuffling feet and he saw feet gathering around him. "We'll take that off your hands, sport," said a gruff voice. Someone bent down beside him but he couldn't see his face. Whoever it was grabbed the case with his laptop. "Keep that mug of yours to the pavement," commanded another harsh voice. A hand shot into his jacket, groping for his cellphone. He moved an arm instinctively but a sharp kick to his ribs stopped him. The hand closed on his cellphone and removed it. It also removed his wallet. Then the figure rose from the sidewalk and he heard the sound of feet scrambling away behind him and up the stairs to the railroad platform.

When the sound of footsteps had gone, Marco tried to move. There was a throbbing pain at the back of his head and a sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs where he had been kicked. He felt violated. Every breath made him wince with pain. He stuck a hand behind his head and when he drew it back it was covered in blood. He was bleeding. He moved his legs and arms and tried to sit up but certain movements gave him a sharp pain in his side. There was no-one about to help him and suddenly he felt very alone, almost abandoned. He would have to get up on his own and somehow climb the stairs to the platform to get help. His head was bleeding and someone would have to get him to the hospital for stitches. Then there was his side. He wondered if any of his ribs were broken. What about his things? His laptop and phone? He needed the police.

After he stood up the situation began to weigh on him and his head spun. He still had his duffle bag but the bastards had gotten away with his laptop, his cellphone and his digital wallet. There was no telling what they were doing with it. He had lost his bank accounts, his mobile pay, his identification, even his etickets to the train and his hotel reservations in Zurich. He had no ID, no money. He had to find someone to help him. He needed to speak with the police.

With a great effort, leaning on a banister, he pulled himself up the stairs to the station platform, stopping to rest and catch his breath again and again. He felt dizzy. He wondered as he got up to the platform and saw the well dressed commuters milling about again what he must look like. He shouldered his duffle bag and tried to straighten up as best he could. He started for the crowd; these same people he had passed with such disdain just a half hour before. These same people were his only hope now.

By instinct he spotted a pretty, young lady in a business suit carrying a briefcase, heading for a train that had just pulled into the station. His train, for all he knew. "Excuse me, miss," he stammered out, raising his hand to attract her attention. But when she saw his bloodied head and how he was limping in his dirty clothes, her face twisted in revulsion and she quickly turned from him and quickened her pace for the train. A young businessman in a sharp jacket with a gold watch on his wrist, carrying a leather briefcase and a cup of coffee, reacted in the same way. As they saw him staggering across the platform towards them, the whole crowd turned its faces from him as if he carried some sort of plague and pushed for the open doors of the train, eager to embark on their comfortable morning excursion without interruption on his account. Someone entering one of the cars whispered something to one of the conductors and at last, perhaps out of some sense of responsibility born from his job, he fixed his gaze on Marco and with a firmly set, grim looking visage, walked briskly up to him.

"Here, what's happened to you, mate?" the conductor asked him nervously.

"I've been robbed," Marco stammered out, as if he could hardly believe he were uttering the words himself.

Several faces turned to look at him in horror, and then turned just as quickly away, as if eager to avoid his fate themselves. The conductor's face went pale and his eyes twitched as he glanced around the platform behind Marco.

"Robbed? Where?" the conductor in his crisp uniform demanded from him. In one of his hands the ticket scanner snapped back and forth, as though pulling him like a magnet back to his duty on the train.

"Down the stairway," Marco gasped out. "They took my laptop and my phone. They got my digital wallet and my train tickets. I had a ticket for Zurich," he professed, lamely.

The conductor grimaced, turning to watch the passengers boarding the car behind him. "Anyone see anything? Anybody see what happened to this man?"

A businessman clutching his briefcase frowned. "Never saw this man in my life. Here, I've got to get to Zurich this afternoon. I didn't see anything, I tell you."

"Don't look at me," said a young man in a sports jacket, holding up his hands as if to declare his innocence. "I came from over there."

Another conductor popped his head out of the train car idling next to them. "Frank, we're ready to go. It's time. We've got to keep the schedule."

The conductor set his jaw and stared at Marco stoically. "You've got to talk to the police," he said flatly. "I can't help you here. We've got to go."

He turned and stepped onto the car.

"Can you tell me where I can find the police?" Marco pleaded, holding his ribs. His ribs were aching, as he stood there talking.

A whistle blew. Someone called out: "All aboard!" the conductor, still grim faced, turned his back and shook his head. "We've got to go," he called out, and quickly ducked into the car.

Marco turned away with a disappointed sigh and shouldered his bag. All sorts of men and women, clutching their own bags, hurried by him on their way to catch the departing train. They glanced at him with his bleeding head and disheveled clothes for a moment and then dismissed him just as quickly as they leapt into the cars to hurry on with their day and journey. When the last of them had gone by, the platform had thinned out and he could see an information booth of some kind down a ways. He began to plod towards it, panting and holding his side as he went slowly along. The few people left on the platform scurried away as he neared them before he could ask anyone for help.

A nervous little man was fidgeting inside in the booth. He looked up quickly when Marco leaned over and pressed his bloodied face against the glass.

"Look here," he gasped out, "I've been robbed. I'm hurt. Can you call the police for me?"

The man seemed to consider what to do for a moment, leaning back from the glass as if Marco might break through it, a look of distaste and exasperation on his face. "I can't leave this booth," he said firmly, "I've got a job to do, young man. I'm here to sell tickets. That's what they pay me for."

"Look," Marco begged, "I've lost my phone. I had tickets to Zurich on it. My digital wallet's gone too. There must be a police station here somewhere. Can you just tell me where it is?"

Still leaning back from the glass, the conductor seemed reluctant to speak, to commit to anything. He pushed up his spectacles on the bridge of his nose as if to say to himself, 'What is it that I'm getting involved in here?'

"There's a police station on the other end of the platform," he said, pointing. "Down there."

"The other end of the platform?" Marco winced, leaning against the glass with his hand clutching his ribs. "Can't you see how I've been hurt? They kicked in my ribs and knocked me over the head with something."

The clerk had a sour expression on his face. Some people were beginning to gather behind Marco, frowning with impatience. "Well that's too bad to be sure," the man in the booth said, "But I can't help you. Like I said, I've got a job to do. They pay me to sell tickets."

Another nervous man in a suit and briefcase shifted his weight from one foot to the other behind Marco, leaning around him to get the clerk's attention. "I need a train to Nancy," he snapped. "And what platform is it?"

"Number four, sir," the clerk in the booth called out passed Marco's drooping shoulder. "Sorry, but can you move aside now, please?"

Marco limped off down the platform towards the police station. No-one offered to help him, no-one even so much as gave him a concerned or compassionate look of sympathy. The people hurrying by him looked away from his face to discourage him from asking for their help. At last someone, some good samaritan in that crowd, stepped up to him and offered him a hand. It was an elderly, white haired gentleman with a round, softened, whiskered face. With his old fashioned walking stick and bow tie, he seemed to step from another era, a time when strangers tarried in casual conversation, when they knew their neighbors well enough to buy their children croissants in the morning, or helped old ladies across the street; when there was less rushing about on single minded aims and charging off across oceans and continents without a word or a thought to anyone. He was a portly old man who walked slowly but Marco leaned on him as they walked along the platform. He took a handkerchief of all things, out of his pocket, and cleaned the blood off of Marco's head with it.

"That's a nasty knock on your head," the old man said in a kindly tone. "However did you do it?"

"It wasn't me," Marco explained. "Some people jumped me on the street below the platform. By those stairs back there." He pointed with a hand that was still shaking with the shock of it all.

"Rotten luck," the old man sympathized. "Did they lift anything from you?"

"Just about everything but my duffle bag," Marco said bitterly. "The bastards took my phone, with my wallet and train tickets on it, my laptop. I need to talk to the police."

"Did you get a good luck at them?" the gentleman asked.

"I'm afraid not. They came up behind me, you see, hit me over the head with something and pushed me over. All I saw were their shoes and all heard were voices. Then they ran off."

The old man shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, but that's not going to be much help to the police, young man. These things happen all the time. You know that, don't you?" He looked Marco in the eye, as if to make sure he understood this.

Marco took a deep breath. He seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, with hardly anyone willing to help him, and he steadied himself on the old man's shoulder, though the old man leaned on a cane. "I suppose you're right. But there must be a chance they can locate those devices. I've got to talk to the police. All my money, my train tickets to Zurich are on those devices."

The old man sighed. "Well, if they found those tickets, they might have gotten on the train and are long gone with a good head start. You don't mind my asking, but you're not from around here, are you?"

Marco frowned. As a rule, he did not like inquiries into the details of his person, but in this situation, there was nothing to do but to go along with it. "No, I'm not."

"I could tell from the accent. Where are you from?"

"Germany," Marco answered. "Berlin."

"You know you're going to have to go back there somehow to replace your documents and accounts and file claims. You have no cash at all? How are you going to get back there without any money?"

Marco stared into the old man' face. He felt empty. "I don't know," he said. He looked at the old man as if asking him for anything he could give.

The old man blinked and shook his head. "I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon. I have a heart condition and I must have it looked after, so I can't stay with you here. Here, maybe I can give you a few Euros... the police station is just there. Sorry, young man, but I have to go. I wish I could do something more for you...good luck."

Suddenly it seemed to Marco as he stood in that station that he was in the middle of a desert far from friends and family. He could not remember how he had wandered into it, and for the life of himself, he had no idea how he was going to get out of it.