Chapter 3

January 14-20, 2012

It was mid-morning – sunny, but on the cool side when I got off the fishing boat in Porto Santo Stephano. I tipped my smiling captain another one hundred euros and walked down the dock and found an idling taxi. I probably still looked like a drowned rat but at least my clothes were mostly dry and my windbreaker and hair had benefited from a quick rinse in the sink of the cabin on the fishing boat. I left the blanket on the boat and had run my fingers through my short hair attempting to regain some semblance of an orderly appearance. I desperately needed a shave. I pulled a handful of damp euros from my pocket and showed them to the driver and said, "Hotel".

He obviously understood, but looked at me for a couple of seconds and then down the dock at the fishing boat. Finally, something seemed to dawn on him and he asked,

"Costa Concordia?"

"Si."

The cabbie dropped me at a very nice boutique hotel near the center of Orbetello where I traded my salt and sand encrusted clothes for a hot shower and a hotel bathrobe and then had a small breakfast in my room. I piled the still damp contents of my pockets and the money belt on the desk in my sunny third-floor room. I was too tired to do more than a cursory inventory before I fell into the down-comforter covered bed and slept undisturbed for eight hours.

Refreshed, shaven and wearing my freshly laundered clothes, I ventured out about eight pm to a café around the corner that the proprietress assured was an excellent place for dinner. She was right. They served delicious fish stew with thick slices of freshly baked bread.

As I sat enjoying an after dinner glass of Port, I still wrestled with the idea of chucking my well-ordered life. Although I had to admit that with an unfaithful wife and the two strangers I had raised, "well-ordered" was hardly accurate. I figured it was still not too late to reappear as James Anderson. I could just head for Atlanta and let Kate know I was alive by having her served with divorce papers. I smiled at the thought of her shocked face when the process server delivered them to the door.

But the idea of being Robert Burns still appealed. Who hadn't dreamed of trading their life for something completely different? Although that usually involved something much more benign, such as starting your own business or going back to college or finding a new profession or for that matter a new spouse. I had the opportunity to actually be someone different. I rationalized that it wasn't exactly identity theft since Robert Burns was dead, although I was sure that some eager prosecutor might beg to differ.

Before leaving my room for dinner I did stop to inventory the money and documents I piled on the desk from Burns' wallet and money belt. I discovered that Robert Burns combined euro and dollar cash assets amounted to a little over forty thousand dollars – mostly in large denominations. No wonder he had clutched the money belt as he lay dying! That amount could keep me for a while and I could sell his watch for maybe fifty cents on the dollar. Again I looked at the key card from the Trump Parc in New York City. Did I dare go there?

There were three credit cards, all exclusive cards issued by invitation only to those who only had the highest credit rating and substantial wealth, including an American Express Centurion card, which has a one-time joining fee of $5,000, plus a cost of $2,500 per year for the privilege. It was also made of titanium! There was a brass key ring which held three gold-colored keys. One was a standard size and the other two about half the size.

I also looked at the water-soaked photo in the passport once again. The passport was almost ten years old so that meant the photo was the same vintage. That might explain to a curious government official our somewhat dissimilar appearance, plus the salt water had blurred the picture. Our height was the same at six feet one inches, although the man on the bed on the Concordia was almost twice my size. My appearance could be explained by a recent commitment to diet and exercise. Before I made a decision, my engineer brain told me I needed more information about Mr. Burns. I'd hate to be stepping into the shoes of a man wanted for mass murder or for grand theft. With all that cash and the playing cards I'd seen in his cabin I surmised he was a gambler, but what else? He seemed to be a successful gambler if nothing else. Was there a family at the Trump Parc in New York City?

I walked a few steps down the narrow stone-paved street from the café to a shop that advertised "Internet," paid my euros and logged on. First I read the latest on the Concordia and was a bit surprised to see it still afloat – well not actually afloat, but it wasn't at the bottom of the Tyrrhenian Sea which I had fully expected by now. Apparently the Captain had intentionally grounded the vessel, which was responsible for saving many lives. Of course the articles pointed out that it appeared the Captain had ordered the ship on a course too close to rocks, which ripped a giant gash in the hull and caused the disaster in the first place. I certainly would not have wanted to be in his shoes!

I also discovered that there were about fifty passengers and crew still missing. Of course James Anderson was among them. I wondered if Kate was worried or relieved and decided it hardly mattered. I was going to be in control of my life and she no longer had a part in it, nor did my children. I had helped raise them the best I knew how and they had turned out to be much less than I had hoped for. Was it some failing on my part? Emily wished me dead and Matt didn't seem to care much about anything, but I wasn't going to beat myself up about it.

Next I searched for "Robert T. Burns New York City". I got a number of hits but none was a match. I also tried every permutation of the name and widened the geographic area of the search, but it appeared Mr. Burns had successfully kept himself from any kind of notoriety. There was no Facebook or any other reference in the social networking sites. I wished there had been a cell phone in his effects, but of course a dose of salt water most likely would have destroyed all the data beyond my ability to retrieve it. The lack of information on Burns didn't mean he didn't have a family tucked away somewhere, or have mob leg breakers looking to collect gambling debts.

I left the internet café and walked around the town for about an hour in the darkness trying to figure out my next steps, a mental tug of war going on, until the cold of the evening drove me back indoors. Other than deciding I needed to buy some more clothes, I went to sleep with the big issues unresolved.

Staying in the hotel an additional day and night I was surrounded by a constant stream of news about the Concordia disaster. Italian TV was practically foaming at the mouth. I also discovered that busloads of passengers from the ship were streaming through Orbetello after debarking from the ferry which ran from Isle of Giglio. I figured most were heading back to Rome, which was the closest large transportation hub.

Returning to the internet café the next day, I sipped wonderful coffee while reading about the unfolding investigation and attempts to rescue the remaining missing passengers. I also searched again for Robert Burns, widening my search, but without results. I also looked at the Trump Parc and was surprised at the cost of the units in that place. It was a converted high rise hotel from the thirties and units there sold for millions of dollars. If Robert Burns owned a place there, he was doing well indeed. Even if he was renting it looked like it was about $5,000 a month just for the amenities. Damn! And I thought Atlanta was expensive. At least with the Parc you got a spectacular view overlooking Central Park for your money. Of course there was no listing of tenants anywhere. I guess if you can afford those places you ought to have some privacy.

Something else I discovered on line was that aside from our embassy in Rome, the US consulate in Florence was also designated to assist Americans who had been aboard the Concordia. I checked an on-line map and looked at a train schedule. The next morning I checked out and cabbed to the train station, carrying a new leather satchel and some clothes I had purchased in a shop down the street from the hotel. A leather bomber jacket and heavy cable knit sweater and wool scarf kept out the cold and I had purchased a pair of expensive leather ankle boots, just because they looked and felt great. During the train ride to Florence I wrestled with what I was going to do once I got there. My James Anderson passport was with Kate, but I still had my wallet and the rest of my identification – probably enough to get a new passport issued.

As the cab from the train neared the consulate I still had not decided what to do. Sometimes it's the little things that push you in one direction or another. As I stood in the short line waiting to talk to some officious looking Italian employee of the consulate, there was an American couple just behind me. They were mid-forties like I was, and fairly well off from the look of their clothing and her jewelry, and they were having a very public spat about something I would consider innocuous – something to do with having to make do with a suite without a view of some landmark. She, beautiful, blonde and botoxed, obviously blamed him, and after some sharp words she pouted, occasionally glaring at him. He did his best to ignore her childish behavior.

I was so lost in thought that I never heard why they were at the consulate in the first place, but then it was my turn and the man behind the highly polished desk reminded me of the officious little man who had taken my name on the beach at Porto Giglio. He peered at me over his half glasses and seemed to have trouble stifling a yawn.

Pulling out Robert Burns' battered passport and his crumbling boarding pass for the Costa Concordia I laid them on the empty desk top. He recoiled from the untidy mess on his desk and refused to touch them as I explained my problem.

The Italian never touched the passport nor made any attempt to compare the photo with my face. He simply said in remarkably unaccented English, "Go across the street to the camera shop and have your passport photo taken."

He then pulled from one of the desk drawers a large brown envelope and scribbled something on it with a silver fountain pen, and then shoved it across the desk at me.

"Place your passport and the photos inside and when you return drop this at the window over there." With that he pointed vaguely at a doorway that said "passports." He looked beyond me and said, "Next."

As I walked out of the consulate and across the street to the camera shop my heart slowed to normal. Had I pulled it off? Of course I still had to go and turn in the passport and photos. Would someone there take a good look at me and compare the photo of Robert Burns with my face?

Fifteen minutes later I presented myself to the window at the consulate. A pretty young Italian girl simply took the envelope, looked at what was written on it, and said, "Please come back in two days and we will have your passport ready for you." While at the camera shop I saw what the officious man had written in dark blue ink. It said "Costa Concordia."

Would anyone in the passport section compare the water ruined photo in the passport with the new pictures? Would the Italian police or some US security type be waiting for me when I returned to pick up the passport? That worried me a bit, but at this point I was pretty much committed – in for a penny and all that. Of course I could still choose to not return and simply go to Rome and apply for a new passport as James Anderson. No, I decided I was going through with this. The arguing couple came to mind. I wanted no more of that. Now I needed a hotel. I hoped one of them would find a room for me since I didn't have a passport. Fortunately I had lots of euros.

Not far from the consulate I found a little hotel and my tale of shipwreck helped, along with the pile of euros I placed on the registration desk.

I spent the time before picking up my passport thoroughly enjoying touring Florence. It's a magnificent city and despite the fact it was winter and there was a cold snap, I wandered the city. Fortunately the food was excellent as was the coffee.

The return to the consulate was anticlimactic. The same smiling young woman was there at the window and as she handed me my new US passport, she said, "You must feel very fortunate to have survived. I apologize for the time it took to get your new passport..." At that point she waved her delicate hand in the air. I nodded in understanding about bureaucracy and smiled in return and said, "Grazi."

I was probably in shock as I walked down the street because I almost got run over by a taxi that honked noisily at my stupidity. I just smiled and waved at the driver. I couldn't believe it. In the eyes of my country I was now Robert T. Burns of New York City. My mind raced as I returned to my hotel.

What should I do now? I paced my room for an hour processing this information and making up my mind that I would go to New York and it was time to get moving. A short time later I was in another internet café and for the first time I used Robert Burns' Centurion card to get a first class train ticket from Florence to Paris, via a night train from Milan, and then a business class ticket on Air France to New York from Charles de Gaulle. I now wanted to get out of Italy as soon as possible and avoid Rome and all airports for fear of running into Kate or Alan and Melissa. Plus, I thought - what the hell, I was starting my life anew and a trip on a luxury high speed train sounded good, as did the business class cabin on Air France. One of my colleagues told me flying to Europe business class with them was like spending eight hours in a nice French restaurant!

I didn't want to use up any of my cash and the credit transactions went through without a hitch. It appeared Mr. Burns had plenty of credit. I hated to be carrying that large amount of cash on me but I didn't have any knowledge of Burns' banks or accounts, although I supposed I could have set up an account in one of the international banks in Florence but that might delay things and it certainly would seem to complicate things. I decided I'd take my chances at US customs in New York and lie if asked if I was carrying more than $10,000 in cash.

My travels were uneventful, well other than being treated like royalty. To my surprise and delight, Mr. Burns' extra special credit card got me an upgrade to first class on the Air France flight. I had to hand it to the Europeans they know how to travel – well at least for those who are willing to cough up the extra money for the upgrades. The winter train ride through Italy and France was spectacular, especially in the mountains, but sometimes I was saddened that I had no one to share it with – that comes from a long relationship where you are good friends as well as lovers. Kate would have loved the trip. Sadly it would never happen.

On the overnight from Milan, I lay in my compartment listening to the train sounds and thought about Cecilia. Had she meant what she said about me coming to the "Castello?" Suddenly I was in a panic. What the hell was the name of that place? Castle something in Tuscany near some smaller town and Siena. I knew there were a lot of castles in Italy and probably dozens in Tuscany. I got out of my comfortable birth and scribbled all I remembered about our conversation in the ambulance on a note pad, recalling that she had said something like Castello Mountain and the town nearby started with an "R". I vowed that as soon as I got to Paris I'd buy an Atlas and try to locate her castle. I wondered if it was a castle town or an actual castle. She said "come to the castle and ask for her" but that could mean any town or castle.

I got back into bed feeling better about being able to find Cecelia again, but then the doubts crept in. Was it just gratitude of the moment that caused her to kiss me and make me promise I'd visit? I'd seen no indication she was married, but with someone of her beauty and intelligence, there had to be suitors. I fell asleep vowing to find a way to see her again. Why? I didn't have an answer – I was attracted to her that was a given, and the kiss we had shared was in a word, amazing, but there was something more. Could she be part of my new life as Robert Burns? Maybe it's that old saying that if you save someone's life you are responsible for them from then on. I smiled at that thought. I could fanaticize about being accompanied by beautiful Cecelia as I spent the rest of my life being responsible for her.

New York was New York. I had been there several times in the past but tried to make my visits short. I had always found it chaotic, noisy and dirty. So now it was to be my home, at least for a while. I breezed through customs and immigration and soon I was in a cab headed for the Trump Parc. I had the cab drop me on 5th Avenue, for some needed clothes shopping. I had no idea how difficult getting into the Trump Parc would be, but at least I'd dress like I lived there. I hoped that Robert Burns was not well known to the staff and I could just walk in the door. There was one slight problem – actually more than slight – I had no idea where in the Trump Parc I was supposed to be living and it wasn't like I could just walk up to the concierge and ask!

Two hours later a cab deposited me at the entrance and the doorman hurried to grab my single leather satchel, but I held onto it. I didn't want to explain where it needed to be delivered. I was dressed in what I would describe as conservative casual expensive. The truly wealthy and I had worked with some of them in my business, typically dressed in an understated way most days. Steve Jobs had more money than God but he had preferred jeans and a turtleneck. I was coming back from a cruise after all, so no bespoke suits or ties needed. I had picked up a white oxford shirt, a dark blue cashmere long-sleeved sweater, and a pair of $250 jeans. The price of the jeans bothered me most of all even if it wasn't my money – they were denim after all! The supple leather bomber and expensive boots I had purchased in Italy worked just fine along with the scarf to complete the look of casual wealth.

I was relieved that no one battened an eye as I strolled into the large lobby. The lobby was impressive, and thankfully end-of-the-day-busy. I looked around for a bank of mail boxes where I could check for my unit number. No luck. Certainly nothing so common as to have people rootling around in mail boxes. So I swallowed the lump in my throat and made for the large concierge desk which was occupied by two men and one woman, all young, attractive, and dressed in dark suits. I thought this a good sign since this place had lots of tenants and a number of staff and I hoped none would personally know Robert Burns. I was banking on the fact he seemed to have kept his life private.