Free Kal by Judy Nunn

Mary made her decision. If Paul had been abducted against his will, and if he loved Caterina, he would come back for her. In the meantime, it was best to say nothing.
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    â€˜â€¦ AND R OOM 39.’
    Caterina took the key thrust to her by the housekeeper and added it to the keyring alongside the other five keys she had been given. The chambermaids were being assigned the vacated rooms to be prepared for the next wave of incoming guests.
    Room 39. Paul’s room. Caterina had been in a daze for the past two hours since Mary had read her the letter. She kept touching the sheet of paper in her apron pocket. It could not be true, she had told herself. They were only words. Only words Mary had read from a piece of paper.They were not Paolo’s words. Paolo would not say those words.
    She opened the door. The two beds on either side of the room were freshly made up. They had not been slept in. She herself had remade those beds the preceding morning. Each day, when the guests left for a morning on the slopes, the maids collected their keys from the concierge and serviced the rooms. Caterina always kissed the pillow when she changed the linen on Paul’s bed. Soon her head would be nestled next to his on that very pillow, she would think. But today the key to Room 39 had not been amongst those she had collected from the concierge. Today the housekeeper had given her the key. Could it be true? Had he gone?
    She opened the cupboard doors. Nothing. The coats and the suits that smelled of him were no longer there. Nothing but the heavy wooden hangers waiting for the next chalet guest. And the next. And the next.
    It was true. He had gone. Caterina lay down on the bunk. Paul’s bunk. The narrow bed where they had clung to each other and panted their love. Where they had caressed each other and talked of their plans, of their lives together. Of America. She stared at the ceiling and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Paolo, she thought. Paolo.
    For a long time Caterina wept. She wept for her love, and for the girl she had once been and she wept for the girl she would never be again.
    Finally there were no more tears. She finished her duties as quickly as she could and that night she went to bed early. She knew she would not sleep, but she needed to rest her body. She must be up before dawn. There was a long walk ahead.

Giovanni was excited. Only one more month to go. Just four short weeks and his contract was over. Not that he minded working for the railroads. He enjoyed the physical labour, digging deep into the heart of the mountain. But one day he would be digging for himself. It would be his own mine and there would be gold at the end of the tunnel. That was his dream. And in one month’s time he would embark upon the first step toward the realisation of that dream.
    It had all started with a newspaper article. One morning two new workers had arrived on the site. They were replacing two men who had been injured the previous week, one in a minor tunnel collapse, the other in a rock slide. Such occurrences were common. One of the new workers had a copy of a newspaper from Milan. It was over a week old but it did not matter, the article he showed them was inspiring. ‘THE GOLDEN LAND,’ its headlines declared, ‘GOLD STRIKES IN AUSTRALIA. PEOPLE RICH OVERNIGHT.’
    Neither Rico nor Giovanni could read but the man with the newspaper could. ‘“… They flock from all parts of the globe,”’ he read. ‘“Fortunes are made by the bold and the adventurous.”’ He stumbled over the names. ‘“Bendigo, Ballarat … Recent strikes in Western Australia …”’ There was a map of the vast western Stateof the country with areas and placenames pinpointed. ‘“The Kimberleys, the Pilbara, and the latest discoveries to the south, Southern Cross, Coolgardie.”’ And there was a picture of the southern port of Albany which had serviced the