"You are pazzo," Marco said.
He pressed a button on a remote control he pulled from his pocket. Suddenly, all the moving walkways reversed direction. A group of nuns heading to Fatima began gliding backward, their habits flapping like startled bats. A businessman’s rolling briefcase sped away from him, chased by a pack of bored children. aeroporto madrid pazzo
The crazy man in yellow appeared beside him, chewing the last of his sandwich. "Ah, the Italian," he said, switching to broken Italian. "You want to go to South America, yes? But first, you must understand. Barajas is not an airport. It is a memory . Every suitcase lost, every delayed flight, every lovers' goodbye—it haunts the tiles. Tonight, the ghosts are throwing a party. You cannot leave until you join." "You are pazzo," Marco said