In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

“Yes, please,” I said. “Flavio, do you remember me from last night?”

  “Certo, signore, you were falling in love like all men do in Venice.”

  “So you noticed.”

  “Si, signore. Everyone in the bar saw both of you dreaming away.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Si, she’s from Rome I think, but lives here in Venice. I see her often with a man, I forget his name.”

  There were now two American women who, during this conversation, had gone silent and were quietly listening while they drank their Bellinis and ate large green olives. I ignored them and continued with my questioning.

  “Does she come in the bar oft—” I began, but Flavio abruptly jumped in. “Please, signore, there’s really no need. Before Signora Cleo left she asked me to hand you a note if I ever saw you again.”

  Flavio slid a folded piece of paper across the bar with his index finger. “You’re welcome, signore,” he said with a grin.

  I could now feel the two ladies whispering and looking on. I leaned back on my stool and opened the note. It read:

  SATURDAY NIGHT. HARRYS BAR. NINE O’CLOCK. DON’T BE LATE. CLEO.

  I placed the note in my pocket, paid, and walked out of the bar and onto the side street facing the canal. I took out a cigarette, lit up, and inhaled. What a lovely name Cleo is, I thought.

  CHAPTER III

  IN THE MORNING it was bright and cold, and they were sprinkling the streets down as I had breakfast. Venice is a very clean town. I went out onto the street and walked up to a cathedral but started to get an uneasy feeling. There was a long line of boats in one of the slow canals that carried water from the Brenta where the great villas are, with their lawns and gardens and plane trees. I’d like to be buried out there, I thought. I know the place very well, although perhaps it’s not possible. I could ask Cleo; she might think it was a bit morbid, though.

  I walked up to the newsstand and bought a local paper, then up toward a pizzeria I had seen the night before in a very narrow street. Strings of beads were hanging from the doorway and a decanter of wine stood on every table. There were six tables in total, and I knew it was the kind of place you could sit for hours and not be disturbed. I sat there until three o’clock reading the paper and trying to understand in my best Italian what the authorities had said.

  The article had taken up one whole page, and my Italian failed me. But with the help of a dictionary I learned that his name was Massimo. He was thirty-seven years old, a wealthy Venetian, married with two kids. The article said that he had been stabbed and they had yet to find the murder weapon. The police suspected it was close by in the canal. It also said they had a lead from a witness who described a blond-haired man without costume, wearing round black spectacles. The witness said he certainly didn’t look Italian. I took off my glasses and slipped them into my pocket.

  A breeze blew, and you could feel it and that the air came from the sea. There were pigeons out in the street, and I did not want to leave the café.

  I asked for the bill, and while I was waiting I saw a rat perched on the stone wall next to the canal and it must have been seven inches long. I pointed him out to the waiter, who briskly ran over and shooed it away.

  I got up and walked off and headed straight back to the hotel. As I walked, I took off my jacket and placed it into my backpack.

  Back in the hotel room I took a whiskey from the mini bar and sat on the bed and considered my options. I could leave now, I thought. Perhaps I could even go to the police and confess. But reasoning deterred me.

  Desperately I tried to turn my thoughts back to Cleo. The idea of seeing her tonight excited me but also made me anxious. What the hell does one talk about these days? What does anyone talk about? I figured in the last few years I hadn’t really been in the company of another woman. Would I be a bore? Would she see through me and ask to leave after one drink? Oh, to hell with women anyway. Who needs them? Women make such swell friends, but that’s about it.

  When I got to Harry’s Bar later that night it was busy and I had to wait outside for a place at the bar. When the waitress came out and called me in, I finished my cigarette and went inside, looking around to see if there was anyone from the night before. I ordered a whiskey sour and settled in.

  In the bar, standing, there was what looked like a post-war rich from Venice, tall, dark, fat, and hard as only the Venetian can be with his dark suit and expensive-looking face and an extremely desirable mistress. He had thick black spectacles and a heavy mustache. They were drinking negronis and mopping up oil and vinegar with pieces of thick bread. Negronis are a mixture of two sweet vermouths and seltzer water, and I wondered how much in taxes the man had escaped to buy that sleek girl in her long mink coat. They both stared at me for a moment. Had I seen him here the night before? She was damned beautiful. I wondered what it would have been like if I had ever had the money to buy me that kind and put them into a mink.

  Outside I could hear the music of a procession going by. The carnival was still going strong.

  “Due Bellini, grazie,” the tall dark man said across the bar to the barman.

  “Si, signore,” said the barman, who was dressed in black plants, white shirt, and black tie with a heavily tailored white double-breasted dinner jacket. He took out the pre-made purée from the fridge and served it and looked at him with his wise Italian eyes, not merry now.

  The tall dark-haired man raised his glass toward me and smiled meaninglessly before taking a sip. I raised my glass and nodded courteously.

  One of the ladies across from me eyed the tall dark-haired man from another table close to the entrance. I could see her newly washed hair in the light from the door. He noticed her and grinned. She turned red and looked away.

  His was a tough face, a worn-out face, and it seemed out of place. He wasn’t talking to the girl he was with, or anyone else for that matter, but I could feel him. I could feel his looks. Did he follow me here? Was he a policeman of sorts? A detective perhaps?

  Staring at the door, I figured they couldn’t give me more than two years in prison for messing with the scene of a crime. Maybe three, with good behavior. I suffered a moment of desperate regret.

  Was he the kind of man they send on a job like this? It would start by him looking over from across the bar, and then bang! One hand on the shoulder and the other hand holding a policeman’s badge. Harry Hoffman, you’re under arrest! I kept a watch on the door.

  Perhaps he’s really just a local having a drink with his girlfriend and the reason they’re not talking is because they had a fight on the way over here. Perhaps I should talk to him, I told myself. Perhaps.

  I was drinking red wine now and felt uncomfortable. I looked around the room.

  Just then he smiled at me with his big glazed eyes, just standing and smiling with the woman with bare shoulders next to him. He did not even nod.

  “Did I see you here last night?” I asked over the bar.

  “Yes, you are right,” he answered in a serious tone. His voice sounded croaky, like he was a heavy smoker.

  “My name is Harry, Harry Hoffman,” I said, before asking myself why I had just given him my full name.

  “So that’s why you like Harry’s Bar.” He smiled under his mustache.

  “Ah, yes.”

  “You are American?” he asked.

  “No, I’m British.”

  “You look American.”

  I didn’t quite know how to take that, but smiled nonetheless. He didn’t introduce himself or his lady friend and I continued to look at him, waiting for him to say something, but he just looked away and then down at his drink. I looked around the room and guessed if he had been a policeman he probably wouldn’t have introduced himself either. I felt that the whole thing was strange.

  My temperature started to rise, and I felt a heavy sweat creep over my body. I looked over to find him staring.

  I stood up and put my jacket on the bar along with my drink, making it clear I was going ou
t.

  “Stay safe out there, Signore Hoffman,” he called over. I grinned and walked out slowly. What a strange thing to say.

  I took out a cigarette and placed it on my lips, but my hand was shaking now, and after a moment the tall dark-haired man followed me outside. He stood there watching without making any kind of movement or sound. He stood away from the light, and I turned behind him and the wind and tried to light my cigarette. I couldn’t do it; my hands were shaking hard. Too hard. He walked toward me, and as he did his figure seemed to pulsate and grow larger as he came closer.

  “Allow me, signore,” he said.

  “Grazie,” I replied.

  Taking the smoke deep into my lungs, I held it there for a second, and as I breathed out I could feel the nicotine flow into my blood, giving me a slight head rush. God, I wish Cleo would just show up.

  “Are you from Venice,” I asked through gritted teeth.

  “Si, signore.”

  “I’m just here for the carnival,” I said.

  “Like all Americans,” he replied.

  Straightening myself, I tried to keep staring blankly ahead. I felt the stirrings of rage within me grow, and an impulse pulsated throughout me. I felt like I should attack him now before he attacked me. Then a heavily loaded black diesel boat full of cut timbers moved slowly past on the canal and I blinked my eyes and the rage had gone. The whole scene felt like a movie, and any minute now someone would shout “Okay, cut!” and I would relax and go back into the bar.

  I knew I should not be afraid, so I reminded myself of this. I finished my cigarette and threw it on the ground to walk back inside with my legs like jelly. Staggering as I walked in, I was weak from my own fear, and by the time I had entered, Harry’s had come to life. I couldn’t hear the music, just the talk of the bar. I looked at the big white clock above the bottles and made myself comfortable and ordered another whiskey and lime. I was determined to ignore him.

  Forty-five minutes had passed and still no sign of Cleo. I looked in the mirror placed behind the bar so a man can tell when he is drinking too much, and I decided I did not like what I saw there.

  Flavio arrived in the bar looking fresh and ready for the evening. He spoke with the staff and then came behind the bar.

  “Signore Harry, why are you here all alone, and where is Cleo?” he asked. Even Flavio seemed surprised.

  “She didn’t show up, Flavio. I’ve been waiting for some time now.”

  “Then something must have surely happened, signore. Do not worry, my friend, she will get in contact,” he said, before pausing. “Why don’t you leave your details with me, and if she comes back I will pass them along.” He sounded far more optimistic than me. It wasn’t a bad idea, I thought. If Cleo was going to come she would have come by now.

  The dark-haired man came in and stood at the end of the bar and continued to watch. I looked over and spoke loud enough for him to hear, asking Flavio for a piece of paper and pen. I wrote:

  CLEO, I WAITED TILL ELEVEN O’CLOCK, BUT I DIDNT SEE YOU. I HOPE ALL IS OKAY. I’M STAYING AT THE GRITTI, IF YOU WISH TO SEND MESSAGE THERE OR HERE WITH FLAVIO. HARRY.

  I folded up the note and handed it to Flavio before settling the bill and saying goodbye. I left the bar, giving the dark-haired man one last look, and then walked into the dark empty street.

  I turned the first available corner and waited there in the dark. There were a few lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. I looked back and stayed there for a moment just to be sure, and as I continued up the long narrow street I kept turning around but there was nothing. If there was any sensation I hated the most, it was being followed.

  Walking back to the hotel, I reminded myself that I was probably just being paranoid and placed my mind firmly back on Cleo and the disappointment of the evening. I walked through the hotel reception and through the bar and out to the terrace, where I ordered a whiskey sour and took out a cigarette. For a moment I took stock of the situation and looked onto the magnificent view of the Basilica di Santa Maria Della Salute. Its huge gray dome filled the sky. What if he took the note from Flavio? I sat up.

  When I got to my room I slowly took off my jacket and untied the tie, watching every move I made in the mirror as if it were somebody else’s movements, and it was clear to see how differently I stood and the non-identical look on my face. I have no understanding of it, I thought, and I’m not sure I believe it. Perhaps it was a sin to kill. I suppose it was even though it had kept me alive. But then isn’t everything a sin?

  “Do not think, Harry,” I said out loud. It’s much too late for that. Let others think about it. I smiled to myself in the mirror and turned off the light.

  CHAPTER IV

  WHEN I WOKE in the morning I went to the window and looked out. It had cleared and there were no clouds. Outside under the window were some street carts and pigeons on the piazza.

  Someone tried to enter the room and I jumped back. “Somebody in here,” I called out. I realized I was naked and firmly gripped the door handle. “Scusa, signore,” a woman’s voice answered. I waited a moment and then put on a dressing gown and unbolted the door to fetch in my morning paper. The hall was empty and nobody was stirring.

  I got back into bed, feeling the cold air rush in from the open window, and read the paper, then ate a fine breakfast of eggs Benedict with spinach and hollandaise sauce and a large coffee with warm milk, both served in a silver pot.

  I dressed, put on my shoes, and went downstairs, making a pass at my hair in the mirror. As I was passing reception I heard my name being called out.

  “Signore Hoffman, I say, Signore Hoffman, if you please.” I turned around to see one of the receptionists beckoning me over.

  “We have a message for you, Signore Hoffman,” she said and handed me a note scribbled onto what seemed like the back of a torn-off receipt. It read:

  HARRY. MEET ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RIALTO BRIDGE AT NOON. I’M WEARING A WHITE COAT. CLEO.

  Pleasure emanated from me into the air. We are inhabitants of a splendid world. The receptionist smiled, sensing the pleasure on my face, so I smiled back and walked out through the revolving doors. My head felt like it had swollen up like a balloon.

  I stepped out of the hotel and there was sunlight on the opposite side of the square, but the gondoliers were sheltered from the cold wind by lounging in the sunlight.

  One of the cafés was just opening and the waiters were arranging the outside terraces. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose.

  I turned back and stopped for a moment and looked at the church of Santa Maria del Giglio and thought what a fine building it was. I turned right and walked along the square to the paved street which turned off on the right and looked in the windows of the various shops I passed, the charcuterie with the Parmesan cheeses and the hams from San Daniele, and the sausages alla cacciatore and the bottles of good Scotch whiskey and real Gordon’s gin, the cutlery store, the antique dealer’s with good pieces and old maps and prints, a second-rate restaurant disguised expensively as one of the first class, and then the first bridge crossing the feeder canal with steps to be climbed. I don’t feel so bad today. There is only the buzzing.

  At a newspaper kiosk I bought a copy of the New York Herald and sat in a café with comfortable wicker chairs to read it. The waiter was in no hurry to come. I drank a cold beer to cool my nerves. It felt strange to think I was finally going to meet Cleo. The waiter came over.

  “How does one sit outside in this cold weather?” the waiter asked.

  “Well. Very well. One sits very well outside. After all this is Venice.”

  The waiter seemed a little offended, so I over-tipped him. That seemed to make him happy. It felt so comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people feel happy.

  I walked down and took an espresso at a standup bar and a check in the toilet mirror to fix my tie, and at eleven-fifty-five I headed out toward the bridge, and as I climbed I felt
the twinges, and coming down the other side there were two lovely looking girls. They were beautiful and hatless and poorly dressed, and they were talking fast to each other, and the wind was blowing their hair as they climbed down with their long easy striding Venetian legs. I better quit gazing now, I thought to myself.

  When I arrived, there was a policeman standing in the center of the bridge. He looked over at me and smiled. It made me feel uneasy. Then a large crowd of young men walked past the policeman and he disappeared into the crowd. There’s a lot of oxygen in this air, I thought as I faced the wind and breathed in deeply.

  I looked around for Cleo, and through the crowd I saw the back of a dark-haired girl in a long white coat.

  I approached.

  “Cleo,” I said. She turned and grabbed hold and embraced me. She was trembling. I didn’t say a word, and neither did she until she pulled away. She wore no makeup, and perfume cut through the crowd. She was shining in her youth and tall with the carelessness of the wind in her hair.

  “I’m so sorry for not showing up the other night,” she said, and to my relief she seemed sincere. I looked at her and couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. She had such a romantic-looking face and a sugary voice. Her light olive-colored skin gave a profile that could break your heart, and her dark hair hung down over her shoulders.

  “It’s no problem, Cleo.” I turned and saw the policeman again. “Let’s get off this crowded bridge and go somewhere we can talk,” I said, taking her by the hand. I kept in front and pulled her along.

  “What’s the matter, Harry? Why are we rushing?”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t stand crowds.”

  We got off the bridge and she let go of my hand.

  “Harry, before we go on, I feel I should explain why I didn’t show the other night.”

  “It’s fine, really,” I said, looking back at the bridge now waiting for the policeman to come running toward us.

  “No, it’s not fine, please listen to me. I feel just terrible about it,” she continued. “A friend of mine was murdered on Saturday night not far from here. Perhaps you heard about it? Anyway, I was in such shock that I completely forgot about our meeting. I’m sorry, Harry.”