In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

  I stopped in my tracks and focused on her.

  “My God,” I said. I could feel my breath quicken. Thankfully she looked down with a sigh and could not see my face. Still I did not know what to say but knew I had to say something. “Come with me.”

  We walked off the canal and into the bar of a hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook martinis in his large nickeled shaker. I excused myself for a moment to visit the restroom.

  I walked calmly down the hall and into the toilet with a door that didn’t lock, and though it was grimy and looked as if a thousand people had left behind their own kind of filth and the owners had never lifted a hand to clean it, I closed the door and rested my head on the back and almost screamed. I turned to the large mirror on the wall. I was flushed and covered in sweat. I took a moment to calm down and set myself aright, putting my hands to the sides and lifting my head, trying to become a self-respecting man again. I wiped the sweat off and turned away from the mirror and went back outside.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Sorry I was a bit jumpy before. I just hate crowds. Can’t handle them. Get claustrophobic.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.”

  She was wearing her hair down in the style of an old movie actress, with curly waves running through it. Her voice was low and delicate and she spoke English with caution. Sitting there, in the sun, she looked lovely.

  “No matter how nice the hotels are, the bars are always vulgar in Venice,” she said. “Do you mind if we go someplace else?” she asked before the barman came over to fix our drinks.

  “Of course not, do you know somewhere?” I asked.

  “Yes, there’s a great café five minutes’ walk from here,” she said. “Do you mind walking for a little?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “So, are you American?” she asked as we started to walk.

  “No, I’m from England. Why does everyone assume I’m American here?”

  “I guess it’s because we get a lot of Americans in Venice.”

  “Have you ever been to England?” I asked.

  “No, never, but I would love to go of course, especially to London.”

  “Then you should.” I smiled. “Flavio mentioned that you are from Rome?”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” she laughed. “My family lives there. I came to Venice for my husband’s work, but he left a year ago and I stayed. I love it here. It’s very peaceful when it’s not carnival.”

  “And what do you do here?” I asked, curious to hear there was a husband.

  “I paint,” she said. “Not for galleries or anything like that. I don’t make any money; I just do it for myself. I also play the piano.”

  We walked quietly for a while.

  “And you, Harry? Flavio also told me something,” she said with a grin. “That you are a famous writer.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I wrote one book years ago and it sold well and fortunately still sells well.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Bitter Tulips.”

  We were now at the café and it looked nice and subsequently expensive. We took a table together; it felt like a long time since I had sat across from a beautiful girl.

  “It isn’t bad in here. It’s a little chic, but the food is good,” she said and ordered a bottle of white wine and made a joke, showing her lovely smile. We touched glasses. They were coldly beaded. Cleo was one of those girls who reminded me of how wonderful life is, not just because she was so beautiful; there was something else. We continued to sit at the table, and some people went out and others came in.

  Someone called out from the other side of the room.

  “Cleo, I say, Cleo Tremonte!”

  “It’s a friend calling me,” she explained and stood up. She went over to a big table with about six people. After some minutes, one of the girls from the table came over with Cleo and introduced herself as Lucia.

  “I was just saying to Cleo, you both should come dancing with us tonight,” she said in English. Lucia was small and had a nice smile.

  “What dance?” I asked.

  “Oh, you must come, it will be wonderful,” Lucia said, looking at us both.

  “Do you have a carnival costume, Harry?” Cleo asked.

  “Not yet, but I could go out this afternoon and get one. I’m sure it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Well, it starts at ten-thirty but we could meet here before, say around ten o’clock?” Lucia said, and before I could say anything Cleo said, “Thanks, we’ll be there.” Lucia smiled, said something to Cleo in Italian, and returned to her party.

  “Who are your friends? Lucia seems nice.”

  “Sons and daughters of Venetian aristocracy,” she said. “But don’t worry, Harry, they are nice people. Not at all snobs.”

  She poured out more of the wine.

  “So what’s the next book?” she asked.

  “That’s a good question,” I said, grinning. “I’ve been having a tough time lately putting anything decent down on paper.”

  “Perhaps you just need to be inspired?”

  “Perhaps. I would love to write a murder mystery of sorts,” I said, and in doing so found myself saying something I had never actually thought before.

  “Well, there’s no better place than carnival and Venice to find inspiration,” she said before adding, with a curious smile, “Maybe I can also help with that.”

  “With what?” I asked.

  “Inspiration.” She smiled and then seemed embarrassed.

  We finished our wine.

  “Come on,” she said. “We’re going to have a coffee with the others.”

  Cleo opened her bag and made a few passes at her face. As she looked in the little mirror she redefined her lips and played with her hair.

  “Good,” she said, smiling at herself in the mirror.

  We walked over and everybody at the table stood up.

  “Can I present to you Harry Hoffman?” Cleo said. I smiled and shook hands and gave kisses before we sat down and ordered two espressos.

  “Are you related to Hans Hofmann, the artist?” one of the girls asked. “I was just at a gallery in New York, and I saw a wonderful selection of paintings by a man called Hans Hofmann. They were wonderfully exuberant.” She was an upper-class local and had all their social graces.

  “I don’t know him,” I answered.

  “But you have the same name,” she insisted cordially.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I smiled at her and then at the group. “How do you spell his last name?” I asked.

  “Well, I suppose it would be H o f m a n n,” she said, spelling out the individual letters.

  “See, mine is spelled H o f f m a n.”

  “That would be why then,” she replied and sat back in her chair.

  “Have you been in Venice long? Do you like it here? You love Venice, do you not?” another girl with dark hair asked and smiled and showed all her bad teeth.

  “Yes, it’s wonderful here. You’re very lucky to live in such a city,” I replied.

  “We can’t stay long, as Harry needs to go find a costume for tonight,” Cleo said.

  I asked Cleo if she would like to come with me. “I forget you’re a tourist,” she said, and we said our goodbyes and left the café, then walked for some minutes without saying a word.

  “Tell me, Cleo, why did you leave me that note at Harry’s Bar?” I asked, too curious to stay silent.

  “Are you happy I did?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I left it because of your eyes. Did anyone tell you that you have very nice blue eyes? And there’s something else about you that I can’t explain.”

  I smiled to myself, then she leaned against me and I put my arm next to hers. She turned to look up at me and touched me slightly with one hand. It was a cold evening, and it was starting to get dark and the electric signs came on above the cafés and restaurants, and people sat out on the
terraces in the squares watching people go by. We walked around the city for the next hour and passed the doors of the shops, with their windows lit, showing displays of carnival costumes and masks, and then on into the Cannaregio district with its narrow alleys and wide squares and stopped in different shops. I talked about my days in Paris and my life in Switzerland, and Cleo told me about her daughter Liv and how she missed her and would love for her to come to Venice and live with her.

  “Why can’t she?” I asked.

  “It’s a long story. I just can’t handle being a mother right now,” she said, and explained how she needed to focus on herself.

  She spoke of being tired of this Venetian bubble and how she longed to travel and live somewhere new with her daughter. “I would like to start over again,” she said, misty-eyed. She changed the subject by explaining to me that there are two separate Venices. One has quiet campielli squares and barges that deliver fruits and vegetables, and it’s that Venice that belongs to her. The other Venice, which she dislikes, is filled with the booming voices of tour guides and loud microphones.

  It was nice to be walking around and discovering Venice through the eyes of a local.

  I did try on several occasions to bring up the husband and the murder, but at the same time I stopped myself. I didn’t want to ruin the time we were having or to mix up the two things in my head. The truth was, I was having a wonderful time with Cleo Tremonte.

  CHAPTER V

  WE FOUND A COSTUME and I invited Cleo for one last apéritif. We watched the early evening crowd and stepped into the nearest quaint café and discovered it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting close to the door and the wife of the proprietor, who sat by a window. The large proprietor himself was behind the bar. There were long benches and long tables that ran across the room, but no customers. At the far end of the bar seemed to be a dancing floor, but before I could look further, the proprietor’s wife came over asking what we would like to drink. We ordered two martinis.

  “Are you happy with your costume?” Cleo asked; I kept one eye on the policeman.

  “Well, if you don’t mind me walking around in knee-high socks, then I’m happy,” I said. She laughed hard and put her hand on mine.

  “I don’t mind at all as long as you don’t mind being with my friends.”

  “Not at all, they seem like a fun bunch. And what better way to get to know the city than to experience it with some young aristocrats?” She sat across from me with the window and street to her back. She began to talk about her paintings, but by this time I had stopped listening and focused more on her movements, her eyes, and the way she half-bit her lip after each sentence when she wasn’t sure about her English. All her wallows and sorrows remained inferior, and this felt like her greatest asset. The way she talked about her passion inspired me and made me feel like I could do something good again with my life. For the first time, I started to open myself. If it had been any other person, I wouldn’t have taken the risk. Humans are tricky, and Cleo Tremonte in that moment was the only exception. Without thinking, I reached over and put my hand on top of hers, looking her squarely in the eyes. Her voice faltered, and she stopped what she was saying.

  “May I kiss you, Cleo?” I asked in a soft voice. She didn’t respond at first, simply giving me that wonderful smile. She took a deep breath; her eyes became big and looked seriously into mine. I raised myself up from the chair and leaned over the table while keeping my hand softly on hers. I came 90 percent of the way, stopping just before her lips and made a slight smile, allowing her to come the last percent if she wished. We kissed and the kiss was soft, small, and warm. It felt wonderful against my skin. She brought the tip of her tongue out and it touched the top of my lip, and with each passing kiss I could feel the blood flow to her cheeks. They became red and warm, and as the kiss grew stronger I took my free hand and placed it to the back of her neck, pulling her slightly closer. For that moment I was hers and she was mine.

  “Have a drink with me tonight before we meet your friends, just the two of us,” I said, and was happy to see her smile and nod. We arranged to meet at a bar she knew at nine o’clock. She wrote down the address on the back of a napkin and we stood up and left.

  She turned to me in the street and I saw her face in the lights from the open shops. I saw her face clearly. Her cheeks were still red from the kiss. The street was dark now and I kissed her again. We kissed for a long time, standing straight and kissing true in the cold, and our lips held tight together, and then she turned away and pressed against the corner of my face, as far away as she could get. Her head was down, and I felt a sudden sadness within her.

  The corridor of the hotel was now not only beautiful, it was exciting, and putting the key into the lock was not a simple process. I relaxed with the windows open and drank in my room when the telephone rang.

  “Signore, there is a person here to see you at the front desk,” the receptionist said.

  “Certainly, I’ll be right down.”

  I instantly knew it would be the police even before I hung up the phone. I’d been thinking about how it all must look now that I was with Cleo, and if I was followed and they saw us both kissing, they would assume I had some sort of motive.

  I stepped out of the elevator and saw the familiar figure dressed in a black suit and another younger man in a full police uniform at the reception. He looked much more serious and professional than when I saw him last. They looked over at me and extended a hand.

  “Signore Hoffman, may we speak with you for a moment?” The tall dark-haired man flashed his police credentials, and the receptionist behind the front desk gave me a long hard look of disapproval. We entered a long hallway that led to the big stairs and to the elevator, leading on the right to the entrance of the bar and the doorway onto the Grand Canal.

  We sat down with the window overlooking the canal, and the waiter came over. The two men ordered espressos and I ordered nothing. I looked out and saw a couple walking arm-in-arm, and as they went up the first bridge the wind lashed at them heavily.

  “Signore, I apologize for not introducing myself the other night, my name is Inspector Marino from the Venezia Polizia and this is Sergeant Esposito. We are investigating the murder of a local businessman here in Venice.”

  “And how may I be of assistance?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  Inspector Marino quickly shot out the first question in a stern tone.

  “How well do you know Cleo Tremonte?”

  “We only met a few days ago,” I said, pausing for a second to take a breath. “I was supposed to see her the night when we spoke outside Harry’s Bar, but she cancelled at the last minute.”

  “And do you know why, signore?” Marino asked, his dark eyes fixed on me.

  “She said she had some personal issues.”

  The younger sergeant was now taking down my answers in his notebook.

  “And your relationship with Signora Tremonte?” said the inspector. “How would you describe that?”

  “Just a new friend,” I responded. “I will see her tonight actually. Am I in some sort of trouble, inspector?”

  “Can you tell me where you were on the night of the second of February?”

  “Why?”

  “Please just answer the question, signore.”

  I pretended not to quite grasp what he had asked and so he asked for a second time, choosing different words.

  “Can you tell me your exact whereabouts at eleven-thirty on the night of the second of February?” he asked, not taking his eyes from mine.

  “Am I a suspect, inspector?” I asked, giving a carnival expression.

  “Well, signore, that all depends on your whereabouts.”

  “I believe I was back in my room by eleven-thirty,” I said, gesturing with open hands though I hoped the inspector would not confront any of the hotel staff.

  “Do you know a man named Massimo Russo?” the inspector asked, showing a picture.

  “I
’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “May I see your passport, Signore Hoffman?” the inspector asked.

  “Of course, it’s in my room.”

  “And what room would that be?”

  “212.”

  “I’m going to need to see that passport, signore.”

  “Now?”

  “Si.”

  “Of course.” I stood up and left. The young sergeant followed me. I took the passport from the room safe and he strolled around the room with his hands behind his back and a relaxed air about him, as though he were strolling around a museum. He said nothing and we came downstairs. The inspector took my passport and gave it a long hard look.

  “It is me,” I said.

  “I will need to hold on to this while we continue with our investigation,” he said sternly. “I would ask you to stay in Venice for the time being. How did you arrive here?”

  “By train, I came here from Zurich.”

  “Va bene. You mustn’t leave without contacting me. Here’s my card.” He slipped it across the table and they both stood up.

  “We will be in touch, Signore Hoffman,” said the inspector.

  “No problem, happy to be of further assistance,” I said, raising my hands in a sign of service. He said nothing, just nodded and started to leave then turned around.

  “Signore Hoffman, were you aware that Signora Tremonte was in a relationship with the deceased?”

  “I wasn’t, no.”

  “Very well.” He turned and left.

  I sat down and reflected on my behavior. I was calm, I thought, and composed and certainly not overstressed or anything of the sort. They hadn’t really challenged me in any way yet, though the questions were very preliminary. I had a terrible alibi and the witness, whom they didn’t mention, had my details. I kicked myself for coming down in my glasses, and what was all that business about Cleo and Massimo?

  Standing up I walked outside and felt the cold air. There was a strong wind and mist all along the Grand Canal. I couldn’t really see the other side. I took out a cigarette from my father’s cigarette case. Happy for the distraction, I studied it. It was a silver case that all soldiers who fought in the trenches received, and it had his name inscribed in the back: R. Hoffman, 1914.