In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

  They lifted me up from both sides. I felt a little more in control now. My legs were not as shaky anymore.

  “I’ll take you back to the hotel,” said Viola.

  “Me too,” Lorenzo said.

  “It’s okay, guys, I appreciate it but I can make it back on my own, I’m feeling better now.”

  “Don’t be silly, Harry.”

  We started off. I looked back as Lorenzo stumbled up the stairs and table then saw him finish off one of the glass that didn’t smash and he quickly necked it down. Viola was holding me up and looking straight ahead at nothing.

  Outside on the square it had started to rain, and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a strong wind blowing that swept through the square and was hard and old under my feet. The band and music were playing again, and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks had been set off.

  As we walked we fell into the crowd. Then suddenly the magnesium fireworks exploded again and made me jump.

  “Take it easy Harry.” Viola said.

  That was the end of it. We went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, as everything seemed to come a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away.

  We got back to the hotel and Lorenzo said his goodbyes at the entrance, saying he would call on me tomorrow. Viola asked for the key at reception and the man at the front desk asked if I needed the house doctor. Viola helped me to the elevator and into the room where she put me on the bed.

  “You don’t have to do this, Viola, it’s really very sweet of you, but I’m okay, honestly.”

  “Just lie down and relax.”

  She went to the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth and placed it on my head. Before I knew it, I fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ONLY ONCE IN THE NIGHT I woke and heard the sound of the wind blowing and felt the pain. When morning came, I opened my eyes with a headache and the noise of the café from the street below. Raising myself up off the pillows, I looked around the room and saw Viola curled up on a chair in the corner. She had a thin blanket and the thick pillow from the bed was on the floor.

  I slowly got to my feet, stretched and rubbed my eyes and walked over to the window. The wind was still blowing hard. The light was coming through the clouds from the east across the Grand Canal, but my eyes could not see how rough the water was. Be a hell of a tide today. Probably flood the square. That’s always fun, I though, except for the pigeons.

  I could see one of the waiters from the café below sweeping out the floor and mopping down the tables. I turned and went to the bathroom, switched on the light and turned on the taps and the water ran cold. I sat on the edge of the bathtub. Hell of a night, I thought shaking my head then walking to the mirror to examine the damage. My right eye had been cut below the eyebrow and was puffed out and was partially closed and discolored and the left side of my forehead was swollen. “To hell with you,” I said out loud and to the mirror.

  I closed the door and got into the shower. I looked up at the faucet at first but the water hitting my face was too painful. I turned around with my head down and felt the water hit the top of my neck. As the water trickled down my face the pain subsided. I watched the water move in lines down my legs and flow off into the black hole and wondered why Cleo would do such a thing. She seemed like such a genuine girl. Well, what the hell do I know?

  It was Sunday morning and I had planned to leave tomorrow. Now I had an unnerving feeling that I should perhaps leave sooner.

  Surely the inspector would visit me today if he knew I was leaving tomorrow. I really didn’t want him to see me looking like this. I wonder how much trouble I could really get into by leaving suddenly and not informing the inspector. What could they do exactly? Could they extradite a British national out of Switzerland?

  I stepped out of the shower and felt less groggy. I rubbed down and wiped the mirror, I took another look at myself. I guess it’s all downhill from here, and the thought of returning to Zurich turned my stomach. I walked back into the bedroom and the room was in disorder. I saw that Viola was still fast asleep in the chair. The young sleep late, I thought and the beautiful sleep half again as late.

  After getting dressed, I started to pack my things into the suitcase, and by nine-thirty I was finished. I phoned down for breakfast to be brought to the room, asking them to knock and leave the breakfast cart outside. I took a smoke by the window and when the knock came I decided to wake Viola and sat for a moment by her side. I watched her slowly open her eyes, watching her breathing and wondered what she was dreaming.

  “Viola, Viola,” I said softly. She moved a little.

  “Hey Harry.”

  “How are you?” I asked in the same soft tone.

  “Me? What about you?”

  “I’m fine, but I have a horrendous headache.”

  “You don’t look so good, Harry,”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Viola, I want to thank you for looking after me last night, it was really kind of you to take me home and stay the night like you did.”

  “When I saw that jerk hurt you, I could not in all good conscience just leave you.”

  “Well, it’s really very sweet of you and I appreciate it,” I said. “Here, I’ve ordered you some coffee and breakfast. I didn’t know what you liked so I just ordered a little bit of everything.”

  We talked over breakfast about what had happened and how I had been invited to the party and all about Cleo and the incident with Antonio. Viola was very understanding. She did not eat much and drank her coffee slowly. She told me she was a student of Environmental science at the Università Ca’ Foscar, which is a wonderful university housed in an old Venetian gothic palace and stands on the Grand Canal, between the Rialto and San Marco, in the sestiere of Dorsoduro.

  “Viola, I am leaving today,” I said. “And I’ve decided not to go straight to Zurich but drive to one of the Italian lakes and rest up for a few days.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea,” she said as she stood up and went to the bathroom. She came out brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand then opened the doors of the tall armoire, which was all mirrored inside, and continued brushing her hair.

  She was much younger than me. But had a look of eagerness, deserving expectation. It was a shame she had such bad teeth. Her hair was short and put to the side and came down above her shoulders.

  Both windows were open and the curtains drawn back and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy anymore.

  I started wondering to myself about being alone again. I’m only dangerous when I’m alone, I thought. I don’t want to be alone, and the vague sentimental idea of being alone again scared me.

  “Perhaps this sounds forward of me, but would you like to join me for a few days? I’m not too sure being on my own right now is a good idea, and I could sure do with the company.” I took a drink of my coffee. “I could drive you back to Milan after so you could get the train back to Venice,” I added.

  “That’s a nice idea Harry, but I have class this week.”

  “So just skip it, it’s only for a couple of days,” I said, shrugging.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s a little crazy.”

  “Well, craziness is in the air at the moment,” I said and she looked blankly at the window.

  “Can I go home and pack first?” she asked with a smile.

  “Of course.”

  “So where do we meet?” she asked.

  “We could meet at the bus station in Santa Croce at twelve-thirty?”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Ten-forty.”

  “Okay. Perfect.”

  She stood up from the bed and made a pass at her hair again in the mirror and we said goodbye and kissed on the cheek twice. She left and started off. From the open window I watched her walk through the square, playing with her hair as she did. The light from the hotel shone on the bla
ckness of the gondolas and made the water green. Only tourists and lovers take gondolas, I thought. Expect to cross the canal in the places there are no bridges.

  I walked over to the bed and turned off the side lamp and sat next to the wide window that was next to the bed. The bed was back slightly from the window, and I sat with the fresh air on my face.

  On the table was an empty bottle of Valpolicella next to the reading light and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I drank it down and then called down for someone to collect my luggage. The Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune lay on the bed besides the three pillows.

  I settled the bill and made the proper tips. The people of the hotel had put my luggage by the door and then retired. I said my goodbyes and walked out of the hotel lobby. It was really an awfully wonderful hotel.

  The streets were dead and pigeons were out in the square. A few children were kicking around empty fireworks and the cafés were practically empty. Outside on the terrace I saw a couple of people drinking still in costume from the night before. They were eating potato chips and talking loudly.

  I turned and looked back at the hotel and saw the windows of my room still open. There was no promise or threat of rain, only the same strong wild wind, cold wind from the mountains.

  I walked through the city past the Campo Sant’Anzolo with the empty market stalls that still stood from the day before, past the closed shops and down the long narrow street that led to the Ponte di Rialto bridge and over the Grand Canal and into San Polo. Everyone in the gondolas looked cold, I thought.

  Every chance I got, I kept sure of looking behind to check nobody was following. The advantage of moving fast through Venice was that you could take in the houses, the minor vistas, the shops and trattoroas and the old places of the city. If you loved the city of Venice, walking fast was an excellent game.

  I walked through the close-packed and crowded market that spilled out into several side streets. As I moved I studied the spread and high piled cheeses and the great sausages and inhaling the smell of roasted coffee and looking at the amount of fat on each carcass in the butcher section. A market is the closest thing to a good museum, I thought.

  I eventually reached San Croce the gateway to Venice. It was quite empty, except for two policemen stood by the bus terminal. I kept my head down and walked quickly across the street. I checked my watch. It was noon, which gave plenty of time to rent a car and meet Viola.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE GRAND HOTEL MENAGGIO is a stone’s throw away from the shore of Lake Como. Looking out past the flowery hotel courtyard stood a large iron gate. In front of the gate was a cobblestoned walkway that ran along the banks of the lake and was lined with linden trees and empty flower boxes. It ran past the hotel in both directions and to it’s right, less than one kilometer away, was the village of Menaggio.

  Sitting outside on the hotel terrace, there was a soft but cool breeze in the evening air and the view of the lake felt peaceful and calm.

  There was a private mooring for boats in front of the walkway and had a wooden sign above it, which said The Grand Hotel. A wooden speedboat pulled up on the dock and a man jumped out. He had curly black hair peppered with gray and a sharp angular chin. He wore shorts and a navy shirt and a gold cross-hung from his neck. He got out and tired the boat up securely. The boat was built like a bullet. He walked through the hotel gate and up the path. He gave me a long hard stare but didn’t say anything. I gazed passed him and out onto the lake. It was dark now and I ordered another martini. I felt exhausted and in pain.

  The view is better in the summer months, I thought as I looked out. The mountains are much more luscious and green and they rise high and dip straight down, almost vertically, into a bright deep blue lagoon. In February it was very different; the mountains were brown and the water was dark.

  The waitress came out with another martini and placed some bruschetta down with green olives and artichoke. Taking a leaf at a time, I dipped them, heavy side down, into a deep saucer of vinaigrette.

  It was now past six o’clock and Viola had been up in the room for over an hour. I decided to continue waiting instead of going up.

  When she eventually came down, she took the chair across from me and gave a smile. She was wearing a slipover jumper and a tweed skirt over thick, black tights and black ankle boots. Her hair was brushed back into a ponytail, which ran down to the middle of her neck. She had been quiet and a little withdrawn, since we had left Venice. Something was going on in her mind.

  “It is peaceful here, Harry,” she said. “The room is great and the view is wonderful. It was a great idea to come here. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “It’s no problem,” I said. She seemed much chirpier than on the drive up. She ordered a Prosecco and bit into an olive.

  “Did you know that Lake Como makes the best olive oil in Italy?” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes really, tourists seem to think Como is all beautiful gardens and villas, but it’s really a center of manufacturing.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Well,” she said. “Are you going to buy a girl dinner?” She grinned and I made a point of not smiling.

  We drank up and walked out to the street and along the cobblestoned walkway, toward the center of town. The villages across the lake looked like a collection of twinkling dollhouses and the mountains looked like sleepy giants.

  As we walked, Viola put her hand on my arm and hooked onto me like couples do. It made me uncomfortable so I stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. She released my arm and I sat down on the small gray stoned wall with my back to the lake, looking onto the center village of Menaggio.

  The village itself was small and centered around a main square that had two cafés directly opposite from each other. The buildings were mostly of the same height, perhaps three storey’s tall with flat roofs and iron balconies. They were painted in different tones of yellow and brown, much like the colors of Sienna. I imagined in the summer months, these houses became a reddish brown as if almost burnt. There was no central fountain in the square for the young village children to play and no central church, which was unusual. We passed some lovely gardens and had a good look back at the town.

  “Harry, is that Bellagio across the water? I say, I think it’s Bellagio”

  “It’s Bellagio.”

  “Oh it looks wonderful.”

  “It is,” I replied.

  “Can we go tomorrow?”

  “Sure, but we can even go for dinner tonight. It only takes thirty minutes by ferry.”

  “Really? Then let’s go,” she smiled and seemed excited.

  It was becoming cold now as we walked and I wished I had worn a jumper underneath my jacket. When we arrived at the small boat terminal at the edge of Menaggio. We were just in time to take the boat. I quickly ran into the kiosk to buy tickets and cigarettes.

  As the engines started, we sat back and looked onto the quietness of the dark lake straining to see Bellagio in the distance. Beyond the curve of the lake and on the approach, I could see that the promenade was lined with olive trees.

  Bellagio is often described as la Perla del Lago and is the most famous village on Lake Como. It is small and sat on a hillside with historic buildings and cast iron balconies that have maintained their historical ambiance. The village itself is full of small narrow walkways and picturesque stairways rising up on the hill with, many shops, gelato stands, cafés and restaurants. It has stoned walls covered in ivy, and glimpses of marble through open windows.

  We got off the boat and smelled the evening air. It was quiet but I had a good time seeing the village again. We walked to the only one of two cafés open for an apéritif. It overlooked the lake. I was happy to see Viola appreciate it. We ordered two large glasses of white wine and a selection of dried meats, cheeses and olives. The wine made everything seem better and I drank it down without remorse.

  Only a few other people were inside and I found myself thinki
ng of Cleo. I wished I had come here with her; our conversations had always been deep and meaningful. I looked out of the window, past the road and out over the small garden which belonged to the café. I saw white iron tables and chairs overlooking the lake. In the summer months it was terribly difficult to get a seat here.

  “Viola, I’m going for a cigarette in the garden over there,” I said pointing to the window. “Would you like to join me?”

  “Sure,” we put on our jackets and gave a gesture of our intentions to the waiter.

  Standing in the garden, I lit a cigarette for Viola and she looked at me very brightly.

  “Would you mind very much if I asked you to do something, Harry,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, smiling at her. “Of course.”

  “Would you kiss me?” she asked. The very words surprised me, as she had been so quiet since we left Venice. I didn’t say anything and gave into the idea and put my arm around the lower part of her back and pulled her close. It started soft, and the wind blew her hair up and it beat silkily around my cheeks. Then it became a hard kiss, tense and strong, and she kissed leaning into me, almost as if she were trying to push me away. It was not pleasurable, and I broke away suddenly.

  I breathed in deeply and looked up to the sky and saw that a bird was circling above us and swooping down toward the lake.

  “He’s found fish,” I said aloud.

  We went back in, finished our drinks, paid and left and walked up to a pizzeria called Il Grotto, which was located at the top of a very steep cobbled street. We stopped outside and I could tell Viola did not like the looks of the place. Still, I walked inside. It was small and pleasant, and we were the only customers.

  “Is there someplace else we can go?” She asked.

  “What’s wrong with this place?”

  “I don’t know it’s a little strange.”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve eaten here before and the food is really good. Maybe you would rather go to somewhere else on your own?” she didn’t answer.