In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

  Up till now I have heard nothing about a short story called—Home Town—that I mailed to you sometime the first week of September. Did you receive it? I have another copy, which will send if you did not. Last month I wrote two more stories ranging from 1,400 to 3,000 words. I haven’t had them re-typed and sent on, as I was waiting word about Home Town.

  The reason I haven’t sent more stories for the magazine is because I was so sure you would buy anything that was publishable that my hopes got very high and after I’d tried both a long and short story- and I suppose those stories aren’t that pleasant- and in the end, both were not accepted or published it made me feel very discouraged, as I had counted on that as a certain source of income. I suppose I have been foolish not to copy out more stories and send them to you for consideration.

  Enclosed is another story. Three Strangers on a Train. I will try and send the other one soon and I hope you will consider both.

  Given my new financial situation, I may now plan to go to Paris and work on the final proofs for The Blue Room, as I feel a change of scene will do the manuscript and myself some good. As such it’s best to write care of:

  American Express c/o Harry Hoffman,

  Neugasse 18

  CH-8003 Zurich

  As I will keep them informed by wire of my address in Paris or where ever I may be as they have excellent mail forwarding services and will rewire all cables and re-forward letters with no delay. I also will start to look for a new apartment and get out of this filthy mess I’ve been living in for far too long. So best to always use the American Express address.

  I have a grand idea for a novel to write based in Venice when I get some tranquility in the head.

  Again, it was very pleasant to get your letter and learn how much you liked the book. I look forward to the proofs.

  Yours very sincerely,

  HARRY

  CHAPTER XII

  I SAT THERE AGAIN in that small damp waiting room, thinking of what to say. I took some coffee and it tasted like boiled dirty rags. It was bad coffee.

  “Mr. Hoffman,” a lady appeared in the hallway.

  “Doctor Bussmann will see you now.”

  I stood up, feeling uneasy. “Please come this way,” I followed her down a corridor and entered a sterile room and Doctor Bussmann was sat behind a large desk.

  “Hello Mr. Hoffman,” I took off my jacket and got comfortable.

  “How are you?” he said in a stern tone.

  “To be honest, not so good,” I answered. “I’m still having trouble sleeping.”

  “Are you taking the medication I prescribed?”

  “Yes, but I think my body has become immune to it or something because it’s not working anymore.”

  “We can put you on something stronger,” he said. “And the panic attacks? How are you doing there?”

  “They came back.”

  “As intense as last time?”

  “Not really, but I feel like they might.”

  “How so?”

  Not knowing where to start. “Do you remember when I first came here? I was having at least two or three panic attacks a day?”

  “Yes, I remember, it was just after you returned from Italy, correct?”

  “Exactly,” coldness ran down my spine.

  “But then I started to write again and my mind felt occupied so I barely had them at all. Now the book is finished and I have more time, my mind is jumping back and forth.”

  “What is on your mind, Mr. Hoffman?” he asked.

  “The book for starters, it makes me anxious. The money I’m now getting from the book also stresses me, and the guilt, I suppose, the guilt of writing a true story from my own life. All these things and other things.”

  “Harry, I took the liberty of calling on your doctor in Paris, Doctor Bertrand, I believe was his name.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Standard procedure. And what I found was a long list of issues dating back almost six years from your Paris days. Confused thinking, false beliefs, hearing voices, anxiety disorders, I mean the list goes on. Your doctor there, Monsieur Bertrand, diagnosed you with minor schizophrenia.”

  “Doctor, I’m not schizophrenic.”

  “I’m not saying that, but you sometimes have a failure to understand and grasp what is real.”

  “Look, I know I’ve said it before, but I really know a great psychologist,” he said. “She speaks perfect English and she’s close to here. She’s really quite wonderful, and you need to talk to someone about all of this instead of just relying on medication. You have an illness, Harry, and you need to take responsibility for it. You need to wake up.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. The idea made me feel cold.

  “So what do you need?” he asked, letting out a deep sigh.

  “Valium.”

  “To prescribe you that, I would rather have you talk to someone first,” a frown formed across his weathered face.

  “I’m not doing that. Really,” I said.

  “Harry. Please.”

  “Look, I need something strong for these attacks and also stronger sleeping pills.” Exhaustion started to stir.

  “I’m okay with the sleeping pills, I can even prescribe them for you now. But I really think you should have a few meetings with a therapist before we talk about Valium.”

  “You know I puked on the side street on the way over here? I come in here against every instinct of privacy, of self-reliance, and what do you do? You say, no! You don’t help me at all, you push me back on the street, send me off to score crack or heroin. You’re ridiculous,” I stood up.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Hoffman.” He took out his notebook and started to scribble. “A prescription for Valium. Take eight milligrams, four times a day, for fourteen days.”

  “And here is my home telephone number. Call me if you need more, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I stood up and shook his hand and turned to leave.

  “Why is the last client of the day always the hardest?” he said as I put on my jacket. “Because you’re tired and you don’t give a s---.”

  I went out to the street and walked down toward Birnensdorferstrasse, passed the tables of Café Uetli, still crowded, looked across the street at the Café Rosa, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Someone waved from a table, I did not see who and went on. I walked down to the pharmacy and picked up the medication. The girl behind the counter looked at me with a form of pity. I wanted to get home.

  It was around five o’clock and the light was leaving slowly. I walked down Saumstrasse and through the gravelly asphalt of the Sihlfeld cemetery between the ferns and tombstones, and the chestnut trees in the arc-light and the sound of crows. There was a fresh red wreath leaning at the base of a tombstone. I stopped and read the inscription. To Jack, from Mary, all my love. There was a picture of Jack on the tombstone. He looked very fine and handsome.

  My apartment was just across the street, a little way down from the cemetery.

  There was light on in the concierge’s room. She came out as I came in.

  “There is post for you, Herr Hoffman,” she handed me three letters and some paper.

  “Harry, please,” I said, with an attempt to smile.

  “There was also a young lady here earlier looking for you, but she didn’t leave her name.”

  “Did she leave a card?”

  “Sorry, no,” she replied.

  “Okay, thank you, have a nice evening.”

  I went up to the empty apartment, still filled with a dozen half-opened boxes, and out to the terrace to smoke. The street was dark and busy with men working on the car tracks by the light of acetylene flares. A night tram went by, running on the tracks and having to stop and wait while the workmen organized so it could pass. It was carrying vegetables for tomorrows market.

  I went back in and put the mail on the dinning table, went into the bedroom. I lit the gas lamp at the side of my bed and und
ressed and showered and took the medicine. I was rubbing down when I heard the telephone ring. I put on the bathrobe and slippers and answered the call. It was the concierge.

  “Herr Hoffman?” she said.

  “Harry, please.”

  “The lady is here to see you again. Shall I send her up?”

  “Yes, please do.” As soon as I put down the phone I quickly dressed and combed my hair. A knock came and I went to the door.

  Cleo was holding a suitcase, a big green duffel bag, flowers and to her side stood a little girl.

  “Buonasera, Harry,” she said in her familiar accent. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” she was holding a great bunch of roses.

  “Of course, yes come in, sorry I just got out of the shower,” I felt slightly confused. “Please, come in. Excuse the mess and the boxes, I just moved in.”

  She stepped into the apartment and stood in the hallway, and looked around.

  “I don’t know whether you like flowers, but I took the liberty.”

  “Thank you. They’re wonderful. I’ll put them in some water,” I walked to the kitchen and filled a big earthenware jug with water and put the roses inside and placed them on the dining room table. I was now dizzy from the medicine but I let it ride. That’s the way it always is, I thought.

  “Can I get you anything? A drink perhaps?” I shouted out then came into the hallway. She could tell I was nervous. I looked down at the little girl, and she screwed up her face and hid behind Cleo’s leg.

  “Would you like a drink?” I repeated. She continued to hide. I turned to Cleo. “What’s her name?”

  “Liv.”

  “Oh, that’s a beautiful name.” I knelt down on the floor to smile at her.

  “Sorry, Harry, she doesn’t speak English.”

  “Not a problem. Will orange juice be okay?”

  “Yes, that would be just fine.”

  “I’ll fix us a couple of martinis,” I said with false brightness, heading back to the kitchen. Sweat was now on my forehead. Cleo was speaking Italian in a high-pitched voice, as people do when talking with kids. When I came back to the living room, Cleo and Liv were settled on the sofa.

  “This is a great apartment, Harry,” Cleo said, taking the martini and handing the orange juice to her daughter. She wore a black sleeveless dress and looked quite beautiful.

  “Thanks. Sorry again for the mess.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “Three, plus a dining room.”

  “It’s big for one person, or do you live with someone?”

  “No, it’s just me for the moment,” I said. I did not want to stay myself. I was reserved and formal and tried to ignore the tension. “Tell me, Cleo, what are you doing here? Are you in some sort of trouble?” She was trembling and looking away. I thought she was looking around the apartment. Then I saw that she was starting to cry. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” she answered. She glanced down at her daughter warily before looking back at me. “Do you have something Liv could read or play with while we talk?”

  “Let me think,” I said. I went into the bedroom and picked up some blank paper and colored pencils and took the old stuffed donkey I had once given my own daughter, and placed it on Liv’s lap. She smiled and took it in her arms. I saw that Cleo had left the room and was now out on the terrace. I brought out two chairs and we sat down together with a feeling of things coming that I couldn’t prevent happening.

  “It’s such a great apartment, Harry. Really,” she said.

  “Thanks, Cleo. So what’s going on?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I had such a hell of a time and I just had to get out of Italy. I didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. Do give me a cigarette, will you.”

  “Sure, but why come here? We hardly know each other.”

  “That’s not true, Harry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve often thought about you, about how we connected. I’ve wanted to reach out many times, but I couldn’t with all that was going on.”

  “What was going on?” It felt like she was evading the question, but I could see that she was also very nervous, and I did not want to help her in any way.

  She would not look up. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Start somewhere, please.”

  “First of all, I’m sorry about how I treated you in Venice,” she began. I sat back and opened the cigarette box, handing one to Cleo. She put it on her lips, and I leaned over and lit it. I took one myself and inhaled deeply, letting out a whistle through my teeth.

  “To be honest, I was really disappointed,” I said. “We had this great time together and I liked you and I thought we really connected. Then you disappeared without a word. Not even a goodbye. I later found out you left with some guy.”

  “I know, I feel just awful about it. I’m sorry, Harry. I really am.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and thought of a better response.

  “I’m really sorry” was all she came up with. She raised her head to the sky. “I’m in such a mess, Harry.”

  Looking over at her I could see she was about to cry again.

  “Look, everything is fine,” I said, feeling the need to change the subject. “How did you get here?”

  “We took the train to Milano and then onto Zurich,” she said, her voice straining but her tears at bay.

  “And how did you find my address?”

  “I searched your book, and the publisher’s address was inside, so I just wrote to them saying I knew you, that you had left something valuable with me and I wanted to return it. They gave me an American Express address. When I came to Zurich I went straight to that address and pleaded with them to give me your home address. Was that wrong of me?” She could sense my surprise.

  “Of course not. I’m just surprised they gave out my address like that,” I said. “But why come here, Cleo? What about friends or family?”

  I felt the impulse to keep deviling her. I was angry and blind and unforgiving of what happened in Venice. The fact that she was here now did not alter any of that. But I certainly didn’t hate her.

  “I want to be honest with you, Harry,” she said. “But it’s so hard, given my story.”

  “What story?” I drank my martini down quickly. She put her hand on my arm.

  “Don’t get drunk, Harry,” she said. “You don’t have to.”

  “I’m not getting drunk,” I said. “I’m just drinking a little. I like to drink when I know something impactful is coming.”

  “I don’t want to stress you.”

  “It’s fine, Cleo, continue with your story.”

  “My story.” She let out a deep sigh and sat back and looked up to the sky and then onto Liv through the window. “Well, it’s certainly a story,” she said, turning her eyes toward me so I could see the truth in them.

  She did not say anything after that. She just sat there, and I could see tears building up in her eyes and then her eyes became glossy.

  “It’s tearing me all up inside, I can’t even begin to explain.”

  “Then try saying it in the third person. Tell it as a story…it may help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For example, you could start by saying this story is about a girl, and this girl…”

  “I’ll try.” She took a deep breath and began. “Okay, let’s say it’s a story and this story is about a girl.” She looked over at me for approval.

  “Exactly.” I had the feeling of going through something that had happened before. Like a nightmare of it all being repeated. Something I had been through and now I must go through again.

  “And this girl had a husband. And the husband hurt and abused the girl. Until one day the girl couldn’t take it anymore and feared for her life and the life of her daughter.”

  I sat back with wide eyes.

  “And after years of living in fear, one morning she decided it was enough and the only way out was to fake her own d
eath and disappear.”

  “Are you serious?” I paused for a moment, almost enjoying the story. It was lousy to enjoy it, and I felt lousy. “Why couldn’t she just leave?”

  “Believe me she tried. And every time she did, he found her and made her come back, threatening their daughter’s life if she didn’t.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She took on a new life under a new name and moved to Venice.”

  She looked at me with a sad smile. It was clearly very hard for her to have an audience for this. Her vulnerability made her attractive and sweet and sincere. I was reminded why I had thought she was wonderful. And she was wonderful.

  “But how did she fake her own death?”

  “The how is not important, Harry. What’s important is that she left.”

  “What about her daughter?”

  “She left the daughter with her husband knowing only too well that he would not wish to raise her alone and would give her to the girl’s parents, which in the end he did.”

  “The girl then moved to Venice and started her new life.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled with a quick blow through pursed lips. “Then one day, two years later, the guilt and need to see her daughter became too much to bear, so she went back, confessed all, and dealt with the consequences.”

  “My goodness,” was all I could say.

  “Yes. It’s a sad story but unfortunately a true one.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I swallowed hard.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” she said bitterly. “It is what it is.”

  “Is Cleo your real name?” I asked.

  “No. It’s Maria.”

  “And when we met? You were still in hiding?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your last name?”

  “Moretti.”

  “Sorry to put this on you, Harry.”

  “It’s fine, Cleo, I mean Maria.” I gave her a sympathetic smile. “So what happened next?”

  She went on. “I went back home to see Liv. It was a great shock to my parents, as you can imagine. Then my husband Roberto found out and came to visit, saying how much he had changed and that he wanted us to be a family again. I just couldn’t believe it, Harry. I mean, after everything he put us through, to even think I would be willing to give us another try.” She reached into her bag for her long thin cigarettes and placed one on her red lips.