In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

  I went back to the apartment and took a very long but cool shower. I had begun to get a reasonable tan and my short bearded stubble had blackened. I looked healthy and this trip had really straightened me out.

  I got out naked and dripping wet and opened one of the windows, dislodging an indignant pigeon, and heard the distant tolling of the church bell summoning the villagers to mass, an interlude of piety before the indulgence of Sunday dinner.

  With that thought, I began to compose the invitation letter to David in my head and carefully memorized it. When I went out to the terrace, I sat down and almost immediately wrote a draft straight off.

  DEAR DAVID,

  Hope you are well and that you and the family are settling into life in Switzerland. You will be happy to know I’ve been in the south of France the past months working on material for my next book. It’s coming along nicely and steadily and I’m up to almost eighteen thousand words. Writing just over thirteen hundred words a day for the most part. It’s becoming somewhat of a murder mystery.

  While on my trip I visited a good few vineyards and châteaux and it got me thinking that given the success of The Blue Room and the efforts you and Thomas have put into getting it there, I would like to invite you both for a weekend away at one of the châteaux I visited. One in particular is beautiful, and close to Geneva. I will take care of all expenses of course. We will drink great wine; tour the winery and have fun I imagine. I would be grateful if you accept this invitation and we spend some time together, I would also use it as an opportunity to discuss my next book.

  I propose the last weekend of August. We would fly down the Saturday morning and stay the night. Please let me know if this date works for you. I have also written Thomas the same. Sending you and the family my kindest regards and keep me posted on the date.

  HARRY.

  I felt sick and fake reading it over. I went inside and laid down. I decided it was probably too long and too nice, so I rewrote it to a less personal and less enthusiastic letter, more like my normal correspondence with him.

  That evening, I went out for a stroll. I felt good and light and kept my head up. I also wore a bright smile on my face. I walked past a shop window and saw my reflection. I was astonished just by how much straighter I was standing and what a difference it made. It was one of those few times that I felt pleased with myself that I’d finally made a decision of action.

  Everybody in Arles that night looked like a professor, student or lawyer. It reminded me of a conversation I once had with a man from Marseille. He told me that Arles was very up itself in a haut-bourgeois sort of way. But I didn’t agree. There was a feeling of elegance here. It was a southern town underpinned by Spanish, French and Latin vibes that seemed to flow through the narrow streets, squares and comes out in an entire civilization of cafés, bars and restaurants.

  I strolled down an avenue, lined with trees dotted with fountains and edged with small roman style houses. I stopped in at the café insisting my order to the waiter who was, impassive and bored, put two beers on another table and waited to be paid, his eyes focused on something far away, perhaps his retirement. He glanced down to assess the size of his tip, acknowledged it with an almost imperceptible tilt of the head, and moved off on feet toward me and I ordered and he nodded.

  Finally the wine arrived in a big glass along with a small complimentary dish of olives. I sat back and calculated in my head just how much I’d spent on this trip. I had a feeling it was all starting to add up. It was a pity I hadn’t written to Thomas sooner to tell him how far along I was with the new book.

  I knew I was entitled to an advance on each book, but because I hadn’t sent them anything or even told them I was in the midst of writing a third book, how could they send me an advance? I couldn’t even remember how much the advance was, but I’m sure it would cover the cost of this trip.

  Evening had given way to night, and the café was lit only by the flicker of candles on each table and the line of colored bulbs that had been strung along the front of the café entrance. Most people were sitting over coffee, smoking, chatting quietly.

  I paid for my wine and walked slowly back to the apartment in the last of the evening sun, making a note to write to Thomas that night. I wouldn’t mention the vineyard trip, just enquire about the advance and send him the first three chapters.

  When I got home, I ran upstairs and got into the warm bed and tried to catch some sleep. The bed felt wonderful. Then sleep arrived.

  As I approached the apartment I was standing looking on from a far. It wasn’t a dream ahead, it was solid street that I could walk on, the buildings that could be touched—if I got that far.

  The police were waiting outside the house. It felt like Zurich. David was there pointing. I saw three of them, standing with folded arms, looking at me. I turned and walked slowly toward them. I wouldn’t cause any trouble, I thought. There was a big newsstand behind the policemen, it had large black text hanging from its top:

  FAMOUS AUTHOR ATTEMPTS TO KILL PUBLISHER BUT FAILS. MANHUNT INITIATED.

  I was woken by a banging of the door. I jumped out of bed dripping with sweat and grabbed a t-shirt. I felt rotten and the arm I had been lying on hung uselessly at my side. It was the postman with a letter to sign. I stood there in the cold kitchen and looked over the box. It was from David with an itinerary for the book tour.

  Anger rose in me. I did not know why, but that particular morning I felt uneasy and frightened. I stood there and made myself a coffee. I started to shiver. Perhaps it was just the hour. It was barely dawn after all. The apartment looked gray and horrible in the morning light. I put my coffee down, ran upstairs, and grabbed my things. My mind was blurred and tired, and it made me feel more frightened and uncomfortable. It was time to leave. I needed to go home. I needed to go back to Zurich. I left a note for the landlord, and by seven-fifteen I was already in my car and pulling out of the driveway.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  ON THE DRIVE I thought about the vineyards I would visit and the Swiss wine, which I knew very little about. What I did know was that it was often light, fresh and easy to drink. I knew from my research that most of the wine was grown on the slopes of Lake Geneva. I pulled out the notebook from my bag and flicked to the names of the vineyards. I just hoped at least one would be as I had imagined. I checked the map and concentrated on the road for the next few hours.

  It was a hell of a long drive, and by six o’clock in the evening I was close to Geneva and the sun was out briefly, between showers of light rain. The hills around Geneva seemed very fertile and rural, almost entirely removed from the modern, almost sterile city that lay just a few miles away. As I came into the wine country, the rolling landscape was completely blanketed by luscious vineyards broken only by rustic villages of quaint stone cottages, which seemed to house only farmers and vintner families that have been producing this under-appreciated wine for generations. I thought about the vineyards in France I had driven by these past months and how Swiss vineyards, in comparison, were much unlike those of its neighboring country.

  I had read that the vineyards in canton Geneva made up Switzerland’s third largest wine producing area and it covered three different regions. The one I was interested in was called Arve et Lac, which was on the left bank of the lake, stretching between the Arve River and a strip of land sandwiched between the Arve and the Rhône.

  My first stop was at the Château du Crest in the village of Jussy. I had picked it because of its vast estate and beautiful looking château. As I pulled up into the driveway, I felt in awe. It was completely grandiose and fitted exactly with what my imagination had been serving up these past weeks.

  I got out of the car and stretched my legs. I felt exhausted now. I would make this quick, I thought, as I walked up the path. The entrance to the vineyard was through a very tall building with three floors and long, high roofs with pointy spirals lifting up into the sky. It was like something from a fairy tale, an authentic knight’s castle, with w
hite limestone for the façade and sandstone bricks for the spirals.

  By now it was turning gray, not quite raining, but it had rained, and would probably rain again. I knocked at the door and a lady answered. She had remembered me from our telephone conversation. We headed outside and she closed the door behind. She told me all about the history of the château, the vineyard and the surrounding farm land. I asked her to spare me the talk on the wine making process, as I wanted to enjoy that upon my return. She was, however, extremely eager to tell me that they grew eighteen different varieties of grape on the estate. As she spoke I was studying her with inquisitive eyes, which I could feel made her slightly uncomfortable. When she spoke, she lifted her eyebrows high, which put wrinkles into the thick, weather-torn skin. She had very wavy brown hair, with curls over the forehead. I could imagine she had been rather pretty back in her day.

  We quickly toured the winery and the fermentation room. I didn’t go inside but saw it from a distance because the smell was too overpowering.

  She closed the door and we went outside, back to the main reception, where she poured us both a glass of rosé wine. I drank very little and spoke very directly about my wishes, dates and price-range. She regarded me for a moment in silence and then I took a moment to brace myself, hoping that she would be able to accommodate the three of us soon.

  “Okay, we can do it end of August,” she said. “For one night, with a tour of the winery.”

  I breathed more easily now and carefully turned my neck, twisting it to release the tension. In that moment I felt almost affectionate toward her. I knew, however, that she had only given me this deal hoping that I might be writing a book on the subject, and she then asked if that was the case, it would please her greatly if I used the full name and address. She wrote it down for me: Château du Crest, Route du 40, Jussy, Switzerland.

  I was suddenly aware now that it was raining, and a thin gray sheet of drizzle was now lapping at the old windowpanes. The views out across the vineyard to where the château stood was now totally invisible. I said my goodbyes, shook her hand and ran quickly out to the car. I started the ignition and pulled out. I looked at myself in the mirror again and could see a small smile on the far side of my mouth.

  CHAPTER XXV

  IT WAS ELEVEN in the evening when I arrived back in Zurich and as I started up the stairs, the concierge knocked on the glass door of her lodge. She unlocked the door and as she came out she looked almost frantic in her appearance. She had today’s mail in her hand.

  “Herr Harry,” she seemed relieved to see me. “Where have you been? We have been so worried.”

  “Good evening Frau Fischer,” I said. She held the entrance door with one hand, while I brought in my bags.

  “I was in the south of France, working on my book,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, I’m so happy to see that you are okay,” she said.

  “Has something happened?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s just, how can I say,” she murmured, looking around to find the right words. “You were behaving so strangely the last time I saw you, shouting and screaming, I was afraid something had happened to you. And then you just disappeared without a word. I didn’t know what to think!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said firmly. “I’m fine. And I’m sorry about all that.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding with relief. “But please next time tell me before you go away for weeks on end.”

  She seemed genuinely worried about me and I thought it was sweet.

  “I will,” I promised her. “And apart from that, is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” she said warily. “There was another Italian gentleman here looking for you some weeks back and then again two days ago.”

  “Did he leave a note?” I asked.

  “Yes, on both occasions. Here you go.”

  “Thank you. Did he mention what he wanted?”

  It was probably Roberto, I thought, looking for Maria.

  “No, but he seemed very insistent on speaking with you. Didn’t seem like a nice man. He had an air of… how do you say… arrogance around him.”

  It was definitely Roberto, I thought.

  “Okay, thank you.” I started up the stairs.

  “Herr Harry,” I turned and she had her cheek in one hand, and rocked her head up and down, looking frantic again.

  “I must tell you something, Herr Harry.”

  “What is it?”

  “The gentleman,” she said in a small voice. “The one who was here. The Italian man. The second time he came he asked me to open up your apartment. He was from the Italian police you know. Oh, I didn’t know what to think! I didn’t know what to do! And he insisted. Said something about if I didn’t he would charge me with obstructing the course of justice, or something. So I panicked and let him in.”

  I looked at her and slowly closed my eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Herr Harry,” she stood with her eyes fixed on me, waiting for me to speak.

  “Did he take anything?” I asked.

  “No. I made sure of that.”

  “It’s fine, Frau Fischer,” I said gently. “You did the right thing.”

  “What’s it all about?” she asked. “Are you and the girl in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure, but don’t you worry. Everything is fine. I’ll call him and straighten the whole thing out. Do not worry.”

  I gave her a reassuring smile and went up to the apartment, opened the door and put the mail on the table. I took off my shoes and got into my comfortable slippers. Slowly and carefully I walked into each room, flicking on the light and looking around like I was searching for an intruder. There was a misty air in the place and one could feel it hadn’t been lived in for most of the summer. I went into the dining room and took a martini bottle from the cabinet. I poured my drink long and walked around, opening up the windows to let in some air. I walked out to the terrace and took a cigarette.

  “Scheisse,” I said to myself. What the hell was the inspector doing here in Zurich. Had he found something? I went into the bedroom and undressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty damn rotten. I lay face down and stayed like that until I found the energy.

  I sat up and took my dressing gown from the back of the door and went into the hallway and picked up the folded piece of papers and letters. I hated to be back, I thought. The place felt so empty without Maria and Liv.

  I took a chair at my writing table and looked at the two handwritten folded notes and today’s mail. I read the first one.

  SIGNORE HOFFMAN,

  It is quite urgent that I meet with you to answer some important questions. Your presence would be appreciated tomorrow at Café des Amis at two o’clock. Failure to present yourself will cause us to take certain measures, which will be inconvenient to the both of us.

  INSPECTOR MARINO.

  I suddenly had the desire to grab my unpacked luggage. I wanted to vanish. I unfolded the second note. It read:

  SIGNORE HOFFMAN,

  Having spoken to the concierge in your building, it seems as though you have vanished. I’m here till Wednesday 19th. I request to meet you on the 19th at your apartment. Failure to be present this time will force me to involve the Swiss authorities and have you sent to Venice at their earliest convenience.

  INSPECTOR MARINO.

  Obviously he had something on me. The Italians didn’t just summon a foreign national with words like that, especially that last paragraph. It was a plain threat. I stood up and looked around the room blankly. I caught sight of myself in the long, freestanding mirror in the corner of the room. The corners of my mouth were turned down and my eyes looked anxious and scared. I took the next letter. It was from France. To my surprise, it was from my ex-wife’s mother.

  HARRY,

  What is the meaning of this letter? Are you trying to hurt us? It’s sick how you write knowing our daughter isn’t here anymore. I think you have gone mad by what you write. Please d
on’t write such letters again.

  CLÉMENCE.

  What the hell was she talking about? That family is completely mad. I tore up the letter. I really didn’t want to be here anymore. Emotion and fear now showed in my posture as I looked in the mirror again. I became twice as frightened. I took out the last letter.

  MY DARLING,

  I’m coming to Zurich in the next days and I will call in and see you if that’s okay. Your last letter indicates you should be back by then. Miss and love you.

  MARIA.

  A very cheerful feeling ran through me and I started to relax. I stood there looking in the mirror. Everything is fine, Harry. And then I said it out loud to remind myself.

  The next morning, the first thing I thought of was Maria and it gave me a sense of purpose. I would meet the inspector tomorrow and be calm and cool and detached from it all.

  I made some breakfast and ate it slowly and with pleasure, before smoking a couple of cigarettes on the terrace with an espresso. By midmorning I had only good thoughts and decided to continue with my plan. Today I would send off the invitations to David and Thomas.

  I moved through my routine of showering, shaving and afterwards I felt clean and changed. I was just about to take another cigarette, when the apartment telephone rang. It was Frau Fischer.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Harry,” she said in a worried tone. “The Italian gentlemen is here to see you.”

  I cursed under my breath. I thought he said he was coming tomorrow.

  “Very well,” I said, clearing my throat. “Send him up.”

  A minute later, I heard footsteps out in the hallway and a knock at the door. I took a deep breath and opened up.