In Another Country, and Besides

by Maxwell Jacobs

  “I say, Signore Von Horn, will you be checking out tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes I will.”

  “Will it be early?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Okay. We still need some details from you, like a copy of your passport etc.”

  “Very well, I’ll be down in the morning with everything you need.”

  “Grazie. Bunanotte, Signor Von Horn.”

  I got to the room switched off the lights so I was not visible from the street and stood by the window, waiting to see when Viola would return.

  An hour had passed and I was still alone in the dark, I kept an eye outside by the window. I grew tense and my mind drifted. Outside the noise of a running car filled the streets. The sound of two men talking came up through the window.

  I lit the gas lamp beside the bed and I stood up and searched my bag for a distraction. I had been reading a very sinister book that recounts imaginary dark adventures of a perfect English spy in an intensely romantic post-war setting, the scenery of which is very well described. I heard a car drive past again and started to drift. Two Italian police cars with flashing lights scrambled up the drive way of the hotel, and four policemen ran out toward the entrance, leaving their engines running and the doors open. Shouting in the hallway and then a large bang at the door and then another bang, shaking the picture frames from the wall, until the door crashed open. Then I blinked and came to my senses.

  I walked over to the mirror by the bathroom and saw that I had started to sweat. I took a long hard look at my face, which was now turning a slight yellow and blue around the eye. I pulled my shoulders back and asked myself to forget. There was no use in worrying.

  I looked blankly around the room. It was a very typically Italian way to furnish a room, I thought. Practical, too, I suppose.

  My mind jumped around from one thing to another. Now I was dreary at the prospect of going back to Zurich and racked my mind for alternatives, but money was low and I knew I must. I only had eventless and lonely weeks to look forward to now and each day that would go by would only confirm and emphasize the dullness of my existence. I should really start writing again. I now had that familiar feeling of emptiness and lack of purpose, which had plagued me and driven me almost crazy. In Venice it had, briefly subdued, but now, there in that room, the sensation was back only it felt ten times worse.

  I smoked about six cigarettes by the time I heard the noise of someone walking through the courtyard. The sound of gravel came up through the window and brought with it the relief that I did not have to be alone with my thoughts any more. She came into the room looking sad and defeated. “Harry, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m sorry too, Viola.”

  She came close and we hugged. She was fresh from the night air and her hair was cold and smelled like the outdoors. I loosened myself and rested my weight on her for a moment.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said softly. “How does one end up here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I look at my life, at my fathers’ life, at my friends, I look at everybody’s life, and I have no clue how anybody ends up where they do.”

  “You don’t have to know, Harry,” she said, pushing her hair back. “There’s so much time.”

  “Yes, but I’m talking about my life,” I said softly.

  “What about your life?”

  “It’s not right.”

  “What is not right?”

  “I’m not who I thought I was.”

  Viola took off her coat and led me to the chair by the window. She sat me down and knelt before me to take off my shoes.

  “Relax, Harry, and be comfortable,” she said, then she stood up and went to the bathroom and I sat there with my gritted teeth. I looked around the room; it looked like a dozen other hotel rooms I had ever stayed in.

  Viola returned from the bathroom, dressed in just her bra and knickers, which were both black and both laced. She came over and sat down at my feet with her hands on my knees and stared at me with tremendous eyes, so large and bright. She was lit only by the moon. She moved up between my legs, up to eye level, and came close and kissed me, her tongue slowly searching my mouth. I pulled back for a moment to look at her. She stood up and led me to the bed, and I could see her wet lips glimmer in the moonlight. I undressed while she was kissing me, and we lay down together. I took off the remaining items she was wearing and got on top of her, and after some moments of teasing I entered deep inside. Ecstasy swept across her, and as I moved slowly I could see wave after wave of it. I felt the passion of her arms and fingers searching my throat and my hair, her lips now pressed against my neck, kissing up toward my ear. She suddenly screamed, a piercing shriek that clawed onto the walls of the room. I grabbed her wrists and pinned her down and began to climax. I grabbed the edge of the bed and tightened my grip and let out a violent scream…

  For a moment we lay still and motionless, and she looked at me with bloated lifeless eyes while struggling for breath. Then we were still. We were peaceful, and soon we were silent.

  I knew it was morning even with my eyes closed from the sound of the passing motorboats and the people on the street. The window still open made me cold. I grabbed the covers and pulled them up and rested for a while longer.

  When I eventually opened my eyes I looked up at the white ceiling. Slowly and cautiously I raised myself up and went to the bathroom, trying not to make too much sound. I came back and closed the window and got back into the warm bed.

  Viola was facing away from me, half-covered by the blanket. I lay looking out through the window and up toward the clouds that moved slowly in the clear blue sky.

  I turned to Viola and drew the blanket down her naked back, ever so slowly, to admire the contours of her shape all the way down to the top of her buttocks. My eyes followed it down past her and onto the bed where, I saw white sheets swollen with blood.

  “What the hell,” I shouted, jumping out of bed and looking at her. “Viola,” I screamed, “Viola?” I leaned over and hit her on her back.

  “Viola, for God’s sake!” I whispered, but she didn’t react.

  Eyes wide now, I looked down and saw that the bed was full. It had even seeped down onto the mattress below. I looked at my hand and body and saw that it was covered and dripping with the stuff. “What the hell is going on?” I shouted, at no one, at anyone.

  I leaned over again and pulled at her shoulder. She rolled back and her eyes were wide and lifeless. Her stomach was curdled with blood and the sheets down to her waist were drenched and clinging wet to her naked body.

  My head began to spin and I became dizzy, and without another thought I collapsed onto the floor with a loud thud.

  IN ANOTHER COUNTRY, AND BESIDES

  ——

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER XI

  I HEARD HER VOICE without looking up. “Can I get you something?”

  “Coffee Americano bitter,” I said and sat there until the cup arrived. I sat there a long time like that, looking around the café, thinking of the hopelessness of it all. It wasn’t good coffee.

  I looked around for the girl who had waited on me. She was five or six tables away, serving beer from a tray. Her back was turned, and through a thin white blouse I saw the smoothness of her shoulders and the faint trace of her arms. The coffee began to cool.

  From a distance, she was only faintly attractive with wide eyes and an expression of bored aloofness. Except for the contours of her face, and the brilliance of her smile, she was not beautiful. Her lips were heavy and red with thickness. There was something almost Latin about her, South American perhaps, and as she walked her breasts moved in a way that showed their firmness. She ignored me after a first glance and went on back to the bar. I continued to watch her as she ordered more beer and waited as the bartender served it on her tray. As she waited she glanced at me vaguely and then went on.

  The coffee was cold and an oily substance had formed arou
nd the surface. I looked again for the girl. She was moving about the place like a dancer. She was small and straight-shouldered of perhaps twenty-five. I fastened my stare, watched her movements, turned my chair, and twisted my neck. Unknowingly she had effortlessly become a distraction.

  I looked down and opened my bank statement. It showed a balance of 988.60 Swiss Francs. I got out my checkbook and deducted four checks drawn since the first of the month, and discovered I had a balance of 532.60 left. I wrote this on the back of the statement. In disgust, I put it back into my briefcase. It won’t be long until I’m out on the street.

  Now it was the turn of the gray-haired bartender to look over in my direction. I gestured and he nodded.

  I turned to the letter and tensed up and gave out a sigh, and soon looked up and wondered why she wouldn’t come over.

  Fifteen minutes past until she finally arrived and although I wanted to continue with my arduous stare, I couldn’t keep it up.

  “Did you want something else?” she asked.

  “Yes, another Americano.”

  “One Americano,” she turned away.

  “Can I ask you a question?” calling her back.

  “Sure,” she turned back with a cool expression.

  “Are you ignoring me?” I asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Just a feeling I guess.”

  “No I’m not ignoring you.”

  “I’m just busy.”

  She could see from my half smile that I was joking. She changed her stance and smiled through the corners of her eyes then she looked around.

  “I should get back.”

  She said nothing more and walked away. She returned to the bar and looked over and I gave her a smile then returned to my letter.

  I read it again and felt the restlessness come. To hell with it, I thought and took out a fifty-cent piece, placed it on the table, stood up and left.

  I went back the next morning in the hope of seeing her again and to write back to Marie-Anne’s letter. She came in around ten o’clock and did not venture near my table, but I was glad. Don’t come here straight away, I thought, let me sit for a while and watch. I took out a sheet of clean white paper and pen and sat back with a blank stare.

  She walked in my direction carrying a cup on her tray. I wanted her to ignore me some more—I wanted her to give me that rare excitement which allowed my mind to ignore this letter and travel to the infinite loveliness of her strange beauty.

  Her eyes were blacker and wider than the previous day and she walked toward me on soft feet, smiling mysteriously.

  As she stood beside me, I sensed the slight odor of her perspiration mingled with the cleanliness of her shirt. It overwhelmed me and made me stupid; I breathed through my teeth. My mouth felt dry.

  “I took the liberty of ordering you an Americano,” she said and placed the coffee down in front of me.

  “Sorry if I was rude yesterday. It wasn’t the best of days.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  “I’m Berta by the way.” She put her hand out.

  “I’m Harry.”

  “Please to meet you, Harry.” She paused and looked down. “What do you have there?”

  “Oh, just catching up on some letters.”

  I tried to hold my stare but blinked, then looked down and around the room. “Well, I should get back,” she said.

  “Yes, me too.”

  She walked away without a word. I turned my mind to the letter and wrote:

  DEAR MARIE-ANNE,

  Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry I didn’t write to you before starting the book. I really had wished to write and even tried a few times. I didn’t know where to start and the words just wouldn’t come. That’s why I only mailed you the manuscript.

  I’m sorry you felt hurt that I put our experience down on paper. I guess after all that happened I needed to let go of the pain and the hurt of losing you both by writing our story.

  Please know that I have mourned you both, and this book was a way for me to finally let go and move on, but to do so I had to go back and give our story it’s time. To digest it, to relive it, in order to move past it. I really hope you can empathize and even understand.

  If you read the story again you will find that my love and admiration for you both shines through. I hope you can hold onto that and not just focus on the negatives.

  I’m hurt when you say that I’m only profiting from the death of our daughter. That’s absurd and so far from my intention, you have to believe me. I think if you can read it with an open heart you will feel that it is sincere and it might even help you in some way.

  All I ever wanted to be was a great writer and writing is such a lonely life and I must draw from past experience to write something of worth. I know you understand this. You always did and you always supported me.

  It’s for that reason why I am writing to my publisher today to state that half of all royalties from The Blue Room shall be paid to you.

  I want you to please not make any objection to this, and as you say, it’s our shared story. As such we should share any good, no matter how small that should come from it. You must let me do this for you. I will send more on the particulars later. You must agree to this, Marie-Anne. Please just take it as a gift without any protestations or bitterness.

  I’m sorry this is now a long letter and there are doubtless many things I have left out. I won’t tell you how much I miss Catherine. There’s not a day that passes where I don’t think of her. I pray to God that she is fine and also to make up to you the very great hurt that has been done toward you—you who are the truest and loveliest person I have ever known.

  With love,

  HARRY.

  I sat there grinning wretchedly. Standing at the bar, she watched me leave and could see the hurt in my eyes. There was pity on her face and see could sense regret but I kept my eyes away and walked out onto the street and across to Bellevue.

  I was calmed by the sound of street trams and the strange city noises pounding at my ears and burying me in an avalanche of chatter and screeching. I put my hand in my pocket, lit my last cigarette and walked out over crushed leaves toward Lake Zurich.

  It was a clear fresh October afternoon and I sat there on a bench overlooking light green water and snow-tipped mountains, and felt sadness. I looked down into the gutter beside my feet and saw a long cigarette butt. A man and a girl passed me. They were walking with their arms around each other. When they passed and without shame I picked it up and lit it, puffing and exhaling it toward the clear sky.

  I stayed there until the cold had taken me and then walked down until a tram came along.

  There were two letters in my mailbox when I arrived home. I went up the stairs to the small dirty apartment and put the mail on the table, fixed a drink and went to the bedroom and sat on the bed, loosened my tie, and rolled up my sleeves and opened the first letter. It was brief.

  HARRY,

  Enclosed you will find a cheque made out to you for twenty thousand pounds on the promised advance for The Blue Room.

  DAVID.

  P.S. If it sells below estimated amount in the first three months we will take back thirty percent of the advance as per contract.

  It slipped from my fingers and did a kind of slow zigzag to the floor. My mouth was open. I picked up the cheque and took a long hard look again and reread the letter once more. “Twenty thousand pounds,” I said out loud. I looked in the mirror and shook my fists defiantly.

  I picked up the second and opened it with the feeling that perhaps this was even more great news. It was from my editor along with a book enclosed.

  HARRY,

  Hope you’re well my friend. I think I finally got through to David to send you the money. I hope he has by now and you’re happy with the amount. Getting him to part with a penny is like pulling teeth, but you know that already.

  We are still working on getting you the final proofs of The Blue Room and should
be with you next week latest. I think some words should be avoided so that we shall not divert people’s attention away from the quality of the book to a discussion of an utterly impertinent manor. The use of the word ‘f----’ and ‘b----’ are in my view over used and we simply cannot have these words published. For this book and others you submit all profanity will be blanked out as I have done, but you will see these comments and more in the forthcoming proofs.

  The manuscript is an exciting and truly meaningful story Harry and you should be very proud of your accomplishment.

  I have also sent you ‘Adventures of a Younger Son’ which I recommend you read and expect that you will enjoy as it’s alive with grand material.

  I will be over in the Zurich office in the coming weeks so let’s arrange something as we have lots to discuss. Please keep sending more short stories for consideration.

  THOMAS.

  I went over to the writing table and began.

  DEAR THOMAS,

  I was very happy to receive your letter and cheque today and also to hear your admiration for The Blue Room. Before this cheque arrived, my financial situation was just rotten. In several ways I have depleted my funds from the first novel Bitter Tulips, and have been living on thin air this last year. It’s truly a welcome relief. I even bought a ten-franc lottery ticket the other day with a grand prize of hundred thousand francs, so you see I have many irons in the fire.

  Thank you very much for sending me the Adventures of a Younger Son, I look forward to reading it with great anticipation.

  I imagine we are in agreement about the use of certain words and I never use a word without considering if it’s replaceable. But of course in the proofs I will go over it all again very carefully. I think that words—and I will cut anything I can—that are used in the conversation of The Blue Room are justified by the tragedy of the story. I plan to go over the proofs very carefully. By which date should you have the final proofs returned?