Along the promenade next to the lake, there was an orchestra playing next to the water, the sound was soothing. Even when it was getting late in the afternoon, people were still out lying on the thick, green grass, tanning away and then jumping off the rocks into the fresh coolness of the water. I watched with envy.
Day’s passed like this for over a week and still no word. In my eagerness, and with one week to go, I had called the airline to make all the necessary arrangements and two days later I received the tickets and confirmation through the post. I had never flown on an aeroplane before, always choosing rain travel for its convenience, safety, ease and comfort. I had heard that they were stating to run direct flights from Europe to New York now.
On that particular day the sun was hot and had a certain early-morning smell and quality to it. I decided it was too hot to write, and I would spend the day at the lake. I packed my swimsuit and wrapped it with a comb and towel and walked out into the morning sun.
As I walked over the Bellevue Bridge, I could see the green and white-topped mountains beyond the lake. The sun hit the water, making it look like tiny white light bulbs, flashing and dancing and making a show just for me.
In the distance, I could see people already in the water, out by the harbor. There were not many sailboats out on the water this morning, but the ones that were there, had anchored and I could see people swimming by the boats and diving and breaking smoothly into the water.
I found a good spot on a grassy bank, under a sycamore tree, and placed down my towel before walking over to the water. It was fresher than I had imagined. I dived in and swam down and deep under the water. By the time I came to the surface the chill had gone. I swam out to a wooden raft, and pulled myself up and lay there on the hot wooden planks.
There was a couple on the edge. The girl had undone her strap and was browning her back. The boy next to her was lying face down and they were talking about something that made her laugh.
I lay on the raft until I was dry from the sun, then I dived back in, swimming down as far as I could with my eyes open looking for fish. It was green and blue and dark and I saw only blurry shadows, which could have been anything. I swam to the shore and came out of the water besides the harbor. I lay on a hot rock until I was dry, and then walked back to rub myself down and lie on the thick grass.
Around noon and after three or four swims I decided it was time for a drink. I walked around the harbor under the cover of the trees to a café. There was a man playing an old piano on the sidewalk and I stopped for a moment to listen. The piano had small wheels on the bottom so he could move it to wherever the crowds gathered. It sounded out of tune, but in a nice way and as I passed by, I put ten cents into his hat.
I sat out on the terrace and enjoyed the fresh coolness of the shade, drinking a glass of pineapple-juice with shaved ice and then a long whiskey and soda. I watched people passing by and listened to the music. Later, when it got too crowded, I decided to go home and walked back along the promenade and followed the shore of the lake into a fertile region of pasture farms and low hills, steepled with châlets. The sun swam out into a blue sea of sky and suddenly it was a Swiss valley at its best, pleasant sounds and murmurs and a good fresh smell of health. Then through the city, where I was glad the cobblestones clicked once more under my feet and in-between the beer halls and shop windows which had bright posters presenting the Swiss defending their frontiers in the war, with inspiring ferocity young men and old men glared down from the mountains at Germans; the purpose was to assure the Swiss heart that it had shared the contagious glory of those days.
In Zurich there was a lot besides Zurich, the roofs upled the eyes to tinkling cow pastures, which in turn modified hilltops further up, so life seemed like a postcard heaven.
As I arrived, Frau Fischer was washing the floor.
“Ah, Herr Harry,” she said.
“Hello, Frau Fischer.” I smiled cheerfully.
“You received a cable this morning. Let me get it for you,” she propped up the mop and went inside, coming back moments later with a blue colored envelope.
“Here you go,” she handed it to me.
I picked my finger along under the fold that was fastened down and spread it open so I could read it while I slowly walked up the stairs. It read:
FORWARDED FROM:
AMERICAN EXPRESS C/O HARRY HOFFMAN
ZURICH
THANKS FOR THE INVITE STOP MYSELF AND THOMAS BOTH ACCEPT STOP WILL FLY DIRECT FROM LONDON STOP PLEASE CABLE ADDRESS STOP SEE YOU THERE STOP DAVID
I turned and said thank you to Frau Fischer and read the message again. I then took a shower and went out to buy cigarettes. I had really taken too much sun, but one can only know that after a shower. My back and neck was red and my blonde hair seemed sunburned.
Five more days, I thought. What the hell am I to do for five more days. I decided to eat at a restaurant that night. It was an Italian restaurant on a side street close to my apartment and just off the Idaplatz. There were lots of people eating outside on the terrace. It was full of smoke and everyone seemed joyful and happy. The food was good and so was the wine.
The next days were quiet and uneventful. The days were hot and the evenings cool. I played and replayed everything over in my head and on the Friday morning I was packed and ready to go.
It was a fine morning to fly. There were high white clouds above the mountains. It had rained a little in the night so the air was fresh and cool on the streets. I felt good and healthy and excited by the time I got to the airport. I sat in the airport lounge and had two large whiskey sodas before boarding the plane.
I sat there looking out as the four small, squared-ended propellers turned slowly one by one and from the window I could see them becoming four whizzing pools. The hum of the jets rose up and made a smooth whine. The plane jolted and I held on tight to the armrests. We wheeled out to the shimmering northwest runway of Zurich airport and it felt like I was sitting in a very expensive mechanical toy.
There was a pause, then the engines turned into a loud banshee scream, and with a jerk the plane started hurtling down the runway. I grabbed tighter onto the arms of the seat and closed my eyes as we climbed steadily and quickly. I sat back and prayed.
Ten minutes later, the pilot announced we had reached twenty-five thousand feet and were heading southeast. The scream of the jets had now died down into a low whistling sound. I unfastened my seat belt and lit a cigarette, breathing in some relief.
The plane moved steadily on above the whipped cream clouds that looked solid enough to land on if the engines failed.
The drink cart came by and I put my book aside and ordered a whiskey straight. I sipped it slowly while gazing down onto the cool mirror of Lake Zurich and beyond, and as the pine tree forest climbed up toward the snowy patches of land, I could see the scoured teeth of the Alps and it reminded me of the last skiing trip I had in Austria.
My thoughts were then interrupted by the stewardess asking everyone to remain seated and fasten their seatbelt and as she spoke the plane dropped suddenly and soared up again.
The sky outside had quickly turned a dark gray and fear started to set in. The plane felt suddenly small and frail. Perhaps the twenty-five of us wouldn’t get to Geneva after all. I cursed myself for not taking the train.
A sudden flash of lightning flung past the window and I could feel the sweat on my forehead and the palms of my hands.
Crash! Again. I gulped down the whiskey in one go and I could feel we were now in the belly of an electrical storm.
I closed my mind to the hell of noises and violent movements, trying to focus on Maria. Her lips, her eyes, her love were all there with me. When that passed, I tried to focus on a single stitch on the back of the seat in front.
Crash! We jumped again. This was intolerable.
Then, almost at once, it got lighter in the cabin and the rain stopped. The noise of the engine settled back into normality. I heaved a deep sigh of relief and reached fo
r my cigarettes. My hands were shaking as I lit one. It steadied out and the journey became smoother.
When the plane started tilting its nose down I knew we had began our decent. I could see Lake Geneva in the distance once we had dropped below the clouds. Then there was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position. Slowly we turned left and then dipped and skimmed down toward the runway. I closed my eyes and then a soft double thump came and the raw sound of reversing propellers. Thank God, I thought.
I climbed out of the plane with a handful of other pale-faced, silent passengers and walked straight over to the lounge bar, where I ordered a shot of vodka, drank it, and then immediately ordered another.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WHEN I ARRIVED by taxi, I was greeted by a neatly dressed concierge in straight trousers and a collared shirt and tie and he was very polite and helped me with my baggage. I asked him if my party had arrived, to which he said they had not.
It was hot outside but cool inside. I took a quick walk round the bar while Maurice the concierge arranged the key. The hotel had an almost sleazy, yet romantic faux-Victorian quality to it. It held two stars from the Michelin Guide, with only ten rooms available and one suite on the fourth floor.
I followed him to an old rope and gravity lift, which made a huge screech when the doors were opened. I said nothing and proceeded down the corridor. It was large, wide and high ceilinged, and there were rooms on each side of the corridor. Naturally, since it had been somewhat of a nobility house many years ago, there were no rooms without excellent views. Except, perhaps those that had been made for the servants.
Maurice unlocked the door and swung it wide. It was a room with a high, dark but well mirrored armoire, one good ornate wooden bed and a large chandelier.
While I put my things down and inspected the room, Maurice opened the windows and a warm north wind came into the room.
“I have brought you some Campari bitters and a bottle of Gordon’s Gin. I know how the English like their Gin,” he smiled.
“Very nice of you Maurice.”
“Shall I make you one? Or perhaps you would like a glass of wine.”
“Wine will be fine.”
He opened a chilled bottle of wine from the small cool box and served up a glass and then placed it by the window and then asked if there was anything else. I asked him to call me when my party arrived. I took a taste of the wine. It was delicious.
I stood in front of the dark wooden framed mirror and took off my jacket and unbuttoned the collar and relaxed my tie.
“Well here we are. No turning back now,” I said to myself and then walked over and picked up the wine again. I sat by the window and didn’t unpack.
The telephone rang and I stiffened.
“Oui? Hallo?” I said.
“Monsieur Hoffman, your party has arrived.”
“Merci, Maurice,” I said.
I jolted myself, gulped down the wine, fixed my tie and walked down the staircase slowly and watched my footing on each step. When I arrived, Maurice pointed toward the bar and I walked in with my shoulders back and my head held high, carrying a smile on my face.
“Gentlemen,” I said happily. Thomas jumped up straight away and embraced me.
“Hello, Harry,” he said in an almost fatherly manner. Thomas had always been like that with me. He was a good man. David stood up and we shook hands and smiled.
“How was the flight over?” I asked and took a seat.
“Awful. Just awful,” yelped Thomas. “Hell of a storm. Hell of a storm. Both of us pale as ghosts, I tell you.”
“That’s not true,” David said, shaking his head.
“When did you arrive?” Thomas asked.
“Oh, just twenty minutes or so before you.”
“It’s awfully nice of you, Harry, to arrange all this,” Thomas said. “We were saying on the way over how neither of us has done something like this before.”
“What, fly?” I asked.
“No, come to a vineyard,” he said.
“Well good, I hope you can both enjoy it,” I said in a light voice.
“Very exciting,” Thomas said in his most English manor and rubbed his hands.
“How’s the book coming along?” David asked.
“Very well,” I said. “Around fifty-thousand words now.”
“That’s wonderful,” Thomas said. “Bravo.”
“So what’s it about?” David asked. “I read the three chapters you sent Thomas, but didn’t really get it or it didn’t allude to what type of story it was. And why the hell did you write it in the first person? You even used your real name.”
“Yes, but it’s very well written, David,” Thomas jumped in.
“To be honest, I’d rather not go into too much detail just yet,” I said.
“I’m afraid if you want the advance you cabled Thomas for, then I think you must,” I looked on and gave him a long hard stare.
“David, you have to understand and respect the creative process,” Thomas said. “If Harry doesn’t wish to discuss it because it will help the book’s progress, not to discuss it, then you have to respect that.”
“I understand that, Thomas,” he said in a small voice. “But he’s asking for a lot of money based on only a few chapters and something we know very little about.”
“Yes, but…” Thomas began, but I stopped him with raised hands.
“David, I don’t wish to get into this now,” I said lightly. “I invited you both here as a thank you. Can we please try and enjoy?”
I leaned forward and took a hand full of salted nuts from the table and put them in my mouth one by one.
“What I can say is that it’s a thriller, about lost love and one man’s desire to reinvent himself—no matter the cost.”
“That’s disconcertingly vague,” David raised an eyebrow.
“Can that be enough of business now?” I smiled. “Let’s order some wine.”
I made a hand gesture to Maurice and he came over.
“Maurice, three glasses of that delicious white wine from earlier please.”
“Oui, of course monsieur,” said the smartly dressed young man.
David was looking at me now with a different expression. It was something like surprise. His freckled, bloated face stared over at me, looking so damned superior. In my surprise at his rudeness, I couldn’t find a single thing to say.
“So Harry, what’s the day’s program?” Thomas asked, sensing the discomfort.
“That’s a very good question, Thomas,” I said. “Madame Bonnet, the proprietor, said we would start with a lunch out on the terrace if the weather was good, which it is, and then we will commence the tour and wine tasting. In the evening there will be a dinner and most likely a morning handover. What do you say? Sound good with you two chaps?”
“Splendid,” Thomas said.
“And you David? Are you going to relax and enjoy a little?” I asked.
He smiled and leaned over to pick up his glass.
“Yes. Cheers,” he said, and we all touched glasses.
David & Thomas started in a conversation about an issue with the London office and I sat back uninterested. I looked at David and wondered what he would do differently if he knew he only had some hours left on this earth. Would he be a little kinder? More compassionate? Probably not. The knowledge of what would take place that day stirred inside me and I went cold and rigid. I sat there and said nothing, only smiling occasionally and nodding.
Sitting opposite him, I couldn’t help but stare at his bony, arrogant face and his boated hairy hands with a small signet ring on his left finger. Frustration swelled within me, and thought of him in Venice, sitting across from Maria in some piazza and declaring his undying love for her. Hatred and impatience swept over me and hampered my breathing. I started to sweat under my clothes and felt almost afraid of what I could do at any moment and realized then that I couldn’t be around him any longer. I knew that even if
the CO2 didn’t kill him, I would find another way. I couldn’t stop myself now. I had come too far, and this story needed an ending.
Mme Bonnet came in smiling and introduced herself and told us about the itinerary for the day and that lunch would be served in thirty minutes time. David & Thomas went to their rooms and settled in and I stayed at the bar and ordered a dry martini. Once they had left, I sat by the window and gazed out on the rolling countryside and felt much better. My only wish was that we didn’t have to have a lunch together. I wanted this to be over already.
They came downstairs wearing more relaxed clothing and we went into the dining room, through the patio doors and out onto the terrace were a table had been set with white linen and silver cutlery.
We sat down under the shade of a large tree and I said very little, which led to Thomas asking if I was okay. I said I was fine and we ordered and they discussed the possibility of buying the floor above in the London office, now that they were enlarging the team. They discussed that in detail, slowly. There was nothing for me to add so I just kept quiet and listened.
The waitress came out carrying three steaming plates of spaghetti, small salad bowls and a plate of bread. I began and in the corner of my eye watched David slowly turning his fork round and round before thrusting a neat mass of spaghetti into his mouth and it made my stomach turn, and I felt like vomiting. I took some water and paused from the food.
The luncheon couldn’t have gone worse on my part. I was detached, and clearly not motivated in the conversation. It seemed to everyone that I was in a foul mood of sorts. After the food was cleared, the coffee arrived in a shiny silver pot with three small espresso cups.
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