The Complete Stories

by Bernard Malamud

  He figured he was headed in the direction of the garden by the water where he had seen the girl in the white dress last night, but after several minutes of involved wandering, Freeman came upon a little beach, a pebbly strand, leading down stone steps into the lake. About a hundred feet away a raft was anchored, nobody on it. Exhausted by the excitement, a little moody, Freeman sat down under a tree to rest. When he glanced up, a girl in a white bathing suit was coming up the steps out of the water. Freeman stared as she sloshed up the shore, her wet skin glistening in bright sunlight. She had seen him and quickly bent for a towel she had left on a blanket, draped it over her shoulders, and modestly held the ends together over her high-arched breast. Her wet black hair fell upon her shoulders. She stared at Freeman. He rose, forming words of apology in his mind. A haze that had been before his eyes evaporated. Freeman grew pale and the girl blushed.

  Freeman was, of course, a New York City boy from way back. As the girl stood there unselfconsciously regarding him—it could not have been longer than thirty seconds—he was aware of his background and certain other disadvantages; but he also knew he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, even, it could be said, quite on the handsome side. Though a pinprick bald at the back of his noggin—not more than a dime could adequately cover—his head of hair was alive, expressive; Freeman’s gray eyes were clear, unenvious, nose well molded, the mouth generous. He had well-proportioned arms and legs and his stomach lay respectfully flat. He was a bit short, but on him, he knew, it barely showed. One of his former girlfriends had told him she sometimes thought of him as tall. This counterbalanced the occasions when he had thought of himself as short. Yet though he knew he made a good appearance, Freeman feared this moment, partly because of all he hungered for from life, and partly because of the uncountable obstacles existing between strangers, may the word forever perish.

  She, apparently, had no fear of their meeting; as a matter of surprising fact, seemed to welcome it, immediately curious about him. She had, of course, the advantage of position—which included receiving, so to speak, the guest-intruder. And she had grace to lean on; herself also favored physically—mama, what a queenly high-assed form—itself the cause of grace. Her dark, sharp Italian face had that quality of beauty which holds the mark of history, the beauty of a people and civilization. The large brown eyes, under straight slender brows, were filled with sweet light; her lips were purely cut as if from red flowers; her nose was perhaps the one touch of imperfection that perfected the rest—a trifle long and thin. Despite the effect, a little of sculpture, her ovoid face, tapering to a small chin, was soft, suffused with the loveliness of youth. She was about twenty-three or -four. And when Freeman had, to a small degree, calmed down, he discovered in her eyes a hidden hunger, or memory thereof; perhaps it was sadness; and he felt he was, for this reason, if not unknown others, sincerely welcomed. Had he, oh, God, at last met his fate?

  “Si è perduto?” the girl asked, smiling, still tightly holding her white towel. Freeman understood and answered in English. “No, I came on my own. On purpose you might say.” He had in mind to ask her if she remembered having seen him before, namely in last night’s rowboat, but didn’t.

  “Are you an American?” she inquired, her Italian accent pleasantly touched with an English one.

  “That’s right.”

  The girl studied him for a full minute, and then hesitantly asked, “Are you, perhaps, Jewish?”

  Freeman suppressed a groan. Though secretly shocked by the question, it was not, in a way, unexpected. Yet he did not look Jewish, could pass as not—had. So without batting an eyelash, he said, no, he wasn’t. And a moment later added, though he personally had nothing against them.

  “It was just a thought. You Americans are so varied,” she explained vaguely.

  “I understand,” he said, “but have no worry.” Lifting his hat, he introduced himself: “Henry R. Freeman, traveling abroad.”

  “My name,” she said, after an absentminded pause, “is Isabella del Dongo.”

  Safe on first, thought Freeman. “I’m proud to know you.” He bowed. She gave him her hand with a gentle smile. He was about to surprise it with a kiss when the comical guide appeared at a wall a few terraces above. He gazed at them in astonishment, then let out a yell and ran down the stairs, waving his cane like a rapier.

  “Transgressor,” he shouted at Freeman.

  The girl said something to calm him, but the guide was too furious to listen. He grabbed Freeman’s arm, yanking him toward the stairs. And though Freeman, in the interest of good manners, barely resisted, the guide whacked him across the seat of the pants; but the exfloorwalker did not complain.

  Though his departure from the island had been, to put it mildly, an embarrassment (the girl had vanished after her unsuccessful momentary intercession), Freeman dreamed of a triumphant return. The big thing so far was that she, a knockout, had taken to him; he had been favored by her. Just why, he couldn’t exactly tell, but he could tell yes, had seen in her eyes. Yet wondering if yes why yes—an old habit—Freeman, among other reasons he had already thought of, namely the thus and therefore of man-woman attraction—laid it to the fact that he was different, had dared. He had, specifically, dared to duck the guide and be waiting for her at the edge of the lake when she came out of it. And she was different too (which of course quickened her response to him). Not only in her looks and background, but of course different as regards past. (He had been reading with fascination about the del Dongos in all the local guidebooks.) Her past he could see boiling in her all the way back to the knights of old, and then some; his own history was something else again, but men were malleable, and he wasn’t afraid of attempting to create certain daring combinations: Isabella and Henry Freeman. Hoping to meet someone like her was his main reason for having come abroad. And he had also felt he would be appreciated more by a European woman; his personality, that is. Yet, since their lives were so different, Freeman had moments of grave doubt, wondered what trials he was in for if he went after her, as he had every intention of doing: with her unknown family—other things of that sort. And he was in afterthought worried because she had asked him if he was Jewish. Why had the question popped out of her pretty mouth before they had even met? He had never before been asked anything like this by a girl, under let’s call it similar circumstances. Just when they were looking each other over. He was puzzled because he absolutely did not look Jewish. But then he figured her question might have been a “test” of some kind, she making it a point, when a man attracted her, quickly to determine his “eligibility.” Maybe she had once had some sort of unhappy experience with a Jew? Unlikely, but possible, they were now everywhere. Freeman finally explained it to himself as “one of those things,” perhaps a queer thought that had for no good reason impulsively entered her mind. And because it was queer, his answer, without elaboration, was sufficient. With ancient history why bother? All these things—the odds against him, whetted his adventurous appetite.

  He was in the grip of an almost unbearable excitement and must see her again soon, often, become her friend—not more than a beginning but where begin? He considered calling her on the telephone, if there was one in a palazzo where Napoleon had slept. But if the maid or somebody answered the phone first, he would have a ridiculous time identifying himself; so he settled for sending her a note. Freeman wrote a few lines on good stationery he had bought for the purpose, asking if he might have the pleasure of seeing her again under circumstances favorable to leisurely conversation. He suggested a carriage ride to one of the other lakes in the neighborhood, and signed his name not Levin, of course, but Freeman. Later he told the padrona that anything addressed to that name was meant for him. She was always to refer to him as Mr. Freeman. He gave no explanation, although the padrona raised interested brows; but after he had slipped her—for reasons of friendship— a thousand lire, her expression became serene. Having mailed the letter, he felt time descend on him like an intricate trap. How would he ever endure u
ntil she answered? That evening he impatiently hired a rowboat and headed for Isola del Dongo. The water was glassy smooth but when he arrived the palazzo was dark, almost gloomy, not a single window lit; the whole island looked dead. He saw no one, though he imagined her presence. Freeman thought of tying up at a dock and searching around a bit, but it seemed like folly. Rowing back to Stresa, he was stopped by the lake patrol and compelled to show his passport. An officer advised him not to row on the lake after dark; he might have an accident. The next morning, wearing sunglasses, a light straw, recently purchased, and a seersucker suit, he boarded the vaporetto and soon landed on the island of his dreams, together with the usual group of tourists. But the fanatic guide at once spied Freeman and, waving his cane like a schoolmaster’s rod, called on him to depart peacefully. Fearing a scene that the girl would surely hear of, Freeman left at once, greatly annoyed. The padrona, that night, in a confidential mood, warned him not to have anything to do with anybody on the Isola del Dongo. The family had a perfidious history and was known for its deceit and trickery.

  On Sunday, at the low point of a depression after an afternoon nap, Freeman heard a knock on his door. A long-legged boy in short pants and a torn shirt handed him an envelope, the corner embossed with somebody’s coat of arms. Breathlessly, Freeman tore it open and extracted a sheet of thin bluish paper with a few lines of spidery writing on it: “You may come this afternoon at six. Ernesto will accompany you. I. del D.” It was already after five. Freeman was overwhelmed, giddy with pleasure.

  “Tu sei Ernesto?” he asked the boy.

  The boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, who had been watching Freeman with large curious eyes, shook his head. “No, signore. Sono Giacobbe.”

  “Dov’è Ernesto?”

  The boy pointed vaguely at the window, which Freeman took to mean that whoever he was was waiting at the lakefront.

  Freeman changed in the bathroom, emerging in a jiffy with his new straw hat on and the seersucker suit. “Let’s go.” He ran down the stairs, the boy running after him.

  At the dock, to Freeman’s startled surprise, “Ernesto” turned out to be the temperamental guide with the pestiferous cane, probably a majordomo in the palazzo, long with the family. Now a guide in another context, he was obviously an unwilling one, to judge from his expression. Perhaps a few wise words had subdued him, and though haughty still, he settled for a show of politeness. Freeman greeted him courteously. The guide sat not in the ritzy launch Freeman had expected to see, but at the stern of an oversize, weatherbeaten rowboat, a cross between a fishing dory and small lifeboat. Preceded by the boy, Freeman climbed in over the unoccupied part of the rear seat, then, as Giacobbe took his place at the oars, hesitantly sat down next to Ernesto. One of the boatmen on the shore gave them a shove off and the boy began to row. The big boat seemed hard to maneuver, but Giacobbe, working deftly with a pair of long, heavy oars, managed with ease. He rowed quickly from the shore and toward the island where Isabella was waiting.

  Freeman, though heartened to be off, contented, loving the wide airy world, wasn’t comfortable sitting so snug with Ernesto, who smelled freshly of garlic. The talkative guide was a silent traveler. A dead cheroot hung from the corner of his mouth, and from time to time he absently poked his cane in the slats at the bottom of the boat; if there was no leak, Freeman thought, he would create one. He seemed tired, as if he had been carousing all night and had found no time to rest. Once he removed his black felt hat to mop his head with a handkerchief, and Freeman realized he was bald and looked surprisingly old.

  Though tempted to say something pleasant to the old man—no hard feelings on this marvelous journey, Freeman had no idea where to begin. What would he reply to a grunt? After a time of prolonged silence, now a bit on edge, Freeman remarked, “Maybe I’d better row and give the boy a rest?

  “As you weesh.” Ernesto shrugged.

  Freeman traded places with the boy, then wished he hadn’t. The oars were impossibly heavy; he rowed badly, allowing the left oar to sink deeper into the water than the right, thus twisting the boat off course. It was like pulling a hearse, and as he awkwardly splashed the oars around, he was embarrassedly aware of the boy and Ernesto, alike in their dark eyes and greedy beaks, a pair of odd birds, openly staring at him. He wished them far far away from the beautiful island and in exasperation pulled harder. By dint of determined effort, though his palms were painfully blistered, he began to row rhythmically, and the boat went along more smoothly. Freeman gazed up in triumph but they were no longer watching him, the boy trailing a straw in the water, the guide staring dreamily into the distance.

  After a while, as if having studied Freeman and decided, when all was said and done, that he wasn’t exactly a villain, Ernesto spoke in a not unfriendly tone.

  “Everybody says how reech ees America?” he remarked.

  “Rich enough,” Freeman grunted.

  “Also thees ees the same with you?” The guide spoke with a halfembarrassed smile around his drooping cheroot butt.

  “I’m comfortable,” Freeman replied, and in honesty added, “but I have to work for a living.”

  “For the young people ees a nice life, no? I mean there ees always what to eat, and for the woman een the house many remarkable machines?”

  “Many,” Freeman said. Nothing comes from nothing, he thought. He’s been asked to ask questions. Freeman then gave the guide an earful on the American standard of living, and he meant living. This for whatever it was worth to such as the Italian aristocracy. He hoped for the best. You could never tell the needs and desires of others.

  Ernesto, as if memorizing what he had just heard, watched Freeman row for a while.

  “Are you in biziness?” he ultimately asked.

  Freeman searched around and came up with “Sort of in public relations.”

  Ernesto now threw away his butt. “Excuse me that I ask. How much does one earn in thees biziness in America?”

  Calculating quickly, Freeman replied, “I personally average about a hundred dollars a week. That comes to about a quarter million lire every month.”

  Ernesto repeated the sum, holding on to his hat in the breeze. The boy’s eyes had widened. Freeman hid a satisfied smile.

  “And your father?” Here the guide paused, searching Freeman’s face.

  “What about him?” asked Freeman, tensing.

  “What ees hees trade?”

  “Was. He’s dead—insurance.”

  Ernesto removed his respectful hat, letting the sunlight bathe his bald head. They said nothing more until they had reached the island, then Freeman, consolidating possible gain, asked him in a complimentary tone where he had learned his English.

  “Everywhere,” Ernesto replied, with a weary smile, and Freeman, alert for each shift in the prevailing wind, felt that if he hadn’t made a bosom friend, he had at least softened an enemy; and that, on home grounds, was going good.

  They landed and watched the boy tie up the boat; Freeman asked Ernesto where the signorina was. The guide, now looking bored by it all, pointed his cane at the top terraces, a sweeping gesture that seemed to take in the whole upper half of the luscious island. Freeman hoped the man would not insist on accompanying him and interfering with his meeting with the girl; but when he looked down from looking up without sighting Isabella, both Ernesto and Giacobbe had made themselves scarce. Leave it to the Italians at this sort of thing, Freeman thought.

  Warning himself to be careful, tactful, he went quickly up the stairs. At each terrace he glanced around, then ran up to the next, his hat already in his hand. He found her, after wandering through profusions of flowers, where he had guessed she would be, alone in the garden behind the palazzo. She was sitting on an old stone bench near a little marble fountain, whose jets from the mouths of mocking elves sparkled in mellow sunlight.

  Beholding her, the lovely face, sharply incised, yet soft in its femininity, the dark eyes pensive, her hair loosely knotted at the nape of her graceful neck, Freeman ache
d to his oar-blistered fingers. She was wearing a linen blouse of some soft shade of red that fell gently upon her breasts, and a long, slender black skirt; her tanned legs were without stockings; and on her narrow feet she wore sandals. As Freeman approached her, walking slowly to keep from loping, she brushed back a strand of hair, a gesture so beautiful it saddened him, because it was gone in the doing; and though Freeman, on this miraculous Sunday evening, was aware of his indefatigable reality, he could not help thinking as he dwelt upon her lost gesture that she might be as elusive as it, as evanescent; and so might this island be, and so, despite all the days he had lived through, good, bad, and boring, that too often sneaked into his thoughts—so, indeed, might he today, tomorrow. He went toward her with a deep sense of the transitoriness of things, but this feeling was overwhelmed by one of pure joy when she rose to give him her hand.

  “Welcome,” Isabella said, blushing; she seemed happy, yet, in her manner, a little agitated to see him—perhaps one and the same thing —and he wanted then and there to embrace her but could not work up the nerve. Although he felt in her presence a fulfillment, as if they had already confessed love for one another, at the same time Freeman sensed an uneasiness in her which made him think, though he fought the idea, that they were far away from love; or at least were approaching it through opaque mystery. But that’s what happened, Freeman, who had often been in love, told himself. Until you were lovers you were strangers.