However, Freeman showed little interest. ‘Gardens I’ve seen in my time.’ So, when restive, he wandered in the back streets of Stresa, watching the men playing at boccia, avoiding the laden store windows. Drifting by devious routes back to the lake, he sat at a bench in the small park, watching the lingering sunset over the dark mountains and thinking of a life of adventure. He watched alone, talked now and then to stray Italians – almost everybody spoke a good broken English – and lived too much on himself. On weekends, there was, however, a buzz of merriment in the streets. Excursionists from around Milan arrived in busloads. All day they hurried to their picnics; at night one of them pulled an accordion out of the bus and played sad Venetian or happy Neapolitan songs. Then the young Italians and their girls got up and danced in tight embrace in the public square; but not Freeman.
One evening at sunset, the calm waters so marvelously painted they drew him from inactivity, he hired a rowboat, and for want of anyplace more exciting to go, rowed toward the Isola del Dongo. He had no intention other than reaching it, then turning back, a round trip completed. Two-thirds of the way there, he began to row with growing uneasiness which soon became dread, because a stiff breeze had risen, driving the sucking waves against the side of the boat. It was a warm wind, but a wind was a wind and the water was wet. Freeman didn’t row well – had learned late in his twenties, despite the nearness of Central Park – and he swam poorly, always swallowing water, never enough breath to get anywhere; clearly a landlubber from the word go. He strongly considered returning to Stresa – it was at least a half mile to the island, then a mile and a half in return – but chided himself for his timidity. He had, after all, hired the boat for an hour; so he kept rowing though he feared the risk. However, the waves were not too bad and he had discovered the trick of letting them hit the prow head-on. Although he handled his oars awkwardly, Freeman, to his surprise, made good time. The wind now helped rather than hindered; and daylight – reassuring – still lingered in the sky among streaks of red.
At last Freeman neared the island. Like Isola Bella, it rose in terraces through hedged gardens crowded with statuary, to a palazzo on top. But the padrona had told the truth – this island looked more interesting than the others, the vegetation lush, wilder, exotic birds flying around. By now the place was bathed in mist, and despite the thickening dark, Freeman recaptured the sense of awe and beauty he had felt upon first beholding the islands. At the same time he recalled a sad memory of unlived life, his own, of all that had slipped through his fingers. Amidst these thoughts he was startled by a movement in the garden by the water’s edge. It had momentarily seemed as though a statue had come to life, but Freeman quickly realized a woman was standing this side of a low marble wall, watching the water. He could not, of course, make out her face, though he sensed she was young; only the skirt of her white dress moved in the breeze. He imagined someone waiting for her lover, and was tempted to speak to her, but then the wind blew up strongly and the waves rocked his rowboat. Freeman hastily turned the boat with one oar, and pulling hard, took off. The wind drenched him with spray, the rowboat bobbed among nasty waves, the going grew frighteningly rough. He had visions of drowning, the rowboat swamped, poor Freeman slowly sinking to the bottom, striving fruitlessly to reach the top. But as he rowed, his heart like a metal disk in his mouth, and still rowed on, gradually he overcame his fears; also the waves and wind. Although the lake was by now black, though the sky still dimly reflected white, turning from time to time to peer ahead, he guided himself by the flickering lights of the Stresa shore. It rained hard as he landed, but Freeman, as he beached the boat, considered his adventure an accomplishment and ate a hearty supper at an expensive restaurant.
The curtains billowing in his sunny room the next morning, awoke him. Freeman rose, shaved, bathed, and after breakfast got a haircut. Wearing his bathing trunks under slacks, he sneaked onto the Hotel Excelsior beach for a dip, short but refreshing. In the early afternoon he read his Italian lesson on the balcony, then snatched a snooze. At four-thirty – he felt he really hadn’t made up his mind until then – Freeman boarded the vaporetto making its hourly tour of the islands. After touching at Isola Madre, the boat headed for the Isola del Dongo. As they were approaching the island, coming from the direction opposite that which Freeman had taken last night, he observed a lanky boy in bathing trunks sunning himself on a raft in the lake – nobody he recognized. When the vaporetto landed at the dock on the southern side of the island, to Freeman’s surprise and deep regret, the area was crowded with the usual stalls piled high with tourist gewgaws. And though he had hoped otherwise, inspection of the island was strictly in the guide’s footsteps, and vietato trying to go anywhere alone. You paid a hundred lire for a ticket, then trailed behind this unshaven, sad-looking clown, who stabbed a jaunty cane at the sky as he announced in three languages to the tourists who followed him: ‘Please not stray nor wander. The family del Dongo, one of the most illustrious of Italy, so requests. Only thus ees eet able to remain open thees magnificent ‘eestorical palatz and supreme jardens for the inspection by the members of all nations.’
They tailed the guide at a fast clip through the palace, through long halls hung with tapestries and elaborate mirrors, enormous rooms filled with antique furniture, old books, paintings, statuary – a lot of it in better taste than the stuff he had seen on the other island; and he visited where Napoleon had slept – a bed. Yet Freeman secretly touched the counterpane, though not quickly enough to escape the all-seeing eye of the Italian guide, who wrathfully raised his cane to the level of Freeman’s heart and explosively shouted, ‘Basta!’ This embarrassed Freeman and two British ladies carrying parasols. He felt bad until the group – about twenty – were led into the garden. Gazing from here, the highest point of the island, at the panorama of the golden-blue lake, Freeman gasped. And the luxuriant vegetation of the island was daring, voluptuous. They went among orange and lemon trees (he had never known that lemon was a perfume), magnolia, oleander – the guide called out the names. Everywhere were flowers in great profusion, huge camellias, rhododendron, jasmine, roses in innumerable colors and varieties, all bathed in intoxicating floral fragrance. Freeman’s head swam; he felt dizzy, slightly off his rocker at this extraordinary assailment of his senses. At the same time, though it was an ‘underground’ reaction, he experienced a painful, contracting remembrance – more like a warning – of personal poverty. This he had difficulty accounting for, because he usually held a decent opinion of himself. When the comical guide bounced forward, with his cane indicating cedars, eucalyptus, camphor and pepper trees, the former floorwalker, overcome by all he was for the first time seeing, at the same moment choked by almost breathless excitement, fell behind the group of tourists, and pretended to inspect the berries of a pepper tree. As the guide hurried forward, Freeman, although not positive he had planned it so, ducked behind the pepper tree, ran along a path beside a tall laurel shrub and down two flights of stairs; he hopped over a marble wall and went hastily through a small wood, expectant, seeking, he thought only God knew what.
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 away 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 girl friends had told him she sometimes thought of him as tall. This counter-balanced 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 absent-minded 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 ex-floorwalker 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 de Dongos in all the local guide books.) 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 until 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 padron
a, 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 lake front.
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 major domo 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.
The Magic Barrel Page 10
