The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro Read Free

person.
    â€œYou're right—it’s a shame they don’t use the Greek theater here for operas.”
    â€œWell, they do of course,” the man said.
    Fearing that I had revealed my ignorance, I risked another generalization and said, “I mean, this summer,” and the man nodded, and I knew I was flying blind.
    â€œThe seats are so hard,” the woman said. “I refuse to sit on marble stone. I want a soft chair in a balcony!”
    Spoiled bitch, you’re supposed to think, but I admired her for her forthrightness and for being uncompromising. No Greek ruins for me, forget the ancient stone benches of Siracusa and Taormina.
    We talked some more—trivialities about the heat, the blinding brightness of noon, the wildflowers, the emptiness, the absence of visitors.
    â€œIt is why I come,” the woman said.
    Again that “I” told me she was in charge and the man a mere accessory.
    â€œHave you had lunch?” the man said with a gesture that took in all the plates of food. “You are welcome to help yourself.”
    I was ravenous yet I said, “No, thank you.” I was too proud to accept, and anyway, by my seeming restrained and polite they would be reassured and would respect me more.
    â€œYou will forgive us?” the man said, and picked at some salad. The woman, still with her gloves on, and using a silver tool, pierced olives from a dish of antipasto and nibbled them.
    â€œSuch a pleasure to talk with you,” I said, and excused myself. I went back to my table, my empty coffee cup, and opened my sketchbook again and indulged myself in shading a sketch I had done.
    The couple conferred some more. Then the woman got up slowly and, in a stately way, for her white dress was long and lovely, she left the terrace, shimmering in the dazzling light. The man paid the check—the Italian business, the saucer, the folded bill, the back and forth, and more talk with the waiter. When the waiter left, saucer of money in hand, the man came to my table.
    He looked at me intently and then smiled in a familiar way, as though he knew me well.
    â€œI have arranged for you to stay here,” he said. “I was once a student”—I had started a polite protest—“no, no. It will be pleasant to have you as a neighbor. We will talk.”
    He had read me perfectly.
2
    So, within an hour of happening past the Palazzo d’Oro, I was installed in a room with a view of the sea, seated on my own balcony, in a monogrammed bathrobe, eating a chicken sandwich, clinking the ice in my Campari and soda, the breeze on my face. I had been transformed: magic.
    â€œThis is my guest,” the man had said—I still did not know his name—and he asked for my passport, which he glanced at. “Mr. Mariner requires a double room with a view of
il vulcano.
Put it on my bill.”
    A moment later he gave me his name but in an offhand way: “You can call me Harry”—as though the name was fictitious; and it was. His name was Haroun.
    When I tried to thank him he put a fingertip to his lips and then wagged the finger sternly. There was no mistaking this gesture. He made this admonishing finger seem a very serious instrument, if not a weapon.
    â€œThis can be our secret,” he said. “Not a word to the Gräfin.”
    That gave me pause, yet I had no choice but to agree, for I had accepted the free room. To ease my conscience, I told myself that if I wished I could leave at any time, as impulsively as I had come; could skip out and be gone, as I had left Fabiola, the Principessa. Even so, I felt that in acquiring the room I had been triumphant, it was a windfall, and there was a hint of mystery about Haroun that I liked, a conspiratorial tone that was comic and pleasing. And Gräfin? I supposed Gräfin was the woman.
    â€œNot a word to anyone,” I said.
    â€œThe Gräfin is not my Gräfin, as you probably think, but she is a