The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro Read Free Page A

very dear friend. I have known her for years—we have been absolutely everywhere together.”
    This was in my room—he had followed me there with the room boy—not a
Moro,
then, but a square-shouldered Sicilian boy, and Haroun was sort of eyeing the boy as he spoke to me, sizing him up as the boy bent and stretched, putting my bag on a small table and adjusting the fastenings of the shutters.
    â€œLook at the skin these people have!”
    He pinched the boy’s cheek and arm, like someone choosing cloth for a suit. The boy, preoccupied with the shutters, smirked and allowed it.
    â€œNever touch their women,” Haroun said. “That is the iron rule in Sicily. They will kill you. But their boys—look what skin!”
    Now it seemed to me that the boy knew he was being admired, and he stepped away from Haroun and said, “
Bacio la mano
”—I kiss your hand—and somewhat giddy with this byplay, Haroun snatched the boy’s hand and pressed some folded money into it.
    â€œCiao, bello,”
Haroun said to the boy, smiling as he watched him leave my room and shut the door.
    Alone with Haroun I felt more uncomfortable than I had when the boy was there—the compromising sense that it was not my room, that in accepting it I had accepted this small, dark, smiling man who I felt was about to importune me. But from what he said next I realized that his smile meant he was remembering something with pleasure. Sometimes people smile to show you they are remembering something happy in their past.
    â€œThe Gräfin is such a dear friend,” he said. “And we have our secrets too.”
    Something in the way he spoke made me think the woman was giving him money.
    â€œShe is a fantastic person,” he said. “Wonderful. Generous.”
    Then I was sure of it.
    â€œAnd she is very sensitive.” The way he stood in the room, lingering and looking around, conveyed the impression that the room was his—and of course it was. “All her noble qualities have given her a great soul and a fantastic capacity for friendship. I think somehow you guessed that about her.”
    I had guessed that she was a rich, difficult woman who was not interested in anyone but herself, yet I smiled at Haroun and agreed that she was a sensitive person with a great soul. In this room I felt I had to agree, but agreeing was easy—this was small talk, or so I thought.
    â€œI can see that you understand things quickly,” he said. “I admire you Americans, just showing up in a strange place with your passport in your pocket and a little valise. Fantastic.”
    He saw everything. He made me shy.
    â€œProbably you want to rest,” he said. “We usually have a drink on the terrace at seven. This is a lovely place. I think you will enjoy it.
Ciao
for now.”
    Was that an invitation? I didn't know, but it did seem to me that I was part of a larger arrangement that at the moment I could only guess at. After he left I ordered the sandwich and the Campari and soda and tried not to ponder what the larger arrangement was. I told myself: I can leave tomorrow, just as I came, on the train to Messina. Being hard up in Italy didn't frighten me—people were friendly, strangers could be hospitable, I spoke Italian, I was personable—well, this hotel room was proof of that.
    I guessed that something was expected of me. I did not know what, but something.
    Because I had not been specifically invited, I did not appear on the terrace until nearly eight o'clock. The woman Haroun called Gräfin was holding a glass of wine and looking at the lights on the distant sea—fishing boats—and Haroun raised his hand in an effortless beckoning gesture that had a definite meaning: the languid summons of a person who is used to being obeyed. The woman herself, her head turned to the bobbing lights, seemed uninterested in me.
    â€œLook, Gräfin, our friend the