The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro by Paul Theroux Page A

buildings for my project, everyone takes me for a whore. That waiter was pretty typical. That’s why I have to keep on the move.”
    â€œMaybe I could come with you to Siracusa.”
    â€œThat’s just what
they
say!”
    â€œI mean, to protect you—to run interference.”
    â€œMaybe we can talk about it,” she said nicely.
    She took off her sunglasses, seeming to peel them in one motion from her eyes, which were gray, and she took off her headscarf and shook the dust from it as her hair tumbled to her shoulders. Her hair was streaked by the sunlight and she was slim and a bit damp from her exertion: she had been walking.
    I loved her looks and her air of spontaneity and self-reliance, but just as much I loved the fact that we spoke the same language. I had gotten so used to talking with waiters in Italian and with the Gräfin and Haroun in basic English—slowly and always finishing my sentences—that I had almost forgotten the pleasure and directness of talking with another American. Meeting this woman was like meeting my sister—someone from my own family—and I was reminded of who I really was.
    She said, “I thought you might be a German. Those shoes. That jacket. It’s the look. Fashion is one of my interests. Usually I can spot an American a mile off. You had me fooled. I think that’s pretty good.”
    The Gräfin and Haroun had turned me into a German. I liked the concealment even if I was not keen on the identity.
    â€œI’ve got some German friends here.”
    â€œItalians can’t stand the
Tedeschi
.”
    She spoke knowingly, sure of herself, which irritated me, because although it was true that Italians disliked Germans, they didn’t hate them, they were too self-possessed to hate anyone—they were guided by village prejudices and village wisdom. Instead of telling her this I asked her what her name was—it was Myra Messersmith—and bought her a cup of coffee.
    â€œGilford Mariner. Please call me Gil.”
    And we talked in that familiar, self-conscious way of isolated Americans abroad. It was not until I began to talk, unburdening myself, that I realized how many complaints I had. We swapped grievances, another habit of American expatriates, complained about the irregular hours of bars and banks and shops, the uncertainty of museum hours, the watchfulness of men, the nosiness of women, the way Italians littered their landscape, the loudness of motor scooters, the tiny cars, the long meals, the irritable bus conductors, the slowness of service, the persecution of animals, the adoration of babies, the tedium of Sundays, the peculiarities of academic life, the pedantry of teachers, the smugness of priests.
    â€œPeople with a simple BA degree call themselves
dottore.
”
    â€œPriests leer at my boobs and imply that they can personally get me into Heaven.”
    â€œEveryone smokes—even me!”
    So we talked and compared notes and it seemed we agreed on most things.
    She said after a while, “How much does your hotel cost?”
    Her question took me by surprise and embarrassed me. I didn’t have an answer. I said, stalling, “It depends on how long you stay.”
    â€œI’d like to stay a few days and then maybe we could go to Siracusa.”
    â€œIt's really not far. We could get there in a few hours—maybe a day trip from here.”
    Already we were talking as though we were going together. It excited me to think that I would be leaving Taormina with this pretty girl who already was such pleasant company, a comforting prospect that eased my mind.
    â€œI don't blame you for staying here. It’s so beautiful. I guess that’s Etna.”
    The shapely volcano emitted a trickle of smoke that rose in a ragged vertical rope, like a dark vine climbing into the windless air.
    â€œThat thing could blow at any moment.”
    Myra laughed and clutched her throat and said, “I