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

love melodrama. Oh, right, I can see the red-hot lava pouring down the side and endangering our lives.”
    â€œI’d lead you to safety—into the catacombs of the Duomo.”
    â€œThat sounds exciting, Gil.”
    This confident teasing was a sort of flirting and already I was saying “we.” She liked me, I could tell; she didn’t fear me. She was glad to have met me, she would test me a little more, and I would pass, and we would become traveling companions, cozier than ever, rubbing along through Sicily.
    While I was talking to Myra Messersmith this way, needling her gently, she became interested in something behind me and stopped listening to me. Her eyes were fixed on a moving object and she seemed to grow warier, her face darkening a bit, almost alarmed, and then she jerked her head back, startled. At that instant I felt a sharp poke against my shoulder and the harsh whisper, “Come wiz me.”
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Myra said.
    I had turned to see the Gräfin walking away.
    â€œLong story.” The Gräfin had never come to the Mocambo before.
    â€œThat's the third time you’ve said that.”
    â€œEverything’s a long story to me. I’m an existentialist.”
    But Myra did not smile. She was thinking hard. Women know other women, because unlike men they are not beguiled by appearances: they know exactly what lies behind any feminine surface. Myra’s alertness, the single woman’s scrutiny, something new to me, amazed me with its accuracy in processing details and giving them significance—finding clues, searching for dangers, all in aid, I guessed, of choosing a mate. Men were casual, women so cautious. Even from this swift glimpse of the Gräfin, Myra knew me much better.
    â€œHer heels are amazing. What’s with those gloves? The hat’s Chanel, and so is the dress. I bet she gets her hair done every day. The dress is raw silk—you can tell by the way it drapes. Did you see the gold threads? That’s real gold. It’s from Thailand.”
    I took Myra’s interest for curiosity, a way of telling me that she understood fashion; and I was startled to see her rising from the café table. There was a cloud on her face, a sort of resignation and quiet anger that might have been rueful. I saw that in that moment of witnessing the Gräfin poke me, Myra had written me off as someone she could not rely on. She had summed up the situation before I said a word.
    â€œI’m going to Siracusa.”
    â€œWhy?” I said, sounding lame.
    â€œIt’s not far—you said so yourself.”
    â€œI thought we were going together.”
    She said in a warning tone, “You’re keeping your friend waiting, Gilford.”
    She had indeed written me off. She knew everything, it all fitted, my clothes, my presumption, my vagueness, “Long story,” the sudden appearance and unequivocal demand of the Gräfin.
    â€œThese Germans really overdress. Especially the older ones,” she said, and turned and passed the waiter, leaving a thousand-lire note on his saucer for the coffee and the tip: pride.
    I felt like a small boy exposed in a needless insulting lie, who would never be trusted again.
    â€œSee ya.”
    Her false bonhomie gave her a sort of pathos, but she seemed brave as she crossed the Piazzale Nove Aprile with her bag in one hand and her map in the other. She walked purposefully but she was weary and burdened and so she was a little lopsided; but she was free. She was the person I had once been, before I had met the Gräfin. I could not bear to watch her go.
    The Gräfin was on the terrace of the palazzo when I got back. The waiter stood beside her holding a bottle of wine. I sat down. He poured me a glass.
    â€œDrink, drink,” the Gräfin said.
    I did so, and my anger flattened the taste of the wine, soured it in my mouth. I watched the shadows rise up the walls of the