Read Online Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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told the man Accademia, he thought. On the other hand, San Marco was closer, and there he could find a bar, an hotel lobby, in which to get warm. A vaporetto crossed their bow, looking like a furnace of warmth with all its lights, full of calm, comfortable people facing forward.
“Have you a hotel? I’ll take you to your hotel,” said the gondolier.
He must give him a tremendous tip, Ray thought, and his numb hand moved towards his inside jacket pocket, could not open his trench-coat buttons, pressed the side of his coat, and Ray thought but was not sure that the wallet was still there. “It’s in the vicinity of San Marco,” Ray said. “I think I can walk, thank you.”
Swish—swish went the gondola, attacking the distance with soft lunges. The wind whipped past the open front of the cabin, but Ray no longer felt the brunt of it. It was probably the most unromantic gondola ride anyone ever had, Ray thought. He wrung out the ends of his trench-coat, then trouser cuffs. San Marco was drawing nearer. They were headed for the Piazzetta, between the Ducal Palace and the tall column of the campanile. “I am sorry to have wet your gondola,” Ray said.
“Ah, Rosita is not a…boat. Not now. Anyway in the winter she carries oil and vegetables. It is more profitable than tourists when there aren’t any.”
Ray could not understand every word. “You’re finishing—” he began hoarsely, “finishing work this late?”
A laugh. “No, I start. I go to the railroad station. I sleep a little in the boat, then we start around five-thirty, six.”
Ray stamped his feet, assessing his strength. Perhaps he could make it to the Hotel Luna from San Marco.
“A fine joke, your friends. Americans, too?”
“Yes,” Ray said. The land was very near. “Anywhere here. I am very grateful. You saved my life.”
“Ah, another boat would have come along,” said the Italian. “You should have a hot bath, lots of cognac, otherwise you…”
The rest was lost on Ray, but he supposed that he would catch his death.
The gondola’s gold-combed prow, after heading dangerously for the stern of a large excursion boat, swerved and slid neatly into a slit between striped poles. The gondola braked, the prow kissed the pier gently, bobbing. The Italian grabbed something on the pier, braced his legs and turned the boat sideways, made it go forward, and steps appeared on their left, Ray stood up on shaking legs, then on all fours debarked, placing hands on the stone steps before he climbed. A fine sight for the doges!
The Italian laughed, worried. Is everything all right? Maybe I should walk with you.
Ray did not want that. He stood up on hard, flat stone, feet apart for balance. “Thank you infinitely.” He struggled desperately with trench-coat buttons, pulled out the wallet. Vaguely, he realized he had some twenty notes folded in squares, and he pulled out about half of them. “With my thanks. For another bottle of cognac.”
“Ah, signor, è troppo!” A wave of the hand, a laugh, but he accepted the money, and his face widened with his smile. He had a stubble of grey beard.
“It is not enough. A thousand thanks. Addio.”
“Addio, signor.” He shook Ray’s hand hard. “I wish you health.”
Ray turned and walked away, aware that two men paused briefly to stare at him. Ray did not look at them. He walked slowly, shook his clothes so they would not cling, and shivered violently. Everything looked shut. San Marco’s showed only two or three lights of places that were closed and cleaning up. Ray turned right, making for the Luna. But the Luna lobby was too big and open, Ray remembered; he would be noticed, asked his business. Ray veered suddenly into a small bar-caffé. There was a counter. He stood and asked for a cappuccino and a cognac. The cognac the boy poured was Stock. Ray did not like it, but was in no state to protest. While he waited for his coffee, a sudden hostility against Coleman rushed through him, as if
“Have you a hotel? I’ll take you to your hotel,” said the gondolier.
He must give him a tremendous tip, Ray thought, and his numb hand moved towards his inside jacket pocket, could not open his trench-coat buttons, pressed the side of his coat, and Ray thought but was not sure that the wallet was still there. “It’s in the vicinity of San Marco,” Ray said. “I think I can walk, thank you.”
Swish—swish went the gondola, attacking the distance with soft lunges. The wind whipped past the open front of the cabin, but Ray no longer felt the brunt of it. It was probably the most unromantic gondola ride anyone ever had, Ray thought. He wrung out the ends of his trench-coat, then trouser cuffs. San Marco was drawing nearer. They were headed for the Piazzetta, between the Ducal Palace and the tall column of the campanile. “I am sorry to have wet your gondola,” Ray said.
“Ah, Rosita is not a…boat. Not now. Anyway in the winter she carries oil and vegetables. It is more profitable than tourists when there aren’t any.”
Ray could not understand every word. “You’re finishing—” he began hoarsely, “finishing work this late?”
A laugh. “No, I start. I go to the railroad station. I sleep a little in the boat, then we start around five-thirty, six.”
Ray stamped his feet, assessing his strength. Perhaps he could make it to the Hotel Luna from San Marco.
“A fine joke, your friends. Americans, too?”
“Yes,” Ray said. The land was very near. “Anywhere here. I am very grateful. You saved my life.”
“Ah, another boat would have come along,” said the Italian. “You should have a hot bath, lots of cognac, otherwise you…”
The rest was lost on Ray, but he supposed that he would catch his death.
The gondola’s gold-combed prow, after heading dangerously for the stern of a large excursion boat, swerved and slid neatly into a slit between striped poles. The gondola braked, the prow kissed the pier gently, bobbing. The Italian grabbed something on the pier, braced his legs and turned the boat sideways, made it go forward, and steps appeared on their left, Ray stood up on shaking legs, then on all fours debarked, placing hands on the stone steps before he climbed. A fine sight for the doges!
The Italian laughed, worried. Is everything all right? Maybe I should walk with you.
Ray did not want that. He stood up on hard, flat stone, feet apart for balance. “Thank you infinitely.” He struggled desperately with trench-coat buttons, pulled out the wallet. Vaguely, he realized he had some twenty notes folded in squares, and he pulled out about half of them. “With my thanks. For another bottle of cognac.”
“Ah, signor, è troppo!” A wave of the hand, a laugh, but he accepted the money, and his face widened with his smile. He had a stubble of grey beard.
“It is not enough. A thousand thanks. Addio.”
“Addio, signor.” He shook Ray’s hand hard. “I wish you health.”
Ray turned and walked away, aware that two men paused briefly to stare at him. Ray did not look at them. He walked slowly, shook his clothes so they would not cling, and shivered violently. Everything looked shut. San Marco’s showed only two or three lights of places that were closed and cleaning up. Ray turned right, making for the Luna. But the Luna lobby was too big and open, Ray remembered; he would be noticed, asked his business. Ray veered suddenly into a small bar-caffé. There was a counter. He stood and asked for a cappuccino and a cognac. The cognac the boy poured was Stock. Ray did not like it, but was in no state to protest. While he waited for his coffee, a sudden hostility against Coleman rushed through him, as if
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