The Foreign Correspondent

In the priest’s eyes, both approval and a hint of envy. If life had been different…“I’ll help you any way I can,” he said. “And you can keep me company at supper.”

“I’d like that, Father.”

“You’re not the first one they’ve brought to me. It’s an old custom, sanctuary.” He stood, looked at a clock on the desk, and said, “I have to serve Mass. You are welcome to take part, if it’s your custom.”

“Not for a long time,” Weisz said.

The priest smiled. “I do hear that, quite often, but it’s as you wish.”

Weisz went out once, that afternoon, walking over to a post office, where he used the telephone to call the contact number for Emil. It rang for a long time, but the woman never answered. He had no idea what that meant, and no idea what had happened at the piazza. He suspected it might have been, in his case, an accident-with the wrong person at the wrong time, the landlord spotted and denounced when he entered the neighborhood. For what? Weisz had no idea. But this was not the OVRA, they would have been there in force. Of course, it was just barely possible that he’d been betrayed-by Emil, by Grassone, or someone in the via Corvino. But it didn’t matter, he would sail on the Hydraios the next day, at midnight, and, in time, it would be for Mr. Brown to sort things out.

28 June, 10:30 P.M.

Sitting on the rim of a dry fountain, at the top of the staircase that led down to the wharf, Weisz could see the Hydraios. She was still tied to the pier, but a thin column of smoke drifted from her stack as she got up steam, prepared to sail at midnight. He could see, as well, the shed opposite the pier, and Nunzio, the customs officer for the crews of merchant ships, his chair tilted back against the table where he processed documents. Very relaxed, Nunzio, his night duty a soft job, idly passing the time, this evening, with two uniformed policemen, one lounging against the door of the shed, the other sitting on a crate.

Weisz could also see the crew of the Hydraios, drifting back from their liberty in Genoa. They’d left together, the night the ship docked, but now they returned, rather the worse for wear, in twos and threes. Weisz watched as three of the sailors approached the shed; two of them holding up a third, his arms around their shoulders, sometimes venturing a few steps, sometimes losing consciousness, the tips of his shoes bumping over the cobbles as he was towed along.

At the table, the two sailors produced their passports, then, a bad moment, hunted for their friend’s papers, finally discovering them tucked in the back of his pants. Nunzio laughed, and the cops joined in. What a head he’d have tomorrow morning!

Nunzio took the first sailor’s passport, laid it flat on the table, and looked up and down, twice, the action of a man checking a photograph against a face. Yes, it was him allright. Nunzio gave his port-and-date stamp an officious wiggle on an ink pad, then brought it down emphatically on the passport. As he worked, one of the policemen strolled up to the table and, peering over Nunzio’s shoulder, had a look. Just making sure, might as well.

11:00. The church bells rang. 11:20. A rush of sailors headed for the Hydraios, hurrying to get on board, two or three officers in their midst. Ten minutes later, the second engineer showed up, dawdling, strolling along the wharf, waiting for Weisz, so he could walk him through the passport control. Eventually, he gave up, joined the crowd at the table, and, with a final glance back toward the quay, climbed up the gangway.

Weisz never moved. He was not a merchant seaman, he was, according to his libretto di lavoro, a senior official. Why would he be traveling to Marseilles on a Greek freighter? At 11:55, a deep blast on the ship’s foghorn echoed over the waterfront, and two seamen cranked the gangway up to the deck, while others, assisted by a stevedore, hauled in the lines that had secured the ship to the pier.

Then, at midnight, with one more wail of its horn, the Hydraios steamed slowly out to sea.

7 July.

A warm summer night in Portofino.

Paradise. Below the terrace of the Hotel Splendido, lights twinkled in the port, and, when the breeze was right, music from parties on the yachts came drifting up the hillside. In the card room, British tourists played bridge. At the pool, three American girls were sprawled in steamer chairs, drinking Negronis, and seriously considering the possibility of never going back to Wellesley. In the pool, their friend floated languidly on her back, swished her hands now and then to keep from sinking, gazed up at the stars and dreamed of being in love. Well, dreamed of doing what people did when they were in love. A kiss, a caress, another kiss. Another caress. Twice, he’d danced with her, the night before: gentle, courtly, his eyes, his hands, his Italian accent with a British lilt. “May I have this dance?” Oh yes. And, on her last night in Portofino, he could have had a little more, could Carlo, Car-lo, if he wanted.

They’d talked, for a time, after they’d danced, strolling along the candlelit terrace by the bar. Talked idly, of this or that. But when she’d told him she’d be going off to Genoa, where she and her friends would sail for New York on an Italian liner, he seemed to lose interest, and the intimate question had never been asked. And now, she would be going back to Cos Cob, going back-intact. Still, nothing could stop her from dreaming about him; his hands, his eyes, his lips.

True, he had lost interest, when he’d learned that she had not come to Portofino on a yacht. Not that she wasn’t appealing. He could see her down there as he looked out his window, a white star on blue water, and, if it had been a few years earlier…But it wasn’t.

After the Hydraios had sailed off without him, he’d spent the night at the Brignole railway station, then taken the first train down the coast to the resort town of Santa Margherita. There he’d bought a valise, and the best resort clothes-blazer, white slacks, short-sleeved tennis shirts-he could find. Oh he spent money like water, and what an S. Kolbish lesson this had turned out to be! Then, after the purchase of razor and shaving soap and toothbrush and the rest of it, he’d packed the valise and taken a taxi-there was no train-off to Portofino, and the Hotel Splendido.

Plenty of rooms, that summer, some of their regular guests weren’t traveling to Italy, that summer. For Weisz, good fortune, and the morning he arrived, he changed clothes and embarked on his campaign: a presence at the pool, in the bar, at afternoon tea in the salon; talkative, charming, the most amiable fellow imaginable. He’d tried with the British, joining this party and that, people off the yachts, but they wanted nothing to do with him-the discouragement of ingratiating foreigners a skill learned early, in the public schools, by the sort of people who came to Portofino.

And he was beginning to despair, was beginning to consider a journey to a nearby fishing village-good-size boats, poor fishermen-when he discovered the party of Danes, and their effusive leader. “Just call me Sven!” What a dinner! Table for twelve-six Danes and their new hotel friends-bottles of champagne, laughter, winks and sly references on the subject of nighttime merriment aboard the Ambrosia, Sven’s yacht. It was Sven’s wife, white-haired and breathtaking, who’d finally, in her slow Scandinavian English, said the magic words: “But we must find our way to see you more, dear man, for the Thursday we sail to the Saint-Tropez.”

“Maybe I should just come along with you.”

“Oh Carlo, could you?”

A last look out the window, then Weisz stood at the mirror and combed his hair. This was the Danes’ last night in Portofino, and the dinner was sure to be elaborate and noisy. One final glance at the mirror, lapels brushed, and off to war.

It was as he’d thought-champagne, grilled sole, cognac, and great affection all ‘round the table. But Weisz caught the host looking at him, more than once, some question lurking in the back of his mind. Sven was jovial, and good fun, but that was on the surface. He’d made his money owning lead mines in South Africa, was no fool, and was, Weisz sensed, on to him. So, after the cognac, Sven suggested that the company gather at the bar, while he and his friend Carlo had themselves a promised game of billiards.

And so they did-the angles of Sven’s face sharpened by the light above the table in the shadowy billiard room. Weisz did his best, but Sven could really play, and whisked the beads across the brass wire with the tip of his cue as the score mounted. “So, my friend, are you coming with us to Saint-Tropez?”

“Certainly I would like to.”

“So I see. But, can you leave Italy so easily? Do you not require, ah, some form of permission?”