The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro by Paul Theroux Read Free Book Online Page B

reacted as though I had been slapped in the face. I was so embarrassed I was off balance. I tried to explain. She rejected me, rejected my explanation. She entered her room—fled into it—and shut the door hard.
    A foot-shuffle down the hall told me that someone had heard, and that bothered me more than anything.
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    The next day she was at breakfast as usual, looking composed, even refreshed; no sign of distress.
    I said, “I am very sorry about last night.”
    Just a slight flash of her eyebrows indicated she had heard me, but there was nothing else, and not a word.
    I said, “I’m afraid I was a little drunk.”
    For a moment I thought she was going to cry. Her skin wrinkled around her eyes, her mouth quivered, and she struggled with it, the effort showing on the thin pale skin of her face, and as she fought it her eyes glistened. Then the emotion passed, and though she did not say anything I knew she was angry—because of what I had tried to do, or because of my lame apology, I did not know, but I saw that afterward she turned to stone. Except for our chewing, breakfast was silent, and it was all so painful I finally crept away, feeling like the dog I was.
    Haroun recovered that day. He looked brighter, he offered to run the errands, taking a taxi to the shops below in Mazzarò. He spent the day with the Gräfin and by afternoon he looked harassed and impatient. I began to surmise that in his absence he had been enjoying a dalliance with one of the boys on the staff, that he resented having to reappear for duty with the Gräfin. They spoke German that day. I was excluded, and it seemed to me that not I but Haroun was being given an ultimatum.
    That night, exactly a week after I had arrived in Taormina, Haroun said, “The Gräfin is very unhappy. You must go.”
    â€œI did my best,” I said.
    He shook his head. He said, “No. I have failed.”
    It amazed me that he did not offer me any blame. He reproached himself. He sucked on his cigarette and spat out the smoke, looking rueful, hardly taking any notice of me, and not mentioning the fact that he had been paying my hotel room and all my expenses for a week, enriching me.
    â€œShe does not think she is beautiful,” Haroun said.
    That was not at all the impression I had. The Gräfin seemed impossibly vain about her beauty, and I knew from the casual way she moved her body and exposed herself that she was utterly unselfconscious, which was the ultimate sexuality: no matter how many clothes she wore, she was at heart a nudist.
    â€œShe is lovely,” I said.
    â€œYou think so?” He looked into my face as though testing it for truthfulness.
    â€œYes, I do.”
    â€œShe doesn’t agree. She is not convinced.”
    Haroun stared in silence at the stars and dropped his gaze to where they sparkled on the sea.
    â€œA lovely face,” I said. “Like a Madonna.”
    This was a bit excessive, but what did it matter? I was on my way out. Why not leave them smiling? But Haroun liked what I said, and nodded heavily, looking moved.
    â€œIf you truly think so, you must find a way of convincing her. I will give you some days. Otherwise you must go.”
4
    That was my challenge: the strange task assigned by the Gray Dwarf to the Wanderer in the folktale, the young man on the parapet of the palace. The Countess was still in her tower, facing her looking glass—and in my version of this scene she had a mirrored glimpse of the young man on the balcony above her, as well as of her pretty face.
    I had to succeed or else I would be banished. That was the narrative. But there was something beneath it. I had not been lying to Haroun in praising the Gräfin. I thought she was beautiful, I knew she was wealthy, she seemed like a sorceress, I desired her. I wanted badly to make love to this seemingly unattainable woman, who did nothing but insult me and reject my advances.
    I did not want to