Read Online Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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a good lunch somewhere. He awakened at a quarter to one, and got dressed. He had no tie and he could use a shave, but those things could be easily remedied. Ray stood at his window, which looked out on to tile roofs and a few tree-tops and vines in people’s gardens, a view that might have been Florence or several other Italian towns, and again he felt the nameless, paralysing fear, a sense of helplessness and defeat. You might have been dead. How is it you’re alive? Ray squirmed under his jacket. He had almost heard the voice. And once more, Coleman probably thought he was dead. Once more, Coleman didn’t give a damn, wasn’t very interested in whether he was alive or not. Because you simply don’t matter . Ray forced himself to think what he had to do next. Pay the bill here. He didn’t want to go back to the Seguso. That was it. Play dead for a few days. See what Coleman would do. The thought brought a curious relief. It was a kind of plan.
Downstairs at the desk, he asked for his bill. Number eight-four. The name, Thompson. Ray handed in his card. He paid the four thousand, six hundred and sixty lire. No passport was asked for. Ray went out the hotel doors and was immediately aware of the fact he did not want to run into Coleman. Or Inez, or Antonio. He regretted not having looked out through the glass doors before going out, and now he walked stiffly and glanced at people so frequently that a few eyes were attracted to him, so he made himself stop that. The shops were beginning to close for the long midday break. Ray went into a shop and bought a pale blue shirt and a blue-and-red striped tie. There was a cubicle for trying on clothes, and he put on the new shirt and tie in there.
Warily, Ray walked into the street the Hotel Bauer-Gruenwald was on, and turned left, away from the hotel. No Coleman, no Inez, only streams of strangers who paid him no attention. Ray went to a trattoria called Citta di Vittorio, too modest a place for Inez and Coleman to go to, he thought, but still he looked around as he opened the door. He had bought a newspaper. Ray had a slow lunch, ate all he could, but failed to finish what he had ordered. His cheeks felt hot, and his face had been pink in the mirror at the haberdasher’s. Unfortunately, he was about to be ill. It was curious to think that he might now have something that would prove to be fatal, Coleman’s follow-up blow. He debated going to a doctor for a shot of penicillin. I fell into a canal last night and …
Ray went to a doctor about four o’clock, in a dusty old building in the Calle Fiubera behind the Clock Tower. The doctor took his temperature, said he had a fever, would not give him penicillin, but gave him an envelope of large white pills and told him to go home and to bed.
The day was grey and cold, but it did not rain. Ray walked to the tailor’s shop where he had left his overcoat to be repaired, and picked the coat up. It seemed a strange transaction like one life invading another, or a bridge between two existences, the overcoat. But Coleman’s bullet-holes were gone, erased, the overcoat was like new, and he put it on. It was a good silk-lined coat from Paris. He went into a bar for a caffé and a cigarette. He had to think what to do, because the night would come soon. With a glass of water, he took two of the huge pills, tilting his head back to get them down. He remembered being ill once in Paris, when he was a child, being given a large pill to swallow, and asking the doctor in French, Why is this so big? “So the nurses won’t drop them,” the doctor had said, as if it were self-evident, and Ray still recalled his shock and sense of injustice that a nurse’s fingers should be thought of before his own throat. The doctor here had told him six per day. With the delicious, inspiring caffé, Ray felt full of ideas and anything seemed possible. He might strike up an acquaintance with a girl, tell her an interesting story, be invited to her flat, be
Downstairs at the desk, he asked for his bill. Number eight-four. The name, Thompson. Ray handed in his card. He paid the four thousand, six hundred and sixty lire. No passport was asked for. Ray went out the hotel doors and was immediately aware of the fact he did not want to run into Coleman. Or Inez, or Antonio. He regretted not having looked out through the glass doors before going out, and now he walked stiffly and glanced at people so frequently that a few eyes were attracted to him, so he made himself stop that. The shops were beginning to close for the long midday break. Ray went into a shop and bought a pale blue shirt and a blue-and-red striped tie. There was a cubicle for trying on clothes, and he put on the new shirt and tie in there.
Warily, Ray walked into the street the Hotel Bauer-Gruenwald was on, and turned left, away from the hotel. No Coleman, no Inez, only streams of strangers who paid him no attention. Ray went to a trattoria called Citta di Vittorio, too modest a place for Inez and Coleman to go to, he thought, but still he looked around as he opened the door. He had bought a newspaper. Ray had a slow lunch, ate all he could, but failed to finish what he had ordered. His cheeks felt hot, and his face had been pink in the mirror at the haberdasher’s. Unfortunately, he was about to be ill. It was curious to think that he might now have something that would prove to be fatal, Coleman’s follow-up blow. He debated going to a doctor for a shot of penicillin. I fell into a canal last night and …
Ray went to a doctor about four o’clock, in a dusty old building in the Calle Fiubera behind the Clock Tower. The doctor took his temperature, said he had a fever, would not give him penicillin, but gave him an envelope of large white pills and told him to go home and to bed.
The day was grey and cold, but it did not rain. Ray walked to the tailor’s shop where he had left his overcoat to be repaired, and picked the coat up. It seemed a strange transaction like one life invading another, or a bridge between two existences, the overcoat. But Coleman’s bullet-holes were gone, erased, the overcoat was like new, and he put it on. It was a good silk-lined coat from Paris. He went into a bar for a caffé and a cigarette. He had to think what to do, because the night would come soon. With a glass of water, he took two of the huge pills, tilting his head back to get them down. He remembered being ill once in Paris, when he was a child, being given a large pill to swallow, and asking the doctor in French, Why is this so big? “So the nurses won’t drop them,” the doctor had said, as if it were self-evident, and Ray still recalled his shock and sense of injustice that a nurse’s fingers should be thought of before his own throat. The doctor here had told him six per day. With the delicious, inspiring caffé, Ray felt full of ideas and anything seemed possible. He might strike up an acquaintance with a girl, tell her an interesting story, be invited to her flat, be
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