“Ah,” said Avalon, “and what might that be?”
“I don’t really know how I got out of the nightmare,” said Smith.
Gonzalo, looking pleased and animated, said, “Tell us what happened and I’ll bet we tell you how you got out of it.”
“I can’t very well—” began Smith.
Trumbull’s frowning face, having attempted to wither Gonzalo, turned to Smith. “I understand such things, Mr. Smith,” he said. “Suppose you omit the name of the country involved and the exact dates and any other such identifiable details. Just tell it as a story out of the Arabian Nights — if the nightmare will stand up without the dangerous details.”
Smith said, “I think it will, but seriously, gentlemen, if the matter does involve national security — and I can imagine ways in which it might — how can I be sure you are all to be trusted?”
Halsted said, “If you trust me, John, I’ll vouch for the rest of the Black Widowers — including, of course, Henry, our esteemed waiter.”
Henry, standing at the sideboard, smiled gently.
Smith was visibly tempted. “I don’t say I wouldn’t like to get this off my chest—”
“If you choose not to,” said Halsted, “I’m afraid the banquet ends. The terms of the invitation were that you were to answer all questions truthfully.”
Smith laughed. “You also said I would not be asked anything designed to humiliate me or to put me in a disgraceful light — but have it your way.”
I was visiting Europe last year [said Smith] and I’ll put the location and date no closer than that. I was a recent widower, a little lost without my wife, and rather determined to pick up the threads of life once again. I had not been much of a traveler before my retirement and I was anxious to make up for that.
I traveled alone and I was a tourist. Nothing more than that. I want to stress that in all truthfulness. I was not serving any organ of the government — and that’s true of any government, not just my own — either officially or unofficially. Nor was I there to gather information for any private organization. I was simply a tourist and nothing more and so steeped in innocence that I suppose it was too much to expect that I would not get into trouble.
I could not speak the language of the country but that didn’t bother me. I can’t speak any language but English and I have the usual provincial American attitude that that’s enough. There would always be someone, anywhere I might be, who would speak and understand English. And as a matter of fact, that always proved to be correct.
The hotel I stayed at was reasonably comfortable in appearance, though there was so foreign an aura about it that I knew I would not feel at home — but then I didn’t expect to feel at home. I couldn’t even pronounce its name, though that didn’t bother me.
I only stayed long enough to deposit my luggage and then it was ho, for the great foreign spaces where I could really get to know the people.
The man at the desk — the concierge, or whatever he might be called — spoke an odd version of English that, with a little thought, could be understood. I got a list of tourist attractions from him, some recommended restaurants, a stylized map of the city — not in English, so I doubted it would do me much good — and some general assertions as to how safe the city was and how friendly the inhabitants were.
I imagine Europeans are always eager to impress that on Americans, who are known to live dangerously. In the 19th Century they thought every American city lay under imminent threat of Indian massacre; in the first half of the 20th Century every one was full of Chicago gangsters; and now they are all full of indiscriminate muggers. So I wandered off into the city cheerfully.
[“Alone? Without knowing the language?” said Avalon, with manifest disapproval. “What time was it?”]
The shades of evening were being drawn downward by a cosmic hand and you’re right in the implication, Mr. Avalon. Cities are never as safe as their boosters claim, and I found that out. But I started off cheerfully enough. The world was full of poetry and I was enjoying myself.
There were signs of all kinds on buildings and in store windows that were beginning to be lit up in defense against the night. Since I could read none of them, I was spared their deadly prosiness.
The people were friendly. I would smile and they would smile in return. Many said something — I presume in greeting — and I would smile again and nod and wave. It was a beautiful mild evening and I was absolutely euphoric.
I don’t know how long I was walking or how far I had gone before I was quite convinced that I was lost, but even that didn’t bother me. I stepped into a tavern to ask my way to the restaurant where I had determined to go and whose name I had painstakingly memorized. I called out the name of the restaurant, pointed vaguely in various directions, shrugged, and tried to indicate that I had lost my way. Several people gathered around and one of them asked in adequate English if I were an American. I said I was and he translated that jubilantly to the others, who seemed delighted.
He said, “We don’t see many Americans here.” They then fell to studying my clothes and the cut of my hair and asking where I was from and trying to pronounce Fairfield and offering to stand me a drink. I sang The Star-Spangled Banner because they seemed to expect it and it was a real love feast. I did have a drink on an empty stomach and after that things got even love-feastier.
They told me the restaurant I asked for was very expensive, and not very good, and that I should eat right there and they would order for me and it would be on the house. It was hands across the sea and building bridges, you know, and I doubt if I had ever been happier since Regina had died. I had another drink, then another.
And then after that my memory stops until I found myself out in the street again. It was quite dark, much cooler. There were almost no people about, I had no idea where I was, and every idea that I had a splitting headache.
I sat down in a doorway and knew, even before I felt for it, that my wallet was gone. So was my wristwatch, my pens — in fact, my trousers pockets were empty and so were my jacket pockets. I had been Mickey Finned and rolled by my dear friends across the sea and they had probably taken me by car to a distant part of the city and dumped me.
The money taken was not vital. My main supply was safely back in the hotel. Still I had no money at the moment, I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t remember the name of the hotel, I felt woozy, sick, and in pain — and I needed help.
I looked for a policeman or for anyone in anything that looked like a uniform. If I had found a street cleaner, or a bus conductor, he could direct me or, better, take me to a police station.
I found a policeman. Actually, it wasn’t difficult. They are, I imagine, numerous and deliberately visible in that particular city. And I was then taken to a police station — in the equivalent of a paddy-wagon, I think. My memory has its hazy spots.
When I began to remember a bit more clearly, I was sitting on a bench in what I guessed to be the police station. No one was paying much attention to me and my headache was a little better.
A rather short man with a large mustache entered, engaged in conversation with a man behind a massive desk, then approached me. He seemed rather indifferent, but to my relief he spoke English and quite well, too, though he had a disconcerting accent.
I followed him into a rather dingy room, gray and depressing, and there the questioning began. It was the questioning that was the nightmare, though the questioner remained unfailingly, if distantly, polite. He told me his name but I don’t remember it. I honestly don’t. It began with a V, so I’ll just call him Vee if I have to.