“Yes, the Hassler,” said the man with great relief, sinking down against the seat, his eyes rolling up in his head suddenly as if he were going to die then and there.
But when they reached the familiar lobby, where Yuri had played often as a child, but not enough to be remembered by the aloof and critical-looking employees, it seemed the man had no room there-only a great wad of Italian money, and an impressive packet of international credit cards. In smooth and easy Italian-broken only by a few coughs-the man explained that he wanted a suite, his right arm all the while heavily draped over Yuri’s shoulder, no explanation for Yuri’s presence as he leaned upon Yuri, as if, if it weren’t for Yuri, he would fall.
On the bed, he collapsed and lay silent for a long time. A faint warm stagnant odor rose from him, and his eyes slowly opened and closed.
Yuri ordered soup from room service, bread and butter, wine. He didn’t know what else to do for this man. The man lay there smiling at him, as if he found something in Yuri’s manner endearing. Yuri knew that expression. His mother had often looked at him in that way.
Yuri went into the bathroom to smoke a cigarette, so the smoke would not bother the man.
When the soup came he fed the man spoon by spoon. The room was nice and warm. And he did not mind lifting the wineglass to the man’s lips. It made him feel good to see the man eat. His own hunger in recent months among the gypsies had been a terrible, terrible thing to him, something he’d never known as a little child.
Only when some of the wine trickled down the man’s badly shaven chin did Yuri realize that part of this man’s body was paralyzed. The man tried to move his right arm and hand but couldn’t. Indeed, it had been with his left hand that he’d been trying to write in the café, Yuri realized, and with his left hand that he had taken his money from his pocket downstairs; and that was why he had dropped it. The arm placed around Yuri had been useless, almost impossible to control. Half the man’s face was paralyzed as well.
“What can I do for you?” Yuri asked in Italian. “Shall I call a doctor? You must have a doctor. What about your family? Can you tell me how to call them?”
“Talk to me,” said the man in Italian. “Stay with me. Don’t go away.”
“Talk? But why? What should I say?”
“Tell me stories,” said the man softly in Italian. “Tell me who you are and where you come from. Tell me your name.”
Yuri made up a story. This time he was from India, the son of a maharaja. His mother had run away with him. They had been kidnapped by murderous men in Paris. Yuri had only just escaped. He said all these things rapidly and lightly, with little or no feeling, and he realized the man was smiling at him; the man knew he was making it up; and as the man smiled, and even laughed a little, Yuri began to embellish, making the tale all the more fantastic and slightly silly and as surprising as possible, loving to see the flash of good humor in the man’s eyes.
Yuri’s make-believe mother had had a fabulous jewel in her possession. A giant ruby which the maharaja must have back. But his mother had hid it in a safe-deposit box in Rome, and when the murderers strangled her and threw her body in the Tiber, she shouted with her last gasp of breath to Yuri that he must never tell where it was. He had then hopped into a little Fiat automobile and made a spectacular escape from his captors. And when he got the jewel, he had discovered the most amazing thing. It was no jewel at all but a tiny box, with a spring lock and little hinges, and inside lay a vial of fluid which gave one eternal health and youth.
Yuri stopped suddenly. A great sinking feeling came over him. Indeed he thought he was going to be sick. In a panic, he continued, speaking in the same voice. “Of course it was too late for my mother; she was dead and gone into the Tiber. But the fluid can save the whole world.”
He looked down. The man was smiling at him from the pillow, his hair matted and damp on his forehead and on his neck, his shirt soiled around the collar from this dampness, his tie loose.
“Could it save me?” asked the man.
“Oh, yes!” said Yuri. “Yes, but…”
“Your captors took it,” said the man.
“Yes, they crept up behind me right in the lobby of the bank! They snatched it from my fingers. I ran to the bank guard. I seized his pistol. I shot two of them dead on the floor. But the other ran with the jewel. And the tragedy, the horror, yes, the horror is that he does not know what is in it. He will probably sell it to some peddler. He does not know! The maharaja never told the evil men why he wanted my mother brought back.”
Yuri stopped. How could he have said such a thing…a fluid that would give one eternal youth? And here this young man was sick unto death, maybe even dying, unable to move his right arm, though he tried again and again to lift it. How could Yuri have said it? And he thought of his own mother, dead on the little bed in Serbia, and the gypsies coming in and saying they were his cousins and uncles! Liars! And the filth there, the filth.
Surely she would never never have left him there if she had dreamed of what was going to happen. A cold fury filled him.
“Tell me about the maharaja’s palace,” said the man softly.
“Oh, yes, the palace. Well, it’s made entirely of white marble…” With a great soft relief Yuri pictured it. He talked of the floors, the carpets, the furniture…
And after that he told many stories about India, and Paris, and fabulous places he had been.
When he woke it was early morning. He was seated at the window with his arms folded on the sill. He had been sleeping that way, his head on his arms. The great sprawling city of Rome lay under a gray hazy light. Noises rose from the narrow streets below. He could hear the thunder of all those tiny motorcars rushing to and fro.
He looked at the man. The man was staring at him. For a moment he thought the man was dead. Then the man said softly, “Yuri, you must make a call for me now.”
Yuri nodded. He noted silently that he had not told this man his name. Well, perhaps he’d used it in the stories. It didn’t matter. He brought the phone from the bedside table, and, climbing on the bed, beside the man, he repeated the name and number to the operator. The call was to a man in London. When he answered, it was in English, what Yuri knew to be an educated voice.
Yuri relayed the message as the sick man lay there speaking softly and spiritlessly in Italian.
“I am calling for your son, Andrew. He is very sick. Very. He is in the Hotel Hassler in Rome. He asks that you come to him. He says he can no longer come to you.”
The man on the other end switched quickly into Italian and the conversation went on for some time.
“No, sir,” Yuri argued, obeying Andrew’s instructions. “He says he will not see a doctor. Yes, sir, he will remain here.” Yuri gave the room number. “I will see that he eats, sir.” Yuri described the man’s condition as best he could with the man listening to him. He described the apparent paralysis. He knew the father was frantic with worry. The father would take the next plane for Rome.
“I’ll try to persuade him to see a doctor. Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Yuri,” said the man on the other end of the line. And once again, Yuri realized he had not told this man his name. “Please do stay with him,” said the man. “And I shall be there as soon as I possibly can.”
“Don’t worry,” said Yuri. “I won’t leave.”
As soon as he’d rung off, he put forth the argument again.
“No doctors,” said Andrew. “If you pick up that phone and call for a doctor, I’ll jump from this window. Do you hear? No doctors. It’s much too late for that.”