The Other Side of Silence

I didn’t stay for breakfast, after all. I went quickly down the staircase of the Villa Mauresque and out to my car, ignoring Ernest and his offer of the silver coffeepot. The clipped lawns and carefully tended hedges of pink and white oleanders contrasted sharply with the wreckage that was inside me, almost as though the gardens had been carefully designed as a poignant reminder of what a hollow man I was and how empty I felt. Brilliant blue dragonflies hovered over the surface of the swimming pool like flying sapphires. The scent of orange and lemon blossom might have originated in an extra heavenly part of paradise itself. Everything in the garden looked and felt precious. Everything except me. I didn’t belong there. But that was all right. In my eyes the absolute perfection of the Villa Mauresque was imperfect. I could never have belonged somewhere like that, among men without women. They were risky creatures, women, but that’s what life was for-to take risks. I got into the car. It didn’t start the first time, or the second, but on the third attempt the engine wheezed into life like old lungs and I steered slowly down the gravel drive. In the rearview mirror I caught sight of Somerset Maugham watching my departure from the wrought-iron balcony in front of his bedroom. He would die soon. He knew that. He looked dead already. His thoughts were always on death now. But whether he would die before me remained to be seen.

I went to the Grand Hotel, put on my morning coat, straightened my tie and my cuffs, adopted a smile, took up my station behind the desk, and waited.