The Other Side of Silence

I don’t think Spinola would be very surprised to discover I had a secret past. He speaks Ivan almost as well as I do, and I’m more or less certain he was an officer with the Italian 8th Army in Russia and must have been one of the lucky ones who got out in 1943 following the rout at the Battle of Nikolajewka. He doesn’t talk about the war, of course. That’s the great thing about bridge. Nobody talks about anything very much. It’s the perfect game for people who have something to hide. I tried to teach it to Elisabeth but she didn’t have the patience for the drills I wanted to show her that would have made her a better player. Another reason she didn’t take to the game was that she doesn’t speak English-which is the language we play bridge in because that’s the only language the Roses can speak.

A day or two after the arrival of Hennig at the Grand Hotel I went down to La Voile d’Or to play bridge with Spinola and the Roses. As usual they were late and I found Spinola sitting at the bar, staring blankly at the wallpaper. He was in a somber mood, chain-smoking Gauloises in his short ebony holder and drinking Americanos. With his dark curly hair, easy smile, and muscular good looks, he always reminded me a little of the film actor Cornel Wilde.

“What are you doing?” I asked, speaking Russian to him. Speaking Russian to each other was how we kept in practice, as there were few Russians who ever came to the hotel or to the casino.

“Enjoying the view.”

I turned and pointed at the terrace and beyond it, the view of the port.

“The view’s that way.”

“I’ve seen it before. Besides, I prefer this one. It doesn’t remind me of anything I’d rather not remember.”

“That kind of day, huh?”

“They’re all that kind of day down here. Don’t you find?”

“Sure. Life’s shit. But don’t tell anyone here in Cap Ferrat. The disappointment would kill them.”

He shook his head. “I know all about disappointment, believe me. I’ve been seeing this woman. And now I’m not. Which is a pity. But I had to end it. She was married and it was getting difficult. Anyway, she took it quite badly. Threatened to shoot herself.”

“That’s a very French thing to do. Shoot yourself. It’s the only kind of French marksmanship you can rely on in a fix.”

“You’re so very German, Walter.”

He bought me a drink and then looked at me squarely.

“Sometimes, I look in your eyes across the bridge table and I see a lot more than a hand of cards.”

“You’re telling me I’m a bad player.”

“I’m telling you that I see a man who was never in army catering.”

“I can see you’ve never tasted my cooking, Antimo.”

“Walter, how long have we known each other?”

“I don’t know. A couple of years.”

“But we’re friends, right?”

“I hope so.”

“So then. Spinola is not my real name. I had a different name during the war. Frankly, I wouldn’t have stayed alive for very long with a name like Spinola. I was never that kind of Italian. It’s a Jewish-Italian name.”

“It doesn’t matter to me what you are, Antimo. I was never that kind of German.”

“I like you, Walter. You don’t say more than you have to. And I sense that you can keep a confidence.”

“Don’t tell me anything you don’t have to,” I said. “At my time of life I can ill afford to lose a friend.”

“Understood.”

“If it comes to that, I can ill afford to lose people who don’t like me, either. Then I really would feel alone.”

On the bar top next to my gimlet was a Partagas cigar box, which Spinola now laid his hand on.

“I need a favor,” he said.

“Name it.”

“There’s something in there I’d like you to look after for me. Just for a while.”

“All right.”

I glanced around for the barman and seeing that he was safely outside on the terrace I lifted the box and peeked inside. But even before I’d flipped the lid open, I knew what was in there. It wasn’t cigars. There’s something about the twenty-three-ounce weight of a Walther police pistol that I would recognize in my sleep. I picked it up. This one was fully loaded and, to my nose at least, it had been recently fired.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” I said, closing the cigar box, “but this one smells like it’s been busy. I’ve shot people myself and that was nobody’s business, either. It’s just something that happens sometimes when guns are involved.”

“It’s her gun,” he explained.

“She must be quite a girl.”

“She is. I took it off her. Just to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. And I don’t want it around the house in case she comes back. At least until she returns my door key.”

“Sure, I’ll look after it. A good bridge partner is hard to come by. Besides, I’ve missed having a gun about the place. A house feels kind of empty without a firearm in it. I’ll put it in the car, okay?”

“Thanks, Walter.”