"Sit down, will you?" he said. "I wouldn't want you to faint on me." He was trying to sound chipper, but his voice was feeble, the words blurry, as if he had something in his mouth. He seemed to have lost thirty pounds. Once-sleek skin sagged clammy and pale beneath his eyes. His mustache had been shaved off to allow for five or six gruesome stitches, and without that imposing landmark his face seemed featureless and indistinct, like an out-of-focus photograph.
He didn't look remotely like Alfred E. Neuman.
"I look like hell, don't I?" he said.
"Not too bad. How do you feel?"
"You have to be kidding."
I saw a sluggish movement of tongue where it wasn't supposed to be, and realized that under the wound on his lip some teeth had been knocked out. Why that should have shocked me more than the state of his legs I don't know, but it did. I remembered the mushy sound of that heavy fist hitting him in the face, and I felt a single cold drop of sweat trickle down between my shoulder blades.
"Do you want me to come back another time, Max?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "Stay, I'm glad you're here. And I don't really feel too bad. They keep me doped up."
A good thing, I thought.
"These things on my legs … They're not as bad as they look. They're supposed to be better than casts for my kind of fractures. They say I'll be able to start walking a little as soon as the swelling goes down and the cuts heal up. Next week, maybe."
"Really. That's great." I'd believe it when I saw it.
"Maybe sooner," he said. "They say I'm doing fine. They're amazed, in fact."
Well, there I was, doing my usual sterling bedside job. Poor Max was working like mad to cheer me up.
"Glad to hear it," I said heartily, finally sitting down. "Anything I can do for you?"
"Do? No." He shifted awkwardly on the bed. There were ropes strung from the metal rods on his legs to a simple pipe frame over the bed, keeping his feet a few inches off the mattress, and movement was difficult. At one point he twisted too far and gasped.
I flinched. "Do you want a nurse?"
"Uh-uh. Chris ... " He shrugged awkwardly. His mouth moved like an old, old man's as he probed with his tongue in the gap between his teeth. "They told me you came back, that you actually tried to fight off those two goons. I heard you wound up in the hospital yourself."
"Just for observation. I wasn't hurt." My own pains and aches had shrunk to insignificance the second I'd seen Max.
"Well, I just wanted to say . . . I just wanted to tell you how much I—"
"That's okay, pal. You would have done the same for me." "I hope so. I'd like to think so." He dropped his eyes. "I'm not sure, though."
"Sure you would have. Look, it wasn't anything that extraordinary. There wasn't really time to think about it. Believe me, all I—"
"Chris," Max said abruptly, "those guys really scared me."
"Of course they did. You'd have been crazy not to be scared. How do you think I felt?"
"I mean really scared. I'm still scared."
"Well, naturally. Anybody—"
He jerked his head with a listless kind of impatience, finally deciding to come out with what I knew he was driving at. "I'm not going to talk to Colonel Antuono. I can't, Chris. This was just a warning. The next time they'll kill me. I know these people. They're animals."
"I know, Max, but are you just going to let those bastards—" I clamped my mouth shut. Who the hell was he to be giving lessons in moral duty to him? Nobody had issued a sadistic warning to me. My involvement was circumstantial and temporary, my own fault. And I was doing fine, walking around with a few lingering aches. Max was the one impaled on that orthopedic Iron Maiden, hoping, in Dr. Tolomeo's dark phrase, to adjust.
"Chris, you ought to be scared, too. You ought to get out of here and go back to Seattle."
"Me? What do I have to be scared about?"
"You saw their faces. You could identify them."
"If they were going to kill me over that, they'd have done it then," I said, none too confidently. If running you down with a car doesn't qualify as attempted murder, what does? "I'm not going anywhere. I have things to talk about with Clara and Amedeo. Then I'm going down and see about that Boursse of Ugo's before he changes his mind Then I'm going home."
His eyes closed. "I'm too tired to argue with you. I just wish the hell you'd clear out."
A husky, gray-haired nurse came in with a tray of equipment. "I must examine the insertion sites," she announced brightly in Italian.
I stood up. "I'll go."
"No," Max said. "She does this every couple of hours. It just takes a few minutes. Don't go yet." But he looked terribly haggard now, and gray-faced with pain.
"I don't know ....." I looked at the nurse.
"It's all right," she said. "He's fine. It isn't as bad as it looks." So everyone kept telling me. "Go outside, and then you can come back in ten minutes."
"Please," Max said.
"Sure," I said. "Of course I will."
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, wafted on a pungent billow of antiseptic, and motioned me back in with a tilt of her head. "I gave him something for the pain," she whispered. I returned to find the bed straightened and Max neatened as well, even to having had his hair combed. His face looked tired but no longer drawn with pain; wistful and relaxed. "Hi there, buddy," he said. His hands, which had been gripping the sheets the whole time I'd been there, were loosely clasped on his abdomen.
"The thing is," he was murmuring pensively, mostly to himself, "the thing is, you don't really mean to stay, not forever."
The subject had apparently changed.
"You always mean to go back home someday," he went on dreamily. "And then one day you realize you stayed too long. You go home to America, but it isn't home anymore. You feel like a foreigner. So you run back to Italy, only that's not home either. It doesn't even exist, the Italy you thought you lived in. You made it up. You've never even seen the real Italy, let alone understood it. You've never been anything but a foreigner to them." He shook his head, sadly, slowly. "And they'll never let you be anything else. Can you even understand what I'm talking about?"
"Sure, I can," I said. "I'm hearing the Expatriate's Lament, as sung by the great Italian tenor Massimiliano Caboto. "
You have to understand Max. When he was in his cups— or high on painkiller, apparently—he sometimes shifted from his natural ebullience to a tranquil but distinctly theatrical melancholy. Comedy to Tragedy, and often as not on this very subject. I had long ago learned that taking it at face value tended to make him genuinely downhearted, as if he began to believe what he was saying. And this didn't seem like the time to make Max downhearted. He had more than enough to be glum about as it was.
"You sting me," he said, hamming it up to show me he wasn't taking himself seriously. But a moment later he said: "I'm a man without roots, Chris. I'm alone now, ever since Giulia died. I'm going to die here, 5,000 miles from my native land. They're going to bury me in the corner of the cemetery they save for Englishmen and other crazy people."
"Max, believe me, you're not going to die," I said. "Dr. Tolomeo—"
"I don't mean now," he said, lifting an irritable eyebrow. I was spoiling his scene. "I mean eventually."
I smiled as reassuringly as I could. "You're just feeling down now. It's understandable. You'll be yourself again in a few days."
"Ah, what the hell," he said wearily. "What do you understand, a kid like you."