“Zoggan promised us a prince, didn’t he?” Betty repeated. “Isn’t Switzerland a principality?”
“That’s Liechtenstein!” said Martine, relieved to have understood what Betty meant. “No, I don’t think we’re going there today.”
Or at all. At any rate, Zoggan hadn’t said anything about Liechtenstein. He must have been having a joke at Betty’s expense. Zoggan had a unique sense of humor; Martine had observed that much during the flight. Every flight attendant who passed his seat was the recipient of his pinches on any body part within reach, accompanied by his squeals, until the pilot threatened to make an emergency landing and throw him off the plane.
After breakfast, he distributed American flags. “It’s the Fourth of July!” he said.
Martine sighed and took him to one side. “Dan,” she said, “no offense, but people here might misunderstand that.”
“Misunderstand it?” He unscrewed the lid from one of the two thermos bottles that hung diagonally across his belly and took a swallow. Martine’s roommates had bet they were full of vodka.
“The flags,” said Martine. “People could misunderstand them.”
“What do you mean? The Swiss aren’t lefties, are they?!”
“If we march through the city waving those things, people will think America’s invading.”
“So what? It didn’t bother them last time.”
His speech had already become somewhat indistinct, and his face was deep red. The others were clearly right about the vodka. Martine was asking herself what he meant by “last time” — D-Day? World War II? Normandy? — when suddenly a chattering noise began to issue from somewhere around his hips. He unhooked a walkie-talkie that hung on his belt.
“Yes, honey,” he spoke into it. “What is it? Over.”
Mary Alice Zoggan stood at the back of the dining room at the window, looking out and holding her walkie-talkie to her lips. It was the only way Martine had ever seen her talk to her husband.
“Put the flags away,” her voice issued tinnily from the device.
“But honey...”
“Just do what I say! Over!”
“Over,” repeated Zoggan sadly, and gathered up all the flags. Then his face lit up again. “I’ve got something much better!” he sang out. From underneath his chair, he pulled out a giant Cat in the Hat top hat and set it on his head. It was nearly two feet tall. And he was still wearing it when, a few minutes later, he set off leading the little band. The street in front of their hotel was in the process of being torn up for repairs, and construction workers in bright orange safety overalls clung to their jackhammers for dear life, as if the machines would otherwise pull away and run amok through the town. But as the little procession passed, even undecorated with American flags, the big machines fell silent; the construction workers stared and the jackhammers, their operators frozen in surprise, bored holes in the air.
“How cute,” Kate cried out, and pointed to the geraniums blooming in pots lining the roadway. “Look, isn’t that sweet?”
That was Kate: She saw the flowers and not the torn-up street. That was America, thought Martine, who had fled Zurich fourteen years ago to unlearn complaining and self-pity. Well, that wasn’t the whole truth; a certain California swim champion had played a role too. The marriage had lasted just long enough to convince his parents he wasn’t gay and to provide Martine with a Green Card. Since then, she’d lived alone. And sometimes she wished self-pity were allowed.
The women in the group twittered in that excited enthusiasm typical of American women, their voices climbing to a pitch of euphoria. Martine didn’t notice it much at home, but here she half expected the windows to begin to tremble and then shatter, one after another, the entire length of the town’s street, leaving behind a sea of broken glass.
The conference room at the Hotel Post had been reserved for them. Mr. Zoggan had a slide show ready, postcard pictures of Switzerland that made even Martine sigh. Then a map of Switzerland, with red lines crisscrossing it, one for every member of the group, from Walenstadt to every corner of Switzerland.
“I don’t see my name,” said Jim Hanson.
Mr. Zoggan turned on the light. “Bad news,” he said. “Your ancestors don’t come from Switzerland, they’re from Sweden.”
“Sweden, that’s right,” Jim nodded. “South Sweden, to be exact.”
His wife Kate beamed at everyone. “Jim’s great-great-great-great-great, well, great-something grandfather immigrated to America with his wife and seven children. But on the ship, a disease broke out and only one son survived, and that was Jim’s great-great-great-great—”
“—grandfather, right,” finished Mr. Zoggan, winking at Martine. “But unfortunately, I have to tell you that Sweden isn’t Switzerland. It’s a frequently made mistake, right, honey?” he added. He would have pinched Martine playfully in the side if she hadn’t strategically tipped her chair backward at just the right moment.
Mrs. Zoggan’s brows drew together in disapproval. The first rumors about her had begun to circulate on the flight over: that she used to be a nun and had left the cloisters for Mr. Zoggan, who was, as a younger man, charming and handsome. No, said the others, she was with the police, vice squad, and she’d arrested Zoggan and then succumbed to his charms. Betty said she thought she recognized her from the district attorney’s office. That was less interesting, and therefore probably true.
Jim Hanson’s mouth was hanging open in surprise. “They’re not the same thing? Well, I’ll be jiggered! How far is it from here to there?” All the members of the group would be taking day trips to the places where their ancestors had lived. After all, all roads led to Walenstadt, and from there to everywhere else. Zoggan had already organized everything, including the taxis. Americans weren’t very good at public transportation, and a week wasn’t enough time to train them. However, South Sweden was not on the itinerary.
Zoggan laid a map of Europe on the table and spread it out. Hanson measured the distance with his thumb. “No problem,” he said. “No problem at all, Kate, baby. We’ll fly. There in the morning, back in the evening.” He turned to the group. “Just to be there, to see it and breathe the air, you understand? The same air that little boy breathed who was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather back then.”
The others nodded.
“That’s exactly why we’re here!” said Zoggan, clapping his hands together. “Time for a drink!”
The waitress had been leaning against the wall, listening to Zoggan, arms crossed. Now that he had called for a break, she took their orders.
“Miss, miss!” Jack LaDove plucked at Martine’s sleeve. The old man wore a snow-white crocheted beret and glasses with frames so large they covered half his face. He looked like one of the Sopranos, but in fact he was of Swiss descent and from San Francisco, an ex-Marine with tattoos up and down his arms.
“Miss,” he asked her, “just explain one thing to me. With all due respect, how come we don’t automatically get ice water here in Switzerland when we eat in a restaurant?”
Yes, why was that? Martine could remember being a health-conscious but poorly paid young swim teacher and ordering tap water in restaurants, and recalled how reluctantly the waiters had brought it. “To tell the truth, I don’t know.”
Ice cubes were another problem. There were never enough of them. And the size of the glasses — they seemed much too small to the Americans. Patiently the waitress took their orders, which were easy to remember: cola, cola, and cola. With lots of ice. And a beer for Mr. Zoggan.
“Mr. Zoggan,” said the waitress. “Is that you? The person who made the reservations and everything?”
Mr. Zoggan didn’t react. She had pronounced his name the way it would seem phonetically correct to someone in Switzerland. And she had asked him the question in Schwyzerdütsch, in Swiss dialect.