Bruno thought of Marcella in her black skirt. He imagined her coming home. The children were already in bed, the husband was watching TV in the living room. She went into the bathroom and took off her skirt and underskirt. She washed and went to the bedroom in her underwear and pulled on her nightie.
Bruno thought of the time when his kids had still been at home, all those long, monotonous years, all the mornings and evenings. Sometimes he longed for those meals, where no one had said much, nothing of importance. It was the repetition that made them so lovely, the knowledge that tomorrow and the day after and next week and next year they would be sitting together in exactly the same way. There seemed to be so much time then. Not until the children had moved out did he notice how distant they had remained in all those years. When Bruno saw a disaster movie in which an earthquake or flood or volcanic eruption threatened a town, it wasn’t the destruction that moved him or the deaths, only the fate of the man who had become separated from his family and was desperately looking for them in all the confusion. He would have tears in his eyes, and Olivia said what a load of nonsense.
At ten o’clock Bruno called home and said he still didn’t know when he’d be back. Olivia sounded worried, but she didn’t say anything. He promised her he would call later on.
He thought of the result he would get tomorrow. He thought about the way they would break the news. The doctor would be straight with him. Seventy percent of patients died within five years. Then he would embark on that rigmarole he had seen one of the waiters, a man from Portugal, go through, that endless sequence of tests and therapies. Times when things looked to be improving, and other times when he could barely recognize the man. Sleepless nights, unbearable pain, days of vomiting, and in the end a mean and nasty death.
He stood in front of the hotel. Not many of its rooms were occupied. Only a few of the windows had lights on; in one of them a young man was sitting and smoking a cigarette. He tossed the butt out the window and disappeared. Bruno was terrified, absolutely terrified of the disease that might already have spread throughout his body. He was afraid of losing his life a piece at a time. He had never wished for very much, only hoped things might stay more or less as they were. But maybe that had been enough to provoke fate.
Marcella emerged from the hotel, said good night, and unlocked her bike. Good night, he said, and Marcella waved and rode off.
Bruno looked at the old oil painting that hung next to the front desk. He had almost forgotten it existed, even though he went past it at least twice a day. It was a farewell scene in the golden light of a breaking storm. The man was wearing chain mail and some sort of surcoat. His hair was braided and he had a drooping mustache that gave his appearance something Oriental, a Fu Manchu mustache. He would be gone a long time, perhaps he was going on a Crusade, perhaps he would never return to the castle on the lake, and to the woman in the long flowing robes. When he started at the hotel, Bruno had often stood in front of the painting. He had kissed the woman and set out into the storm full of joyful expectation. Now all he could see was pain and the inevitability of parting.
The student called a little after eleven. Bruno told him not to bother anymore. He was annoyed, even though there was nothing he could blame the student for. Bruno waited, looked at the wall clock, sat down at his desk, got up again. He fetched the bottle of grappa from the cabinet that he had been given for Christmas by a regular at the hotel, and hadn’t opened. It was a good make, the guest had said, but Bruno didn’t care for grappa. He poured himself a water glass full and drank it down. He shuddered. He filled the glass a second time. He picked up the phone, put it down again. What was he going to tell Olivia? The truth? And what was the truth? That he didn’t want to come home. That he didn’t want to spend this last evening with her and her false concern and her useless chatter. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if she changed his bandage again, ruffled his hair like a little boy’s. He wasn’t a little boy, he was an old man, maybe a man with a deadly disease. And he wanted to spend the evening by himself, without lies and without comfort.
He called Olivia and said he wasn’t coming home. The student couldn’t make it, and there had to be somebody at reception.
Can’t be helped, he said. Olivia asked if he’d eaten anything, and said he ought to lie down. Good night, said Bruno, and hung up.
The two women came back just before midnight. They were unaccompanied, but clearly exuberant. They laughed loudly as they walked up the stairs. A little later, Bruno locked the front entrance. If anyone came along, they would have to ring the bell. Bruno could have lain down now, but he walked through the deserted hallways, and went out through a side exit into the grounds. The swimming pool glistened blackly in the darkness. Bruno switched on the underwater lighting, and the pool shone azure. He loved that color, and the coolness and cleanness and the faint smell of chlorine. The pool was the real glory of the hotel, not the decorated rooms or the gourmet menus or the lounge musicians who sometimes played here on weekends. The pool was different from the lake where he usually swam, it was detached from the natural scene and from daily life. It represented a life he would never live, but that didn’t bother him. It was enough that there were some people who did live like that, and that he was near them, and provided service for them. It had never occurred to him to spend his holidays in the hotel, though probably he could have afforded it.
Bruno stood by the side of the pool. Then, not really knowing what he was doing, he began to undress. Slowly and gingerly he went down the shallow tiled steps, leaning forward as though about to plunge into the water. It was cool, but not cold. He stood there and looked at his naked body, which was yellow and pale in the bluish light. Then he lowered himself into the water and swam to the far end of the pool. He swam back and forth, feeling first a little warmer, then cold again. He got out of the pool and brushed the water from his body with his hands, and got dressed. He was aroused, almost euphoric, and felt like laughing or crying.
Bruno slept on the couch in a nook on the second-floor landing. He had wild dreams he was unable to remember later. When it grew light outside, he didn’t feel he’d slept at all. His head ached and he was still a little dizzy from the grappa. He put the half-empty bottle back in the cabinet. Then he went to the bathroom, washed his face, and rinsed his mouth out. The cold water refreshed him a little. He went down to the restaurant, which was still closed at this hour. It took a long time for the water in the coffee machine to heat up. Only then did it occur to him that he’d had nothing to eat since yesterday lunchtime. In a drawer he found some cut bread, and there were little individually wrapped pats of butter and cheese in the fridge.
His colleague got in at half past six. He explained to her that Sergio was sick, and she said Bruno should have called her. He merely shook his head. Then he called Olivia. It took a few rings before she picked up. He could hear the radio in the background. He thought of her eating her breakfast by herself, the way she always did when he was on night duty and she let him sleep in. She will eat breakfast by herself all the time now, he thought, she will have to get used to it. And suddenly he felt sorry for her, and he was ashamed of himself.