Free Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith Page B

pale blue uniform came in through a door at the back of the shop. A slow shock went through him at the sight of her, and he looked down at his cup; but his eyes had met the girl’s, and she said with a smile, “Buona sera,” as she must have said to two hundred people that day.
    She served two men who had come in. Glasses of red wine at the counter.
    He should speak before it became any more crowded, Ray thought, and began to form his sentences in Italian. When the girl was dunking cups into the sink of hot water directly before him, Ray said, “Excuse me. Do you know of a house in the vicinity where I might rent a room? It is not necessary that it be in the vicinity.”
    “A room?” she asked, her grey eyes wide. Then her eyes closed half-way as she thought, wet dishcloth in left hand on the chromium sink edge. “The signora next door to me. Signora Calliuoli. In the Largo San Sebastiano.” She pointed.
    The direction meant nothing to Ray. “Can you tell me the number?”
    The girl smiled and looked bewildered. “It’s a long number and there is no name on the bell. If you want, I will show you when I leave. If you want to wait”—a glance over her shoulder—“I finish at six.”
    It was seventeen minutes to six. Ray finished his coffee, paid, and left a tip in the saucer on the bar. He nodded to the girl, trying to look efficient and proper, said “Until six,” and went out of the bar.
    The Signora Calliuoli might not have a room free, he thought, in which case the girl might not know of another place. But Ray felt carefree and happy, actually happy, and realized at once that it was due to fever and quite specious. He turned up at the bar-caffé on the dot of six.
    The girl was putting on a black cloth coat. She gave him a smile and a wave. A heavy-set young man in a white mess jacket came from the door at the rear, perhaps to take the girl’s place for the evening, and she spoke to him, too, eliciting a smile from him and a glance at Ray.
    “It’s not far. Four minutes,” said the girl.
    Ray nodded. He wanted to tell her his name, for politeness’ sake, then realized he had to make up a new one. “My name is Philip. Filipo. Gordon,” he added.
    She nodded, uninterested. “Mine is Elisabetta.”
    “Piacere.”
    “You want it for how many nights?” The girl walked quickly.
    “Three, four. Say a week, if the signora prefers.”
    They turned a corner, the wind blew straight at them, and Ray shuddered. Suddenly the girl stopped, and rang a bell in a narrow doorway directly on the street. Ray looked to right and left, then up at a five-storey house, narrower than it was high. He saw no canal near by.
    “Who is it?” called a voice from an upstairs window.
    “Elisabetta.” There followed a longish sentence which Ray could not understand at all.
    A buzz opened the door. They went in, and met the woman who was descending the stairs. She beckoned Ray to come up and see the room. To Ray’s relief, the girl came with them, exchanging conversation or gossip with the woman.
    Ray was shown a square, medium-sized room with a red-and-yellow flowered counterpane on a lumpy looking three-quarter-sized bed. A tall wardrobe was the closet, and there were pictures on the wall. But it was clean.
    “You understand? Eight hundred lire per day with breakfast,” Elisabetta said.
    “Very good,” Ray said. “Benone, I shall take it,” he said to Signora Calliuoli.
    Signora Calliuoli smiled, and deep, friendly creases formed on either side of her mouth. She wore black. “The bath is downstairs. One floor. The toilet”—she pointed—“one up.”
    “Grazie.”
    “Va bene?” said Elisabetta, smiling also.
    Ray wanted to embrace her. “Thank you so much,” he said in English. “Grazie tanto.”
    “Your valise?” asked Signora Calliuoli.
    “I’ll fetch that tomorrow,” said Ray casually, and pulled out his wallet. He produced a five-thousand-lire note. “I shall pay you for five nights, anyway, if that