The Constorium of Greater Minds

Arthur slept in his clothes for the third night in a row. When he awoke sunlight shown softly through the rolladens and a warm breeze blew from the open balcony. It was late morning. Propping himself up on one elbow he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took in the room, his senses dulled from too many glasses of champagne the night before. The room was enveloped in a muffled silence and there was a ringing in his ears. Somewhere in the distance water was running. Shifting his weight from his elbow he fell back flat on the bed. Thirty minutes later he woke to the telephone ringing in his ear.
“Pronto.”
“Buon giorno, Signore Adams. This is your morning wake up call.”
“Morning wake up call?” Arthur repeated. “What time is it?”
“Eleven-thirty, Signore.”
“Eleven-thirty, grazie.”
“Prego, Signore. Buon giorno.”
Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. His ears clear and his wits regained he could clearly hear the sound of a faucet running in the bathroom and the soft humming of ‘April In Paris.’ Christ, not again, he thought to himself, as he recalled the previous night’s events.
Placing his weight on his legs he straitened his body up stiffly from the bed and grasping the fingertips of his left hand with his right he reached for the ceiling, stretched his body out as far is it would go and then slumped back to his normal posture.
Turning towards the balcony he could see the south side of the piazza dei singori, and the Café Palladio filled with patrons. Ignoring the letter he could not read, he picked up the Tribune from the coffee table and walked out onto the balcony. Passing from the cool dimness of the hotel room into the late morning sunlight he was bathed in a pleasant glow and felt immediately reenergized. He placed the paper on the white marble breakfast table and walked to the balcony’s edge.
He stood, placing his hands on the balustrade. The hard stone felt good under his grip and he shifted his feet back so that his body’s weight was now partially supported by the balcony. Below him the marble of the piazza gleamed in the radiant sunlight. Peering down he could see that the hotels own café was in full swing, the sole waitress, running madly between tables delivering cappuccino and brioche as customers chatted loudly. In the center of the piazza children ran chasing after one another, every now and then stopping and turning their attention to the pigeons that would collect around them. The sound of jazz from the café’s radio mingled with the yelling of the children and the chatter of the customers below and together made a wonderful soundtrack to his view from the balcony.
The opening of the bathroom door broke the spell of the piazza. It was no longer April in Paris but now “Night and Day.” The humming grew louder then stopped.
“There you are, Dear” came a girl’s voice. “A beautiful day isn’t it.”
Why did he always do this? Why did he always return to these girls? Night after night it was the same story – it had been this way since he arrived in Vicenza one month earlier. Melissa was a fine girl, the daughter of a businessman from New York. He had met her at the teatro olympico his first week in town. They went out for drinks after the theater and ended up going home together. He had only meant it to be a one off thing, he really had, but then there’s never really a one off thing.
The letter he could not read arrived the next day and he ended up sleeping with Melissa that night, too. And then the letter sat on the coffee table all day and he saw it on his way out to dinner the next evening and he ended up sleeping with her again. And then, after that, it really wasn’t a one off thing anymore.
“It’s wonderful, Mel. Simply wonderful,” he replied
Arthur pushed off the balcony and regained all his weight on his feet. He turned and stepped backward so his lower back was now leaning on the balustrade. Melissa stood naked just inside the entrance to the balcony, a hand lightly gripping the top of the balcony door, her left leg raised so only the toes of her foot rested on the carpet and her left hand gripping the curve of her bare waist. The natural curls of her hair fell on her shoulders like a golden brown storm.
She was gorgeous, Arthur, thought to himself. He remained motionless, taking her beauty in, memorizing it, saving it for a time when it he would have to bring an end to things. She had the amazing breasts a girl of her age does, a waist, the contour of which could rival the Alps in grandeur and long, slender legs that got married men in trouble and all of her a wonderful golden brown. She was a beautiful animal.
“Come here, you,” she said stepping out into the full glow of the sun. She pressed her naked body firmly against his and gave him a long, deep kiss. He was reminded of why he found it so difficult to leave them.
As they stumbled back into the shadows of the room Arthur knew he would have to shake this, he would have to tell Melissa it was no good. He would have to read the letter he could not read. He would do it later. There was never a one off thing; he knew that.