The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro Read Online Free Page A

a village we were passing, near Randazzo, on the mountain road, a cluster of cracked farmhouses, one with black lettering that had faded but was readable on the side, a pronouncement in Italian.
    I pointed to the lettering. “What does that say?”
    Without hesitating, Haroun said, “'Do not forget that my'—
genitori
is 'parents'—‘were farmers and peasants.' It was put there long ago.”
    â€œWho said it? Why is it there?”
    I had been through this in another village with Fabiola; she had sheepishly explained these old Sicilian slogans.
    â€œMussolini said this. It is from the war.”
    â€œYou see?” Gräfin said with a mother's pride, and for the first time showed an interest, turning to read the peeling slogan on the cracked stucco wall of the ancient farmhouse. She turned to me and said, “It is so charming how they leave the words there!”
    â€œFascisti,”
Haroun said.
    â€œEven
fascisti
can be sentimental,” Gräfin said.
    â€œWhat's the capital of Bali?” I asked Haroun, to change the subject.
    â€œDenpasar,” he said. He folded his arms and challenged me with a smile.
    I was thinking how, when fluent foreigners uttered the name of a known place, they left the lilt of their suppressed accent on it.
    â€œI sailed there once on my boat,” Gräfin said.
    â€œYour famous boat,” Haroun said.
    â€œMy famous boat.”
    â€œBut that’s a long way,” I said.
    â€œNot long. I flew to Singapore and joined the boat. We sailed to Surabaja. Then I went by road to Bali. I stayed some nights with a member of royalty at his palace. Djorkoda Agung—
agung
is prince. He lives in Ubud, very beautiful village of arts, and of course very dirty. The people dance for me and they make for me a”—she searched for a word, she mumbled it in German, Haroun supplied the translation—“yes, they make for me a cremation. Dancing. Music. Spicy food served on banana leafs. Like a festival. We sail to Singapore and I fly home. Not a long trip but a nice one. I love the dancing.
Ketjak!
The Monkey Dance!”
    That was the most she had said since the moment I met her. It was not exactly self-revelation, but it was something—something, though, that did not invite comment or further questions. It was a weird explanation, a sort of truncated traveler’s tale. She was so wealthy she was not obliged to supply colorful detail. I wanted to ask her about the cremation—I wanted to joke about it: So they killed and burned someone in your honor?—but irony is lost on Germans.
    â€œNo more questions, Haroun,” I said. “You know everything.”
    â€œWhere is the olives?” Gräfin asked.
    We were passing a settlement signposted
Nicosia.
    â€œJust ahead, beyond Sperlinga.” There was something anxious in Haroun’s helpfulness that suggested he was afraid of her. He said, “Bustano—that is not Italian. It is from Arabic.
Bustan
is 'garden.' Caltanissetta, near here, has a place Gibil Habib. From Arabic, Gebel Gabib, because it is a hill.”
    â€œBut where is the olives?” Gräfin asked again, in the impatient and unreasonable tone of a child.
    The olives
was what she called the place, but Bustano was not a village, it was an estate, outside the pretty town of Sperlinga—many acres, a whole valley of neat symmetrical rows of ancient olive trees, and at the end of a long driveway a magnificent villa, like a manor house, three stories of crusty stucco with a red tiled roof, and balconies, and an enormous portico under which we drove and parked.
    A man appeared—not the squat stout Sicilian farmer I was used to but a tall elegant-looking man in a soft yellow sweater and light-colored slacks and sunglasses. His dark skin was emphasized by his white hair, and there were wisps of it like wings above his ears. He greeted us, and though I spoke to him in Italian—and