Evan Connell - Mrs. Bridge

Mrs. Bridge slept later than she intended to the second morning in Monte Carlo; they had visited the casino the previous night, and while she had not gambled she had found it nonetheless a rather strenuous experience. Her husband was gone when she finally awoke, but this was not surprising because he had gotten so accustomed to rising early in order to put in a full day at the office that he was no longer able to lie in bed past seven o’clock. Probably he was walking briskly around town, and no doubt he would be waiting to check on the Italian reservations as soon as the travel agency opened its doors for the day. She often wondered where he found so much energy.

The clock on the night table told her it was almost noon. She felt a trifle guilty. And yet it was delicious to lie in bed and to feel on her cheek and on her arms the mild breezes drifting up the hillside from the Mediterranean. A few minutes more, she thought, then she really must get tip. And so, with eyes half open, she lay motionless and knew how fortunate she was. And she inquired of herself what she had done to deserve all this. There was no answer. All at once she perceived something so obvious and vulgar that she could not imagine why it had failed to escape her attention. She could see herself in the mirror on the wall, the mirror faced the bed, and she had suddenly realized that in every one of their European hotel rooms a large mirror had faced the bed. At the significance of this her blue eyes opened wide and she quickly turned her head on the pillow. In Paris a beautiful ornate Louis Quatorze mirror had frankly revealed her intimacy with her husband, and In London, too, now that she thought about it, they had been mirrored.

Deeply troubled, puzzled, no longer thankful, Mrs. Bridge lay in bed with an expression of listless despair and gazed through the opened doors of the balcony, through the iron grillwork to the distant sea, to the purple clarity and the white sails.

Wherever they went they were promptly identified as American tourists. From every side street some young man would come gliding, a hand in his coat pocket, murmuring in broken English that he had a diamond ring for sale, a fountain pen, a Swiss watch.

“Psstl Hey, mister,” he would begin.

“How on earth do they always know we’re Americans?” Mrs. Bridge inquired.

It was not mysterious to Mr. Bridge, who, however, chose to reply bitterly, for the trip was costing twice what he had estimated, “Europeans can smell a dollar a mile away.”

In Rome their hotel was situated near the Via Veneto, which the desk clerk, who had never been to America but who had a second cousin in Manhattan, insisted was the Broadway of Europe. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Bridge was inclined to dispute him, the principal reason being that the day was overcast and the humidity so high it was difficult to breathe.

“Goodness, this is certainly different from the Riviera/ 1 Mrs. Bridge remarked as they were unpacking in their room. It had been hot in Monte Carlo at least the temperature had been high but in the shadows of the stone buildings it was usually cool, and even in the direct sunlight they had not been uncomfortable.

“This really is awfully muggy/’ she said, looking through the blinds at the dank, motionless clouds. “I certainly miss that breeze from the Mediterranean/’

They showered, changed into their lightest clothing, and decided to sit at a cafe on the Via Veneto. A weak, hot rain had begun to fall and they selected a table with an umbrella. At the next table sat an Italian man in a white suit and white perforated shoes who soon addressed them in perfect English.

“You are Americans, are you not?”

Mrs. Bridge said they were, again amazed at such prompt identification.

“And how do you find Italy? Do you enjoy yourselves?”

“Well, it’s awfully warm/’ she said hesitantly, not wanting to be ungracious, and was relieved when he was not offended* So many Europeans were excitable.

He asked how long they had been in Europe and how much longer they intended to stay, and when she replied that after visiting Florence and Milan and Geneva they would be returning to Paris and from there to the United States he offered a curious little gesture which somehow expressed sympathy.

“Unfortunate,” he added.

“Have you ever visited America?” she inquired pleasantly.

“No, Madame, I have not.”

“I suppose you must be dying to go.”

The Italian laughed. Lifting both arms in the gesture they had come to know so well, he said, “My dear lady, why go to America?”

Later, when the rain had stopped, he bowed, told them what a pleasure it had been to make their acquaintance, and strolled along the boulevard.

“Don’t let them fool you/’ said Mr. Bridge. “These people would sell their souls to get to the United States.”

They came to enjoy sitting on the Via Veneto so much so that Mrs. Bridge said half jokingly, referring to the peculiar Italian who had no desire to go anywhere else, “I really think he has a point.”

They were in front of a different cafe farther up the boulevard, one they had not tried before. The weather being muggy and cloudy as it had been ever since their arrival in Rome, they decided to have some iced coffee. In a few minutes a waiter approached, a very Italian-looking waiter.

“Let’s hope this one understands English/’ she murmured. “Try him and see.”

“What else did you think I was going to speak?” Mr. Bridge replied. He had just finished changing the film in the camera and now placed it on an empty chair and gave the waiter their order.

“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No,” he said. “Just coffee with plenty of ice.” The waiter bowed and went inside the cafe. Mr. Bridge wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and shook the sleeves of his linen coat. Mrs. Bridge was fanning herself with a sightseeing folder.

“It certainly does make things simpler when they speak English,” she said, “but my! doesn’t this one have an accent!”

They waited and waited. The iced coffee did not arrive. They looked around. It seemed that people were gathering inside the cafe and that an argument or a discussion of some kind was going on.

“They’re usually so good about the service,” said Mrs. Bridge, still fanning herself with the sightseeing folder.

They waited a while longer. Finally Mr. Bridge got up, saying he would go into the caf and find out what the trouble was.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t let yourself get involved,” she said, for it was obvious the Italians were excited about something. Several of them were waving their arms and denouncing one another; however this went on all the time in Italy and Mrs. Bridge was growing accustomed to it. While her husband went inside she studied the folder. They were planning to visit the Vatican later that afternoon and she was hoping their schedule would permit a drive through the countryside. She looked up with a smile when her husband returned.

“We’re getting out/’ he said as he picked up the camera.

Her smile faded. She knew from his expression that he was not angry.

“What is it?” she said. “What’s happened?”

“The Nazis are in Poland/’

“Oh, my word!”

Two days later Mr, and Mrs. Bridge were on their way home.

At luncheon the day after her return to Kansas City she was questioned about the situation in Europe and she replied that it had been frightening and that she really had no idea what was going on. They had not met any Nazis at least she did not think so and she could not honestly give an opinion. She felt more sure of herself when asked about the sights they had seen. Inevitably someone asked if they had gone to a bullfight,