Paul Theroux - The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro

“I’m walking past this blue Studebaker and I didn’t know this old guy was in it until he says, 'Hey, kid,' and reaches out the window. I looks over — he's smiling with these yellow teeth, and as I walks away I hear the door open.”

“Why didn't you take off?”

Walter could run faster than either Chicky or me, but he was slower-witted, so he did not always know when to run.

“I almost shit a brick because he scared me. I didn't know what to do. I just kept walking, to show I didn’t really care.”

I knew the pond and the road there, so I could easily see Walter marching stiffly away from the blue Studebaker, his little head, his skinny neck, his spiky uncombed hair, his baggy pants and scuffed shoes; trying so hard not to look scared, he moved like a puppet.

“I thought he was supposed to have a bonah,” Chicky said.

“That was later,” Walter said.

“When he chased you?” I asked.

“No. I looks back and he's in the car, so I kept going. I knew he wouldn’t drive on the path. There’s a sign, the one we blasted with our guns. There’s a gate. He couldn’t get through.”

“Which path?”

“To the Sheepfold, like I said. I was going up there to build a fire and get warm.”

“What about your gun?”

“I didn’t bring it.”

“You said you did.”

“No sah.”

“Yes sah.”

“My sister hid it, to be a pain.”

Chicky said, “You said you aimed your gun at him and he freaked.”

“Knife. I had my hunting knife, so that I could make wood shavings to start the fire. I had it in my belt, in the sheath. I pulled it out as I was walking up the path, in case he chased me.”

“You said ‘gun’ before. Didn’t he, Andy?”

“I don’t remember,” I said. Truly, I didn’t. All I could recall was the blue car, the old man, his black golf cap, Walter being pestered.

“You told the story different before,” Chicky said. “You said you saw him in the woods.”

“You didn’t let me get to that part,” Walter said in a wronged, pleading voice, his eyes glistening so much I felt sorry for him. More softly he said, “So I’m at the Sheepfold. There’s nobody around. I whittle a stick and get some shavings. I try to start a fire, and I’m kneeling down and blowing on the sparks and I hear something.”

“What?”

“How do I know? Twigs. But I look around and the old guy is standing right behind me. He followed me somehow. He’s saying, ‘Hey, kid.’ His fly is open. That’s when he had the bonah.”

“What did it look like?” Chicky said.

“He tries to grab me,” Walter said, hurrying his story. “I screams at him but there’s no one around, right? So then I starts running.”

“What about all your stuff, and the fire?”

“I just left it.”

“Anyway, you escaped,” I said.

Walter didn't say no. He frowned again and clawed his spiky hair. He said, “Then, when I was out to the road and thought it was all over, this blue Studebaker conies screeching up beside me, and it's the guy again, and he’s after me.”

When he said that, I got a chill. I could imagine it clearly, for sometimes in my worst dreams people kept showing up, I never knew how, to scare me or accuse me.

“Everywhere I go I sees the stupid guy.”

Chicky said, “He’s definitely a homo.”

Walter was silent, paler than when he had started the story, biting his lips.

“But you told it different the first time,” Chicky said.

“You think I’m bullshitting?”

“Sounds like bird turd to me,” Chicky said.

“You believe me, Andy,” Walter said in a beseeching voice.

“Sure.” But he had told the story differently the first time. He had a gun. He had turned and threatened the man, who had fallen back and returned to his car. He had not said anything about the Sheepfold and the fire. Seeing the man again on the road, the car stopping — that was new. He was chased more the second time; he was more scared. The whole story sounded worse, which was why Chicky didn’t believe him.

“Wait till you see his car,” Walter said. “Then you’ll believe me.”

“Anyway, what did he want?” Chicky asked.

“He was a homo. You know what those guys want.”

But we had absolutely no idea, except that it was wicked and dangerous and we were unwilling. In my imagination, such a man would hold me captive in his car, all the windows rolled up, trapping me and threatening me. What he did was not anything I thought of as sex. These men were friendly at first, so that they could grab me and tie me up. In my imagining, I was gagged and blindfolded. Then he would take some of my clothes off, and something happened, something that hurt. In the end, when I was naked, he would kill me, probably stab me.

“I don’t get it,” Chicky said. He was still impatient and overstimulated, flecks of spit in the corners of his mouth, blinking hard, his yellowish Italian face looking damp with confusion. “He was bigger than you, right? So why didn’t he just grab you?”

“He did grab me,” Walter said. “I was fighting with him.”

“You didn’t say that before.”

“You didn’t give me enough time.”

Walter was looking breathless and wretched, yanking his hair.

“Did he touch you?” I asked.

“I didn’t want him to,” Walter said, protesting.

“Where did he touch you?”

“I told you, the Sheepfold.”

That was new. I had not seen Walter struggling at the Sheepfold, only fleeing. Now I put him back at the Sheepfold, on the ground, the man grabbing at him.

“I mean, did he touch your nuts?”

Walter said, “I was pushing him as hard as I could,” and as he spoke he was fighting tears.

“I thought you ran away.”

“I did run away. After.”

“What else did he do?”

“I don’t know. He was feeling my pants. He was really strong and he had this mustache and was chewing something like a cough drop. He even tried to kiss me. He was snatching my hands.”

“Was he saying anything?”

“Yeah. ‘Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid.’”

“I would have shit a brick.”

“I was wicked scared,” Walter said.

He was quiet for a moment. His face was blotchy with red patches, he was remembering, his mouth quivering, trying to start a word.

“How did you get away?”

“Ran. Like I told you.”

“You never said he touched you.”

“I forgot that part.”

“How could you forget that, you freakin’ banana man?”

Walter lowered his head and said, “When I screamed out loud he got wicked worried. He tried to put his hand over my mouth. His hand was really smelly. That’s when I tried to stab him in the leg with my fork.”

“Your fork?”

“I was going to heat up some beans. The fork was lying there.”

“That’s great,” Chicky said.

I said, “I don’t get why he showed up later.”

Walter kicked at the snow crust. This was painful, an awful story, much worse than the first time. I suspected it was true because it was messier, there was more of it, and the new parts were unpleasant.

“He was trying to tell me he was sorry.”

“Pretending to,” I said. “He was just trying to trick you. If he had caught you, he would have killed you.”

“He said he wanted to give me some money. Ten bucks.”

“That’s bull for one thing,” Chicky said. “Ten bucks!”

Walter reached in his pocket and pulled out a little ball of paper and flattened it and smoothed it: a five-dollar bill.

“Jeez,” Chicky said.

Five dollars was more money than we ever saw, and it could only mean that Walter, who never had money, might be telling the truth. But it was five, not ten.