Those Who Walk Away by Patricia Highsmith Page B

over his left shoulder, then it disappeared. He kept his eyes on the spot, however, and the light reappeared.
    He gathered himself and shouted: “ Hello-o! ”
    He got no answer, but at least he heard no motor, which was a fact in favour of his being heard. Or was this a buoy with a light instead of a bell? Now, far behind the light, something that looked like a vaporetto was moving in the Lido’s direction, but for hailing purposes, it might as well have been a million miles away.
    “ Hello—o! Soccorso! ” he yelled toward the light. He was sure it was moving now. Ray’s lightless buoy swung and banged its bell, warning boats away. He could not tell in which direction the light was moving, obliquely towards or from him. “ Soccorso !” His throat felt raw from cold and salt.
    “ Ah-ool! ” a voice answered from the light’s direction. It was a gondolier’s cry. “Somebody there?”
    Ray did not know the word for buoy. “ The bell! Sulla campana! Veni, per favore! ”
    “ La campana! ” came the firm, corroborative reply.
    Ray realized that he was saved. His arms felt instantly twice as tired. The man was rowing. It could take easily another ten minutes. He did not want to watch the slow approach, and kept his head sunk on his chest.
    “ Ah-ool! ” It was like an automatic cry, a natural sound like a cat’s miaow, an owl’s hoot, a horse’s whinny.
    Ray heard a plash as the gondolier made a bad stroke or a wave exposed his oar. “Qua,” Ray said, much more feebly, hoarse now.
    “Vengo, vengo,” replied the deep voice, sounding very close.
    Ray looked and saw him behind his bow light, standing and rowing at the stern of his bobbing boat.
    “Ai!—What happened? Did you fall off a boat?”
    It was in such dialect, Ray barely understood. “I was pushed.” It was what Ray had planned to say, that he was pushed off by joking friends. But he had no strength for talking, dangled a limp foot over the side of the gondola, let himself drop, and was dragged aboard by the Italian’s strong arms. Ray rolled helplessly on to the gondola’s floor. The hard ribs of the boat felt delicious, like solid earth.
    The Italian bent over him, invoked the names of a few saints, and said, “You were pushed? How long were you there?”
    “Oh—” Ray’s teeth rattled, and the syllable was falsetto. “Maybe ten minutes. It is cold.”
    “Ah, si! Un momento!” The Italian stepped deftly past Ray, opened the locker in the prow of his boat, swiftly produced a folded blanket, then a bottle. The Italian’s shoe brushed Ray’s nose as he turned, stooped. “Here. Drink from the bottle. Cognac!”
    Ray held the bottle, a wine bottle, to his open mouth, keeping his teeth clear of the glass. One big swallow, and his stomach heaved, but the drink stayed down. It was bad and watered brandy.
    “You go inside,” said the Italian, then seeing that Ray could not move, he took the bottle from him, corked it and laid it on the boat’s floor, then caught Ray under the arms and dragged him into the covered part of the gondola, on to the bench seat made to hold two people. Ray sprawled, quite without strength, felt vaguely apologetic, and realized that his right hand, which lay flat on the carpeted seat, felt nothing at all and might have been dead flesh.
    “Santa Maria, what friends! On a night like this!” The Italian held the bottle again for Ray. He had draped the thick blanket over him. “Where do you want to go? To San Marco? You have an hotel?”
    “San Marco,” Ray said, unable to think.
    “You have a hotel?”
    Ray did not answer.
    The Italian, a wiry figure clad in black, his head small and squarish, was framed for a moment in the low grey door of the gondola. Then he went away, scrambled towards the stern of the boat. A rattle of the oar, and then Ray became aware of the forward movement of the boat. Ray wiped his face and hair with a corner of the blanket. He felt colder as his strength returned. He should have