Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [109]
He continued to think about this experience. He had not been out of doors during an eclipse since he was twelve or thirteen years old and he was surprised that it should still affect him in the same way. He had recognized the feeling instantly—the sense of being in the presence of something monstrous. He did not like it, and he was puzzled that a man such as himself could feel ill at ease when the phenomenon could be explained so simply.
117 Another One
From Monte Carlo they went to Genoa for a night, then to Pisa for a look at the tower, and from there they went direct to Florence which they liked immediately. It was hot and cloudy, but there was so much to see. The church of Santa Croce, the Ponte Vecchio, the Medici chapel, the doors of Ghiberti, the Piazza Michelangelo, and much more.
The second afternoon, exhausted by the size of the Uffizi Gallery and the humid weather, they decided to return to the hotel for a nap. As they were getting out of the taxi in the Piazza della Repubblica a toothless old woman came hobbling up mumbling something and holding out her hand. Mr. Bridge waved her away.
In the room he drew the shades and began to undress. The air was suffocating, and his feet felt like bricks from tramping the corridors of the museum. His wife had enjoyed the Uffizi, he was sure of that, so the afternoon was worthwhile. Even if she had not enjoyed it, at least they had been there. Tomorrow they could take in Michelangelo’s house and the Campanile, she wanted to do some shopping, they needed more film for the camera, and the Buca San Giovanni had been recommended for dinner. The following morning they would be off to Rome.
Mrs. Bridge, lying motionless on the bed with a damp washcloth over her face, said, “Walter, couldn’t you have given her a little something?”
For a moment he was puzzled, then he realized she meant the beggar, and he said: “Those people are all alike. You remember that child in Paris. They’ll take advantage of you every time, whenever they think they can, simply because we are American tourists. I’ve never known it to fail. They assume we are all millionaires, and I am sick and tired of it. These people can smell a dollar a mile away. That old woman doesn’t have much—I am not implying she is well off. But this is supposed to be a vacation and I don’t intend to have it spoiled. I’ve had enough requests for money since we left home. Everywhere I turn somebody has got his hand out. If you think I’m stingy, so be it. I plead guilty. But I want to have a good time on my vacation. Nor do I wish to be nagged about it.”
She lifted the washcloth from her face and said, “You’re right, I suppose. I simply couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. The poor old soul.”
“I feel every bit as sorry for her as you do,” he said, and he paused for a drink of water. Then he went on: “But it’s like pouring sand in a rathole. My Lord, I’m not able to feed everybody on this earth.”
118 The Etruscans
No sooner had they walked out of one gallery or museum than she mentioned another. He concealed his boredom as much as possible. Occasionally he came upon a picture or a statue that he liked, but for the most part he accompanied her patiently and silently while thinking about what he must do as soon as they got back to Kansas City. London alone would have been sufficient, or the Louvre. Then there was Florence, and still she had not gotten tired of art exhibits. He could no longer count the number of museums and galleries, old and new, large and small, which they had visited. And now in Rome there were more. The Vatican treasures he did want to see. The Sistine Chapel, of course, and the famous Laocoön ought not to be missed. Of the hundreds of masterpieces they already had looked at he could remember only a