Page 46 - WTP Vol. XI #6

A Taste of Italy (continued from preceding page)
generally pleased with the outcome. But the firm, being Swiss, its directors (less its editors), found, invariably
it seemed, some occasion for contention, contention
over issues—monetary issues mainly. These usually got resolved, and they had during this visit, but not without a margin of stress and ill feeling.
Fatigued at the conclusion of these negotiations, Parsons chose, on the spur, to delay by a few days
his trip down into Italy for his summer of research
to allow for an indulgence—one that had been in the back of his mind for some time. As eager and ready, now, as he was to quit Geneva, a few additional days on Swiss soil would be pleasant! It had been in his thoughts to reenact an adventure that dated back decades, an experience he’d enjoyed with the second of his wives before they’d had children, at a time when their relationship was still young and fresh. Lodging in Glion, high above Montreux, they had ridden the funicular up the steep slopes through the flower-bedecked meadows to Rochers de Naye—that stark end-of-the-line outpost with its old stone hotel where one sipped hot chocolate after a romp through the alpine meadows. And where one took in the sight, awesome enough by any measure, of the Rochers themselves, and beyond them in the distance the Dents du Midi, metallic and shimmering in their brilliance.
Parsons’ memory was sharpest of the high alpine meadows, and of a singular experience being there had afforded. He and his wife had worn footwear for wading through the flowers, saturated with heavy dew; then, as now, it was early June, the time for such an adventure since the flowers were blooming in glorious profusion, the grasses not so high as to hamper easy hiking. Parsons had dared, against his wife’s remonstrations, to venture out to the edge of the perilous drop-off where the cliff’s edge was cleaved by rents in the meadow, abruptly shearing away into a thousand-foot fall, against which hazard posted signs cautioned hikers. Having crept to
the edge on his hands and knees, he was afforded the gaze down that unfathomable distance to the flat, shining disc that was the surface of Lake Geneva, a full mile below. Floating far beneath him, riding the air currents on their wide, extended wings, had been the raptors of the mountains. Parsons had had to shut his eyes, his dizziness sudden, and, easing back from the edge, endure his wife’s stern rebukes.
His plan was to catch the boat to Montreux, spend a day and night there. The interlude would afford him a visit to the prison in the Chateau de Chillon, scene of Byron’s famous poem, which prison he and his wife and visited only briefly. Then, lodging in Glion, in a pension there, secure against night’s chill under fine Swiss coverlets, he’d again ride the
funicular up to Rochers de Naye for a walk through the meadows—though, no longer so young, staying well back from the edge!
~
The boat he would take, L’Esprit de Genève, was scheduled to depart from the quai at the head of the lake. Parsons noted on boarding that the city’s engineers were busy encroaching on the lake’s park-side edge, a massive undertaking to build a new parking garage, entirely under water, to meet the city’s needs. Most expensive city in Europe! Yet tourism was on the increase. His own finances would fare better down in Italy.
The four-hour cruise, with a brief stop in Lausanne, would be a novelty for Parsons. He relished the prospect of a day on the water, his week’s work behind him, the weather mild and sunny. A craft with amenities, cash bar and restaurant, L’Esprit glided along to the strains of a quartet, the coastline unfolding in a series of pleasant vistas. When lunch hour arrived, Parsons was shown to his table on the deck midship, set just for one, with bright white linen and sparkling glassware.
He was awaiting the menu when the waiter approached. The man, bowing slightly, informed him that, today, there were available—should monsieur care for either—trout and eels on the menu... Oui! Bien sur, Monsieur! And both very fresh! Might he wish to have a look? Live from the tanks, yes, over there—là-bas, les acquariums, on the deck’s far side—
Parsons voiced his thanks as he rose from his seat. Fresh trout! On a boat winding its way up the lake! Scarcely a novelty, he knew, in any European country, on a pleasure craft like this—more rarely so, anywhere in the States! Grilled trout for lunch! The idea held him captive.
But the fish tanks, he saw, on making his approach, were by no means what captured his preliminary interest. Gathered in front of them, immersed in conversation,
was a group of six people who, Parsons judged, must
be members of a family: three adults, a trio of teens, a girl and two boys, the girl perhaps sixteen, a beautiful young woman, the boys, very talkative, some eighteen and fourteen. And an older woman smiling on, merely observing, a woman late-sixties, perhaps a touch older, her white hair styled in the current short fashion. Dressed, too, Parsons noted, with more elegance than the others.
The other two adults—husband and wife, they must be?— were dividing their attention, the woman in conversation mainly with the girl, the man with the boys. The man was tall and trim, in a casual summer jacket and gray summer slacks, his dark hair cut close and neatly combed back.
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