Sicilian Carousel Read Online Free PDF Page B

the two smart French ladies and the half dozen or so others who as yet swam in a sort of unidentifiable blur, waiting to develop their pictures, so to speak. Among them, as yet unidentified by science, were the egregious fellow called Beddoes, a MissLobb of London, and a rapturous Japanese couple, moonstruck in allure and wearing purple shoes.
    Deeds and I settled ourselves modestly in the last two seats in the back row, enjoying therefore a little extra legroom and a small lunette window of our own. The others took up dispositions no less thoughtful, realizing that we would need space to stretch and smoke and doze. Across the aisle from us, however, there was an empty row and this was suddenly occupied by a passenger to whom we hadn’t paid attention before. He was a somewhat raffish-looking individual of medium height clad in veteran tweeds with dirty turn-ups; also old-fashioned boots with hooks and eyes and scarlet socks. On his head he wore a beret at a rakish angle from under which effervesced a tangled mop of dirty curls worthy of Dylan Thomas. To everyone’s discomfort he smoked shag in a small and noisome French briar. He talked to himself in a low undertone and smiled frequently, exposing very yellow canines. “A rather rum chap,” whispered Deeds confidentially, and I could bet that after a pause he would sigh and add resignedly, “O well, it takes all sorts.…” The nice thing about Deeds was not only his kindness but his predictability. I felt I already knew him so well by now that I could guess the name of his wife—Phyllis. And so it proved to be. But the chap over the way had started to make conversation—a sort of sharp and knowing line of talk. He said his name was Beddoes and that he was a prep school master. “Just beenhurled out of a prep school near Dungeness for behavior unbecoming to an officer and a hypocrite.” He gave a brief cachinnation and sucked on his noisome dottle. Deeds looked thoughtful. Well, I could almost hear him think, if one goes abroad it is to meet new faces in new places.
    Yet, at the moment all was harmony, all was beatific calm and indulgence. Even Beddoes seemed all right in his rather sharp-edged way. Later of course we were to ask God plaintively in our prayers what we had done to merit such a traveling companion. But not today, not on this serene and cloudless morning with its smiling promise of hot sunshine and a sea bath along the road. The little hearts blood-colored bus edged off with its cargo into the traffic, feeling its way circumspectly about the town, while Roberto sat down beside the driver and conducted a voice test on the microphone through which he was to keep us intellectually stimulated throughout the Carousel. His own ordeal was just beginning, of course. At breakfast he had bemoaned a guide’s fate to Deeds, saying that one was always telling people something they already knew or something they did not wish to know. One could never win. Sometimes, attacked by hysteria, he had tried telling people false facts at breakneck speed just to see if anyone was awake enough to contradict him: but nobody ever did. But today he ran a certain risk with the Bishop as a passenger, for the latter sat forward eagerly, on the qui vive like a gundog, all setto ingest Roberto’s information. A trifle patronizing as well, for it was clear from his manner that he already knew a good deal. Yes, it was as if he were doing a viva voce in school catechism. Roberto began somewhat defensively by saying that we would not have time to do everything as there was much which merited our judicious attention. “But we will do the two essential things so that you can tell your friends if they ask that you have seen the Duomo and St. Nicolo.” It wasn’t too bad as a ration, Deeds told me; but he had spent a delightful hour in the Bellini Museum and the Fish Market, both of which we should be missing on this trip. No matter. Sicily