the Porta Magenta. He was still in bed and sleepy when I went to see him.
“You get up awfully early, Henry,” he said.
“I came in on the early train.”
“What’s all this retreat? Were you at the front? Will you have a cigarette? They’re in that box on the table.” It was a big room with a bed beside the wall, a piano over on the far side and a dresser and table. I sat on a chair by the bed. Simmons sat propped up by the pillows and smoked.
“I’m in a jam, Sim,” I said.
“So am I,” he said. “I’m always in a jam. Won’t you smoke?”
“No,” I said. ‘“What’s the procedure in going to Switzerland?”
“For you? The Italians wouldn’t let you out of the country.”
“Yes. I know that. But the Swiss. What will they do?”
“They intern you.”
“I know. But what’s the mechanics of it?”
“Nothing. It’s very simple. You can go anywhere. I think you just have to report or something. Why? Are you fleeing the police?”
“Nothing definite yet.”
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want. But it would be interesting to hear. Nothing happens here. I was a great flop at Piacenza.”
“I’m awfully sorry.”
“Oh yes—I went very badly. I sung well too. I’m going to try it again at the Lyrico here.”
“I’d like to be there.”
“You’re awfully polite. You aren’t in a bad mess, are you?”
