About the Author

  Born in Manchester, Tim Parks grew up in London and studied at Cambridge and Harvard. He lives in Milan. He is the acclaimed author of novels, non-fiction and essays, including Europa, A Season with Verona, Teach Us to Sit Still, Italian Ways and The Hero’s Way: Walking with Garibaldi from Rome to Ravenna. He has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize and has won many awards for both his work in English and his translations from the Italian, which include works by Alberto Moravia, Italo Calvino, Roberto Calasso, Antonio Tabucchi and Niccolò Machiavelli.

  ALSO BY TIM PARKS

  Fiction

  Tongues of Flame

  Loving Roger

  Home Thoughts

  Family Planning

  Goodness

  Cara Massimina

  Mimi’s Ghost

  Shear

  Europa

  Destiny

  Judge Savage

  Rapids

  Cleaver

  Dreams of Rivers and Seas

  Sex is Forbidden (first published as The Server)

  Painting Death

  Thomas and Mary

  In Extremis

  Non-fiction

  Italian Neighbours

  An Italian Education

  Adultery & Other Diversions

  Translating Style

  Hell and Back

  A Season with Verona

  The Fighter

  Teach Us to Sit Still

  Italian Ways

  Where I’m Reading From

  Out of My Head

  Italian Life

  The Hero’s Way

  Tim Parks

  * * *

  HOTEL MILANO

  Contents

  PART ONE Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  PART TWO Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  PART THREE Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Blessed is he that waiteth …

  Daniel 12:12

  Part One

  I

  On Friday 6 March 2020, I received, quite unexpectedly, towards midnight, a phone call inviting me to attend Dan Sandow’s funeral. It was to be held in Milan, Italy, the following afternoon. The body had just departed on a flight from JFK.

  Perhaps ‘inviting’ gives the wrong impression. It was more of a plea.

  I hope I’m not calling too late, Mr Marriot.

  I hadn’t caught the man’s name, but guessed he was a junior editor, one of the many junior editors, on the revered magazine Dan had run for so long. So my old friend and rival has died in the saddle, I thought.

  These arrangements came as a surprise to all of us, the voice was saying in an apologetic tone. He wanted to be buried beside his beloved Vittoria, you know.

  I didn’t know.

  Just that, only being informed this afternoon – he’d kept us all in the dark – it won’t be possible for us to get over there. From New York. So we’re calling our contributors in Europe, in the hope that some may be able to make it. To represent the magazine. It seems important after all he gave us.

  There were a thousand excellent reasons why I should not attend Dan Sandow’s funeral. Nor am I someone who lightly acquiesces to sudden requests. Yet I told the junior editor that I would check for flights at once.

  That’s wonderful, the polite young man said. We’re very grateful. I’ll email details shortly.

  Half an hour later I had booked a British Airways flight from London Gatwick to Milan Malpensa. The price was exorbitant. Would the paper be paying expenses? I wondered. I lay on my bed in a state of some excitement. It was many years since I had boarded an aeroplane and many more since I had written for Dan’s revered magazine. Any magazine. Why, then, had they thought of me as one of ‘our European contributors’? How many others had they called before resorting to me? A relic.

  Had the polite young man perhaps said ‘our historic European contributors’? I suddenly seemed to remember the word. It would make sense. But casting my mind back to the conversation, which had interrupted the usual midnight search for something to read in bed, the only thing I felt sure of was the young American’s politeness, his respectfulness. Dan always surrounded himself with polite young men, I remembered. Respectful young women. They were part of the revered phenomenon that was Dan Sandow, the space he had occupied for so many years. There was an abyss, of course, between his experience and their ardour. His shrewdness and their piety. Did he have affairs with them? Did it matter? He had weathered MeToo without a whisper, to die, revered, in the saddle, surrounded by young acolytes eager to give him a proper send off. After all he gave us.

  Certainly he had had an affair with Connie.

  I lay very still. This is a modest flat. In Maida Vale. It has no pretensions. I clean it myself. From time to time. Occasionally I tell myself that if the plan really is to withdraw, completely – the word purify sometimes comes to mind – the logical thing to do would be to sell up here, cash in on London prices, and buy some remote retreat, on the Welsh borders perhaps, or in the Scottish Highlands. Even Ireland’s west coast. Sometimes I browse property websites and study photos of barren shores, heather and bracken and pebbled beaches. I see myself wandering low hills, with a walking stick perhaps, stout boots, inviting woods and streams and tides to swallow me up, till my mind is no more than a rock pool mirroring the sky, waiting for the incoming wave that will carry reflection away. Yet I have never made a single enquiry about these far-flung properties. I remain attached to London. A hermit in bedlam. Not that I participate. Those days are gone. I don’t hanker for polite young assistants. But I cannot bring myself to leave. My walks take me through the busiest streets. I watch people. In crowded pubs. I soak up their chatter, without wishing to join in. At home I do not follow the news. Vade retro Satana. Just once a month or so I check the stock markets. I think my money will last.

  Connie, I said softly. Had I agreed to go to Dan Sandow’s funeral in the hope of seeing Connie?

  I got up from the bed and began to lay out clothes. Did I have anything decent for a funeral? Anything clean? When was the last time I wore a suit? There was a pole for lifting down hangers from a high rail. So many jackets and shirts I’d forgotten I had. No one would care how I looked of course. Nor did I care if they did. So why was I rummaging in the upper wardrobe with my pole, looking for my black suit? It was exhausting. And how long was I going for? I had not booked a return flight. It would be a shame to go to a place like Milan and not take a look around. But surely no more than a few days. I dragged the stepladder from the bathroom and pulled down a small trolley bag from the top of the wardrobe. Coated in dust. And now there was dust drifting down onto the bed. You could see the flecks in the electric light. Dust to dust. I went to the kitchen for a cloth.

  Would Connie know Dan was gone? Certainly his death would have been widely reported. End of an Era. Elder Statesman of American Intelligentsia. But would she be aware of the funeral arrangements? Surely not, if even the polite young editor had found out only today. Everyone would have been expecting New York. Unless the two had still been in touch. But even assuming she did know of his death and was informed of these arrangements, would she go to the funeral? From Berlin. Assuming she still lived in Berlin.

  By the time I had packed it was almost 2 a.m. If I was to be in Gatwick two hours before the flight I would have to set the alarm for six. Was it even worth going to sleep?

  I lay on the bed again, still clothed, and tried to clear my thoughts. From the wall behind me came the faint keening of the television. Some melodrama was approaching its climax. I have always loathed the intrusion of other people’s televisions. All the more so since I decided not to have one myself. Yet now it occurred to me that actually I was reassured by the noise of this television, late in the evening, and by the thought of the viewers gathered round the melodrama, as round a hearth. Reassured by the prospect of being irritated perhaps. The idea surprised me. Dan’s funeral has woken you up, I thought. And smiled. Woken for a wake.

  But if it was true that I had only said yes to the polite junior editor because I was already hoping, fearing, or anyway riveted by the prospect of a meeting with Connie, wouldn’t the logical thing to do now be to write her an email asking if she was going? I could even phone.

  I lay on the bed watching a spider in the corner above the wardrobe. I must have disturbed his web pulling down my bag and now he was busy repairing it, busy returning things to the state they had been in before the polite young American upset everything with the story of the corpse on a flight from JFK. You’re still in time to back out, I thought, if Connie isn’t going. Either way, it would surely be better to know what to expect on arrival at the funeral. Which would be where? Not in a church, I couldn’t imagine. Perhaps directly at the cemetery. I reached for my phone and opened the email, but there was still no communication from the magazine. Presumably if they had my phone number after all these years they would also have my email address. Perhaps they would ask me for a contribution, a small article about the funeral. An invitation to return to the fold.

 
Still watching the spider – the kind we used to call daddy-long-legs – worrying up and down a thread hanging loose where my trolley bag had been, I was struck by the strangeness of the situation. Dan’s body at this moment was laid out in a polished box in the hold of an aeroplane, throbbing its high way over the Atlantic. The doyen of upmarket New York journalism was heading for old Europe to be buried beside a lover who had gone before him. How romantic was that? In a man revered, yes, for his generosity, his thoroughness, his charm, his ever-engaging charisma, but never, surely, for his sentimentality. Who was this woman? Victoria something. Or Vittoria. An Italian name. Perhaps I could google Dan Sandow Vittoria. A winner’s name. I imagined a beautiful young Italian, polite and respectful and triumphant too. But dead. With space beside her in the cemetery. Had the same thing happened, then, to Dan that had happened to me, with Rachel?

  For a while I concentrated on the spider, up in his corner. The ceilings are very high in this dusty old Maida Vale flat. He had given up on the loose strand now and retreated to the shattered heart of his web. I suppose you can never return your world to the state it was in before it was torn apart. If I had noticed in time, I would have tried to get my bag down without doing him harm. I have no quarrel with spiders. But the phone call had plunged me into a passion. Dan was crossing the ocean for a tryst with the dead, a journey he must have decided and willed while alive. I would be crossing Europe on the off chance of a tryst with the past, undecided and uncertain. But still alive. More or less. Certainly it never occurred to me, or to Rachel, to talk about being buried together. The grave’s a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace.

  Remember, I told myself, to pick a book for the journey.

  II

  On the Gatwick Express, a memo lit up my phone. My reading glasses were in my pocket. Saturday 7 March. Lunch. Ben. I have something important to tell you, my son had written the week before. He would be in London, he said, for a conference and invited me to meet him at a coffee house in Torrington Place. What could Ben have to tell me that was ‘important’ I wondered, watching the doors slide shut. That trick of creating suspense – Dad, something has happened … Dad, I’ve had an idea I need to discuss with you … – was a habit learned from his mother. Frank, when you’re back from this trip, there’s something I think you really should face up to … Immediately I would be anxious, guilty. In my son’s case the something always boiled down to a request for money. There was subsidence under the living room. His wife had written off the car. Expensive dental work. With Connie it would be a problem with our way of life, our relationship, with me. Her job wasn’t what the initial description had promised, there was too much pollution in the part of town we were living in, I was too focused on my work, my big ambitions. Connie never failed to call my ambitions big. Once the something we had to talk about turned out to be a pregnancy. How radiant she was when I told her I was delighted. Big ambitions or no. She was so relieved, she said. So proud of me. Only later did I guess what was going on with Dan.

  Benny!

  Dad, I’m in a rush.

  I explained I’d have to cancel lunch. So if it’s something urgent …

  What?

  The something you had to talk to me about.

  Right. Whose funeral did you say?

  Dan Sandow. You might remember him coming to dinner. When you were small.

  My son hesitated. I could hear a radio in the background. It can wait, Dad, he said. Another time.

  At Gatwick I was relieved to see there was no queue at Security. The place was pleasantly empty, though a surprising number of people were wearing face masks, another cheerless manifestation of contemporary faddism. My son phoned back.

  Where did you say you were going?

  Milan.

  Dad, you do realise Milan is at the centre of the epidemic.

  Ben, I don’t do news. You know that.

  It’s coming out of the walls, Dad.

  Agitated and emphatic, my son spoke to me earnestly for some minutes while I stood by the table that provides plastic bags for liquids and gels. He painted a gruesome picture.

  You’re seventy-six, Dad, exactly the age it strikes.

  Seventy-five.

  Don’t go.

  It was the second unexpected development in less than twenty-four hours. After years of quiet.

  I’m already through Security. I’m picking up a single malt.

  Turn back. Say you’ve changed your mind. They’ll let you through.

  Not with the single malt.

  Oh, come on. Be serious.

  You seem extremely worried about my health all of a sudden, Ben. I’m chuffed.

  You’re Sophie’s grandfather, Dad. We want you around for as long as possible.

  There was a short silence.

  Just turn back. What’s the sense of risking your life for a funeral? You never come to Manchester and now you’re rushing off abroad for a funeral.

  I’ll think about it, I said and, closing the call, hurried through Security. My son has always been an alarmist. You have to tease him.

  I did not buy a single malt. The truth is I associate whisky drinking with reading the news. Late at night. Or watching the news. Or listening to the news. At home, or in some foreign hotel. On a mission to collect data for a contribution. You turn on the news and at once you want to scream. Misrepresentation! Manipulation! And you pour yourself a whisky. To flavour inflammation. My contributions were always attempts to ‘set the record straight’, ‘tell it like it is’, ‘call a spade a spade’. Dan appreciated that. Up to a point. Every time I read or heard or listened to an item of news, so called, I invariably felt the need to set the record straight.

  There would be the odd occasion, of course, when someone was candid, those extremely rare instances when you understand at once, from a tone of voice, a turn of phrase, from the consternation in an interviewer’s face, that someone has let slip an honest word. And you pour yourself another whisky to celebrate. Preferably a single malt. To flavour your fervour. Those moments were arguably more dangerous than the ordinary agendas and distortions. You poured more whisky when an honest word was said because you felt at once what a rare event it was, a frail skiff soon tumbled and swamped by the great Atlantic of cant.

  I was not, I decided, going to start following the news again merely because there was an epidemic in Milan. If planes were flying to Malpensa it was presumably because the authorities thought it safe to go there. Keep your distance, my son had said. Essentially the same precaution as for avoiding colds and flu. Ben, I said, that’s been my mantra for decades. Though I never did avoid them, the seasonal ailments. Summer and winter, I soak up whatever is around. Catarrh my bosom companion. I have caught an everlasting cold – one of my favourite lines in all literature – I have lost my voice most irrecoverably. Proceeding through perfumes, I was reminded I had forgotten to bring a book.

  Of course there had been a more cheerful whisky habit in my life. Try it, I told Rachel that famous evening. Galeotto the Glenlivet, she whispered in the early hours. And every anniversary we would pour a splash of the Galeotto spirit, to celebrate. In the airport Waterstones I bypassed the new releases and bestsellers to search out the small section of classics. The new obscures the essential; that was the conclusion I came to when Rachel was dying. A sort of froth. But Gatwick’s Waterstones did not have a copy of the Inferno. Not that I would have bought it. I just felt a sudden urge to look up the line … Galeotto the book. Like a sip of Glenlivet. For a while I studied the index of an edition of Montaigne. Of the Resemblance of Children to their Fathers. How the Soul Discharges its Emotions against False Objects, when Lacking Real Ones. I was tempted. Of Judging Someone Else’s Death. We Can Savour Nothing Pure. I put Montaigne down. At random I opened a selection of Tennyson. I was eager to be out of the bookshop now. These places weigh on me. My eyes fell on the name Lancelot. But Lancelot mused a little space. He said, She has a lovely face. I headed for the cash desk.

  It was concerning, I thought, grabbing a coffee, that there was still no email from the polite young man at the magazine. It would be dead of night now in New York. Where was I to go exactly on arrival in Milan? At the boarding gate I wondered whether I might be in the wrong place. There were so few people. On the plane I had a row of seats entirely to myself. How lucky was that? I read Supposed Confessions of a Second-Rate Sensitive Mind. The Dying Swan. The Lady of Shalott. For sure, the young Tennyson had been a gloomy fellow. The dear lady of Shalott, it seemed to me, had had the perfect situation, weaving and singing in her remote island castle. Chanting cheerly. Until Sir Lancelot appeared in her screen. The magic mirror brought news from Camelot.