In Switzerland

By Raymond Carver

First thing to do in Zurich
is take the No. 5 "Zoo" trolley
to the end of the track,
and get off. Been warned about
the lions. How their roars
carry over from the zoo compound
to the Fluntern Cemetery.
Where I walk along
the very beautiful path
to James Joyce's grave.
Always the family man, he's here
with his wife Nora, of course.
And his son, Giorgio,
who died a few years ago.
Lucia, his sorrow,
still alive, still confined
in an institution for the insane.
When she was brought the news
of her father's death, she said:
What is he doing under the ground, that idiot?
When will he decide to come out?
He's watching us all the time.
I lingered awhile. I think
I said something aloud to Mr. Joyce.
I must have. I know I must have.
But I don't recall what,
now, and I'll leave it at that.

A week later to the day, we depart
Zurich by train for Lucerne.
But early that morning I take
the No. 5 trolley once more
to the end of the line.
The roar of the lions falls over
the cemetery, as before.
The grass has been cut.
I sit on it for a while and smoke.
Just feels good to be there,
close to the grave. I didn't
have anything to say this time.

That night we gambled at the tables
at the Grand Hotel-Casino
on the very shore of Lake Lucerne.
Took in a strip show later.
But what to do with the memory
of that grave that came to me
in the midst of the show,
under the muted, pink stage light?
Nothing to do about it.
Or about the desire that came later,
crowding everything else out,
like a wave.
Still later, we sat on a bench
under some linden trees, under stars.
Made love with each other.
Reaching into each other's clothes for it.
The lake a few steps away.
Afterwards, dipped our hands
into the cold water.
THen walked back to our hotel,
happy and tired, ready to sleep
for eight hours.

All of us, all of us
trying to save
our immortal souls, some ways
seemingly more round-
about and mysterious
than others. We're having
a good time here. But hope
all will be revealed soon.