November 7th Lausanne, Switzerland, No 42

The plane docked at the satellite terminal in Geneva airport.
Irina grimaced as she gazed through the aircraft window.
A uniform lead blanket covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
“One more of these days with a communist sky”, she thought, “gray from morning to dawn -a real psychological torture. Pure sensory deprivation”.

No wonder she found the Swiss, with their continual bustle and somber characters, tobe among the most boring and indolent people to be found on earth: never smiling, not shining, no nothing -just like their skies.

Irina remembered Zeno telling her that he had married a Swiss woman -his "youth mistake" -as he had conied the whole experience. Poor chap, she thought, but on the other hand, he had stayed married long enough to produce three kids. Irina felt a strong attraction for the man, but, if he had been that stupid and slow reacting once, she should probably observe him carefully before letting her heart go. Irina hated false starts. After all, she was not a teenager, falling in love without even knowing it, and at her age, she was beginning to desire settling down in a long-lasting relationship -but not with an idiot!

It took a while to dock at the satellite gate and when Irina finally got at the door of the plane she felt the humid of the air and that cold bite she hated so much.

In her rented Porsche, the ride took her a little more than 35 minutes from the airport to Lausanne. Her destination was Ouchy, the lake shore portion of the town where the Beau Rivage Palace stands majestically.

She sped past the Roman ruins a Lausanne Bellerive, continued on the lake-shore boulevard, passing adjacent swimming pools, and finally reached the Ouchy area. From Roman times, through all nine hundred years of the Middle Ages, up to the present, the lake-harbour of Lausanne supported commerce, fishing and tourism.
Ouchy had been absorbed by the town of Lausanne and contributed to the tourist industry with several Hotels, among which the most prestigious is the Beau Rivage.

Irina relaxed with the pleasure of driving once again. For Irina, driving the powerful little sports car was like a swim in a cool pool after a long afternoon in the heat of the desert. She savoured the sparkling and refreshing sensation of controlling a couple hundred horse power that responded to her every command.

Being a connoisseur of the good things of life, Irina had a suite booked at the Beau Rivage by Schwayb, her agent. This was not the first time she had enjoyed the luxuries of this Hotel, and from a culinary point of view, she particularly relished a few days in Lausanne.

Pulling up to the front of the Beau Rivage, she left the car for the valet, an old Italian named Giovanni, who remembered Irina from her last visit.
He silently took the Porsche into the brand new underground parking carved into the hill just behind the hotel.

As soon as she reached her suite, Irina noticed a sealed envelope elegantly set in the middle of the fresh fruit basket sent by the management.
At first she thought it was the standard VIP welcoming letter of the house, but when she tore it open she noticed that it was written on standard letter paper, devoid of the flashy, ornamental letterhead generally used for such messages.

Her heart raced. Maybe she had not wasted her trip after all.