Excerpt from Room on the Sea by Andre Aciman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter One

"Perhaps this might help," said the stranger. He walked over to their table and touched Mark on the shoulder. "Just breathe deeply and count to five." They'd been seeing him for at least three days, sitting across from them at a corner table in the hotel's dining area by the pool. Always keeping to himself, occasionally exchanging a few short pleasantries with the tall, white-haired waiter, otherwise very quiet and reserved.

Though he always sat alone, he never brought anything to read with him—just a green Moleskine notebook, which he kept open upside down like a diminutive camping tent; a tiny black, clipless fountain pen; and a pair of glasses, which he tossed on the table with total disregard for how they landed on the tablecloth, as though still denying that he needed them. He was in his early sixties, and looked dapper, slim, and always buoyant in his well-pressed double-breasted navy seersucker jacket, linen shirt, and silver-gray tie, topped by a vibrant-colored pocket square.

They had spotted him a few times in the lobby or on the long terrace and had begun wondering about him, probably thinking he was another one of those stereotypical semi-retired Italian gentlemen who'd done well for themselves and who pick a spa in the hills or a beach resort where they vacation, socialize a bit, play bridge at night, and for a few weeks manage to stay away from their wives, mistresses, and grandchildren. But this gentleman didn't socialize, didn't play bridge, hadn't come for the waters or the mud baths, and unlike the other hotel guests, kept asking the waiters to lower the volume of the already muted Vivaldi music piped into the dining area. Once, on heading to what was usually his table, he had thrown a glance in their direction, even given them an imperceptible bow as a passing salutation, but he never uttered a word. They did not return his greeting, feeling that his old-world manner was too chilly and formal for them to know exactly how to respond. Their eyes had simply cast a blank, bewildered stare on his figure, ignoring his distant salutation and trying not to encourage what he might be up to next. "I'm telling you, he's been studying us," said one of them. "Weird," agreed another.

Their table was the busiest and largest in the hotel dining area and occupied the space lining a good portion of the balustrade overlooking the beach and the marina on the left. As soon as they'd shown up the first few times, the waiters had hastily joined together three tables and thrown a long tablecloth over them. Later, after they'd all finished eating and left, the waiters would remove the long tablecloth, crumple it up, and separate the tables again. Eventually, seeing that the cohort never went elsewhere for breakfast or dinner, the waiters decided to leave the tables joined together for the remainder of their stay. They were not the only Americans in the hotel, but the youngest and the loudest. When the two guitarists came round to their table in the evening, the women in their group would suddenly beam, turn to face the players, and laugh as they attempted to hum along with the music. Everyone else in the hotel spoke softly, ate very slowly, and drank far less. The young Americans were the last to leave at night, and, by the time they'd ordered dessert, all the other tables were already being set up for breakfast.

After dinner, most of the aging hotel guests liked to spend their time either lounging in the common area not far from the lobby or playing bridge in the card room. For them, this was not a resort where you came for a few days but where you spent at least three weeks in the hotel and stayed there, socializing with other guests who'd been coming here for years if not decades, and touring the environs a bit only to return for a short swim, then light cocktails and a splendid dinner. The chef, as the hotel staff kept reminding the young signori Americani, was world famous and the author of three bestselling cookbooks. After dinner, the much older folk would sip mineral water or chamomile on the veranda or, fearing drafts, would eventually repair to the tearoom. They were dubbed "the knitting pool" by the young Americans, because two of the eldest women were frequently seen knitting, while the men, who later seemed eager to move to the patio to discuss the sorry state of Italian politics, would sit in groups of three and four before turning in when it got a tad chilly. After dinner, the young Americans liked to crowd into the small bar area that probably housed more gins and single malts than any luxury bar in the United Kingdom.

Excerpted from Room on the Sea by Andre Aciman. Copyright © 2025 by Andre Aciman. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.