So all my luggage was conveyed to the office of the police. I showed no concern, but laughed and joked.
"What countryman do you say you are?"
"English."
"Impossible. You have not the English accent when you speak. It is rather
German than anything else."
"You think I am a German?"
"But certainly. Your bag has a German address on it, written in German characters." So it had. I had been in Germany before going to Rome, and had never removed the address, which, as he said, was in German characters. I explained, but the chef was unsatisfied. I became now convinced that he thought I was a spy.
"Here are German newspapers and a German book in your bag!" said the chef.
"Certainly. Why not? I have been in Germany."
"Yet you say you are English?"
"Here is my passport." I extended one to him. He looked at it, shook his head, and said: "It is a very old one of 1867." That was true, and I had not had it viséd since.