said to the Gran Maestro .
“My Colonel, you will allow me to refuse because of the ulcers?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Boy, what’s your name, Giorgio? Another dry Martini. Secco, molto secco e doppio .”
Breaking spells, he thought. It is not my trade. My trade is killing armed men. A spell should be armed if I’m to break it. But we have killed many things which were not armed. All right, spell breaker, retract.
“ Gran Maestro ,” he said. “You are still Gran Maestro and fornicate the Condottieri.”
“They were fornicated many years ago, Supreme Commander.”
“Exactly,” the Colonel said.
But the spell was broken.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” the Colonel said. “What is there?”
“We will have anything you wish, and what we do not have I will send out for.”
“Do you have any fresh asparagus?”
“You know we cannot have it in these months. It comes in April and from Bassano.”
“Then I’ll just urinate the usual odor,” the Colonel said. “You think of something and I’ll eat it.”
“How many will you be?” the Maitre d’Hotel asked.
“We’ll be two,” the Colonel said. “What time do you close the bistro ?”
“We will serve dinner as late as you wish to eat, my Colonel.”
“I’ll try to be in at a sound hour,” the Colonel said. “Good-bye, Gran Maestro ,” he said and smiled, and gave the Gran Maestro his crooked hand.
“Good-bye, Supreme Commander,” said the Gran Maestro and the spell was existent again and almost complete.
But it was not quite complete and the Colonel knew it and he thought: why am I always a bastard and why can I not suspend this trade of arms, and be a kind and good man as I would have wished to be.
I try always to be just, but I am brusque and I am brutal, and it is not that I have erected the defense against brown-nosing my superiors and brown-nosing the world. I should be a better man with less wild boar blood in the small time which remains. We will try it out tonight, he thought. With whom, he thought, and where, and God help me not to be bad.
“Giorgio,” he said to the barman, who had a face as white as a leper, but with no bulges, and without the silver shine.
Giorgio did not really like the Colonel very much, or perhaps he was simply from Piemonte, and cared for no one truly; which was understandable in cold people from a border province. Borderers are not trusters, and the Colonel knew about this, and expected nothing from anyone that they did not have to give.
“Giorgio,” he said to the pale-faced barman. “Write these down for me, please.”
He went out, walking as he had always walked, with a slightly exaggerated confidence, even when it was not needed, and, in his always renewed plan of being kind, decent and good, he greeted the concierge, who was a friend, the assistant manager, who spoke Swahili and had been a prisoner of war in Kenya, and was a most amiable man, young, full of juice, handsome, perhaps not yet a member of the Order, and experienced.
“And the cavaliere ufficiale who manages this place?” he asked. “My friend?”
“He is not here,” the assistant manager said. “For the moment, naturally,” he added.
“Give him my compliments,” the Colonel said. “And have somebody show me to my room.”
“It is the usual room. You still wish it?”
“Yes. Have you taken care of the Sergeant?”
“He is well taken care of.”
“Good,” said the Colonel.
The Colonel proceeded to his room accompanied by the boy who carried his bag.
“This way, my Colonel,” the boy said, when the elevator halted with slight hydraulic inaccuracy at the top floor.
“Can’t you run an elevator properly?” the Colonel asked.
“No, my Colonel,” the boy said. “The current is not stable.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE Colonel said nothing and preceded the boy down the corridor. It was large, wide and high ceilinged, and there was a long and distinguished interval between the doors of the rooms on the side
“My Colonel, you will allow me to refuse because of the ulcers?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Boy, what’s your name, Giorgio? Another dry Martini. Secco, molto secco e doppio .”
Breaking spells, he thought. It is not my trade. My trade is killing armed men. A spell should be armed if I’m to break it. But we have killed many things which were not armed. All right, spell breaker, retract.
“ Gran Maestro ,” he said. “You are still Gran Maestro and fornicate the Condottieri.”
“They were fornicated many years ago, Supreme Commander.”
“Exactly,” the Colonel said.
But the spell was broken.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” the Colonel said. “What is there?”
“We will have anything you wish, and what we do not have I will send out for.”
“Do you have any fresh asparagus?”
“You know we cannot have it in these months. It comes in April and from Bassano.”
“Then I’ll just urinate the usual odor,” the Colonel said. “You think of something and I’ll eat it.”
“How many will you be?” the Maitre d’Hotel asked.
“We’ll be two,” the Colonel said. “What time do you close the bistro ?”
“We will serve dinner as late as you wish to eat, my Colonel.”
“I’ll try to be in at a sound hour,” the Colonel said. “Good-bye, Gran Maestro ,” he said and smiled, and gave the Gran Maestro his crooked hand.
“Good-bye, Supreme Commander,” said the Gran Maestro and the spell was existent again and almost complete.
But it was not quite complete and the Colonel knew it and he thought: why am I always a bastard and why can I not suspend this trade of arms, and be a kind and good man as I would have wished to be.
I try always to be just, but I am brusque and I am brutal, and it is not that I have erected the defense against brown-nosing my superiors and brown-nosing the world. I should be a better man with less wild boar blood in the small time which remains. We will try it out tonight, he thought. With whom, he thought, and where, and God help me not to be bad.
“Giorgio,” he said to the barman, who had a face as white as a leper, but with no bulges, and without the silver shine.
Giorgio did not really like the Colonel very much, or perhaps he was simply from Piemonte, and cared for no one truly; which was understandable in cold people from a border province. Borderers are not trusters, and the Colonel knew about this, and expected nothing from anyone that they did not have to give.
“Giorgio,” he said to the pale-faced barman. “Write these down for me, please.”
He went out, walking as he had always walked, with a slightly exaggerated confidence, even when it was not needed, and, in his always renewed plan of being kind, decent and good, he greeted the concierge, who was a friend, the assistant manager, who spoke Swahili and had been a prisoner of war in Kenya, and was a most amiable man, young, full of juice, handsome, perhaps not yet a member of the Order, and experienced.
“And the cavaliere ufficiale who manages this place?” he asked. “My friend?”
“He is not here,” the assistant manager said. “For the moment, naturally,” he added.
“Give him my compliments,” the Colonel said. “And have somebody show me to my room.”
“It is the usual room. You still wish it?”
“Yes. Have you taken care of the Sergeant?”
“He is well taken care of.”
“Good,” said the Colonel.
The Colonel proceeded to his room accompanied by the boy who carried his bag.
“This way, my Colonel,” the boy said, when the elevator halted with slight hydraulic inaccuracy at the top floor.
“Can’t you run an elevator properly?” the Colonel asked.
“No, my Colonel,” the boy said. “The current is not stable.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE Colonel said nothing and preceded the boy down the corridor. It was large, wide and high ceilinged, and there was a long and distinguished interval between the doors of the rooms on the side
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