Two Weeks in Another Town by Irwin Shaw Page B

bread-sticks absently on the tablecloth.
    “In the last five years,” Despière said, eating with relish, “I’ve been in Korea, Indochina, Cyprus, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Israel, Egypt. I am like a doctor in an ambulance. I run to all emergencies.”
    “You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days,” Delaney said.
    “Maestro,” said Despière, “brutality is your chief charm.” He smiled benignly, his teeth strong, squarish, tobacco-stained, behind the thin lips. “The last time was in Philippeville about six months ago. Three Arabs drove past in an open taxi and machine-gunned a fashion show.”
    “A what?” Jack asked, incredulously.
    “A fashion show,” Despière poured himself another glass of wine. “Eight beautiful girls showing the latest French dresses. That is how one liberates one’s country these days.”
    “What the hell were they doing in Philippeville?” Delaney asked.
    “Bringing the Paris message to our overseas possessions,” Despière said. “Chic for all occasions. Teas, sieges, Communist rallies, ambushes, state dinners, parades by the Foreign Legion, receptions for visiting American statesmen…They just drove past the front of the hotel and sprayed away. Imagine the corruption of the mind of a man who would shoot eight beautiful girls.”
    “Did they hit any of them?” Jack asked.
    “No. But they killed six people sitting in a café next door.”
    “How about you?” Delaney asked. “Were you really there?”
    “I was there. On the floor, behind a table,” Despière said, smiling. “I am getting very quick at dropping behind tables. It would not surprise me if I was told I held the world’s record. I was also present in Casablanca when the crowd poured gasoline over two gentlemen they didn’t like and set them on fire. I am highly paid,” he said, “because I have a knack of being on the spot at those moments when modern civilization expresses itself in a typical manner.” He held his glass up and looked at it critically. “I do like Italian wine. It’s’ simple. It is what it is. It does not pretend to be velvet like French wine. I also like Italian colors. When I saw the color of the walls of Rome for the first time on a summer morning, I knew I had been longing for the city all my life, although I was only seventeen at the time. I recognized the city from the beginning. The first time I came to Rome, with my father, when I was a boy, I entered the city through the Flaminia Gate, into the Piazza del Popolo. There were hundreds of people all over the piazza. My father stopped the car and took me to a café on a corner for coffee. The prettiest girl in the world was behind the cashier’s counter, selling those little tickets you give to the man who works the espresso machine. I sat there, in love with the girl behind the counter, and I said to myself, immediately, ‘What a wonderful place to live, surrounded by Italians. I will come here to drink coffee for the rest of my life. I have found the city for me.’ There are cities that your soul recognizes at first glance. Am I right, Dottore?” He turned to Jack.
    “Yes,” Jack said. He thought of himself and the first time he had seen Paris, during the war, and the pull that the city had exerted upon him, so that, finally, much later, he had come to live there.
    “There are some men,” Despière said, “who can only live fully in the capitals of countries not their own. I am one of them. You, Dottore, I suspect, are another. The happy exiles. The Maestro, now.” He squinted at Delaney, whose mood had improved somewhat during Despière’s recitation. “The Maestro is a different animal. He is invincibly American. That means he is brusque, careless, constantly worried, and uneasy when he finds himself living among people who are not constantly worried.”
    “Balls,” Delaney said, but he was smiling.
    “He has given us a typically charming response,” Despière said. “On the subject of