Across the River and Into the Trees

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 of the Grand Canal. Natu­rally, since it had been a palace, there were no rooms without excellent views, except those which had been made for the servants.

The Colonel found the walk long, although it was a very short one, and when the waiter who served the room appeared, short, dark and with his glass eye in the left eye socket gleaming, unable to smile his full, true smile as he worked the big key in the lock, the Colonel wished that the door would open more rapidly.

“Open it up,” he said.

“I will, my Colonel,” the waiter said. “But you know these locks.”

Yes, the Colonel thought. I know them, but I wish that he would get it open.

“How are your family?” he said to the waiter, who had swung the door wide so that the Colonel, now en­tered, was within the room with the high, dark but well-mirrored armoire, the two good beds, the great chande­lier and the view, through the still closed windows, onto the wind beaten water of the Grand Canal.

The Canal was grey as steel now in the quick, failing, winter light and the Colonel said, “Arnaldo, open the windows.”

“There is much wind, my Colonel, and the room is badly heated due to the lack of electric power.”

“Due to the lack of rainfall,” the Colonel said. “Open the windows. All of them.”

“As you wish, my Colonel.”

The waiter opened the windows and the north wind came into the room.

“Please call the desk and ask them to ring this num­ber.” The waiter made the call while the Colonel was in the bathroom.

“The Contessa is not at home, my Colonel,” he said. “They believe you might find her at Harry’s.”

“You find everything on earth at Harry’s.”

“Yes, my Colonel. Except, possibly, happiness.”

“I’ll damn well find happiness, too,” the Colonel as­sured him. “Happiness, as you know, is a movable feast.”

“I am aware of that,” the waiter said. “I have brought Campari bitters and a bottle of Gordon Gin. May I make you a Campari with gin and soda?”

“You’re a good boy,” the Colonel said. “Where did you bring them from. The bar?”

“No. I bought them while you were away so that you would not have to spend money at the bar. The bar is very costly.”

“I agree,” the Colonel agreed. “But you should not use your own money on such a project.”

“I took a chance. We have both taken many. The gin was 3200 lire and is legitimate. The Campari was 800.”

“You’re a very good boy,” the Colonel told him. “How were the ducks?”

“My wife still speaks of them. We had never had wild ducks, since they are of such expense, and outside of our way of life. But one of our neighbors told her how to prepare them and these same neighbors ate them with us. I never knew that anything could be so wonderful to eat. When your teeth close on the small slice of meat it is an almost unbelievable delight.”

“I think so, too. There is nothing lovelier to eat than those fat iron-curtain ducks. You know their fly-way is through the great grain fields of the Danube. This is a splinter flight we have here, but they always come the same way since before there were shot-guns.”

“I know nothing about shooting for, sport,” the waiter said. “We were too poor.”

“But many people without money shoot in the Veneto.”

“Yes. Of course. One hears them shoot all night. But we were poorer than that. We were poorer than you can know, my Colonel.”

“I think I can know.”

“Perhaps,” the waiter said. “My wife also saved all the feathers and she asked me to thank you.”

“If we have any luck day after tomorrow, we’ll get plenty. The big ducks with the green heads. Tell your wife, with luck, there will be good eating ducks, fat as pigs with what they have eaten from the Russians, and with beautiful feathers.”

“How do you feel about the Russians, if it is not indis­creet to ask, my Colonel?”

“They are our potential enemy. So, as a soldier, I am prepared to fight them. But I like them very much and I have never known finer people nor people more as we are.”

“I have never had the good fortune to know them.”

“You will, boy. You will. Unless the Honorable Pacciardi stops them on the line of the Piave, which is a river which no longer contains water. It has been syphoned off for hydro-electric projects. Perhaps the Honorable Pacciardi will fight there. But I do not think he will fight for long.”

“I do not know the Honorable Pacciardi.”

“I know him,” said the Colonel.

“Now ask them to ring Harry’s and see if the Contessa is there. If not, have them ring the house again.”

The Colonel took the drink Arnaldo, the glass-eyed waiter, made him. He did not want it, and he knew that it was bad for him.

But he took it with his old wild-boar truculence, as he had taken everything all of his life, and he moved, still cat-like when he moved, although it was an old cat now, over to the open window and looked out on the great Canal which was now becoming as grey as though Degas had painted it on one of his greyest days.

“Thanks very much for the drink,” the Colonel said, and Arnaldo, who was talking into the telephone, nodded and smiled his glass-eyed smile.

I wish he did not have to have that glass eye, the Colo­nel thought. He only loved people, he thought, who had fought or been mutilated.

Other people were fine and you liked them and were good friends; but you only felt true tenderness and love for those who had been there and had received the castigation that everyone receives who goes there long enough.

So I’m a sucker for crips, he thought, drinking the un­wanted drink. And any son of a bitch who has been hit solidly, as every man will be if he stays, then I love him.

Yes, his other, good, side said. You love them.

I’d rather not love anyone, the Colonel thought. I’d rather have fun.

And fun, his good side said to him, you have no fun when you do not love.

All right. I love more than an…