Across the River and Into the Trees (12 page)

“I have,” said the Colonel. “Four times.”

“Would you have been a general if you had not lied?”

“If I had lied as others lied, I would have been a three-star general.”

“Would it make you happier to be a three-star general?”

“No,” said the Colonel. “It would not.”

“Put your right hand, your real hand, in your pocket once and tell me how you feel.”

The Colonel did so.

“Wonderful,” he said. “But I have to give them back you know.”

“No. Please no.”

“We won’t go into it now.”

Just then the lobster was served.

It was tender, with the peculiar slippery grace of that kicking muscle which is the tail, and the claws were excellent; neither too thin, nor too fat.

“A lobster fills with the moon,” the Colonel told the girl. “When the moon is dark he is not worth eating.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I think it may be because, with the full moon, he feeds all night. Or maybe it is that the full moon brings him feed.”

“They come from the Dalmatian coast do they not?”

“Yes,” the Colonel said. “That’s your rich coast in fish. Maybe I should say
our
rich coast.”

“Say it,” the girl said. “You don’t know how important things that are said are.”

“They are a damn sight more important when you put them on paper.”

“No,” the girl said. “I don’t agree. The paper means nothing unless you say them in your heart.”

“And what if you haven’t a heart, or your heart is worthless?”

“You have a heart and it is not worthless.”

I would sure as hell like to trade it in on a new one, the Colonel thought. I do not see why that one, of all the muscles, should fail me. But he said nothing of this, and put his hand in his pocket.

“They feel wonderful,” he said. “And you look wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I will remember that all week.”

“You could always just look in the glass.”

“The mirror bores me,” she said. “Putting on lipstick and moving your mouths over each other to get it spread properly and combing your too heavy hair is not a life for a woman, or even a girl alone, who loves someone. When you want to be the moon and various stars and live with your man and have five sons, looking at yourself in the mirror and doing the artifices of a woman is not very exciting.”

“Then let us be married at once.”

“No,” she said. “I had to make a decision about that, as about the other different things. All week long is my time to make decisions.”

“I make them too,” the Colonel told her. “But I am very vulnerable on this.”

“Let’s not talk about it. It makes a sweet hurt, but I think we would do better to find out what the
Gran Maestro
has for meat. Please drink your wine. You haven’t touched it.”

“I’ll touch it now,” the Colonel said. He did and it was pale and cold like the wines of Greece, but not resinous, and its body was as full and as lovely as that of Renata.

“It’s very like you.”

“Yes. I know. That’s why I wanted you to taste it.”

“I’m tasting it,” the Colonel said. “Now I will drink a full glass.”

“You’re a good man.”

“Thank you,” the Colonel said. “I’ll remember that all week and try to be one.” Then he said, “
Gran Maestro
.”

When the
Gran Maestro
came over, happy, conspiratorial, and ignoring his ulcers, the Colonel asked him, “What sort of meat have you that is worth our eating?”

“I’m not quite sure I know,” the
Gran Maestro
said. “But I will check. Your compatriot is over there in hearing distance. He would not let me seat him in the far corner.”

“Good,” the Colonel said. “We’ll give him something to write about.”

“He writes every night, you know. I’ve heard that from one of my colleagues at his hotel.”

“Good,” the Colonel said. “That shows that he is industrious even if he has outlived his talents.”

“We are all industrious,” the
Gran Maestro
said.

“In different ways.”

“I will go and check on what there actually is among the meats.”

“Check carefully.”

“I am industrious.”

“You are also damn sagacious.”

The
Gran Maestro
was gone and the girl said, “He is a lovely man and I love how fond he is of you.”

“We are good friends,” the Colonel said. “I hope he has a good steak for you.”

“There is one very good steak,” the
Gran Maestro
said, reappearing.

“You take it, Daughter. I get them all the time at the mess. Do you want it rare?”

“Quite rare, please.”

“
Al sangue
,” the Colonel said, “as John said when he spoke to the waiter in French.
Crudo
,
bleu
, or just make it very rare.”

“It’s rare,” the
Gran Maestro
said. “And you, my Colonel?”

“The scaloppine with Marsala, and the cauliflower braised with butter. Plus an artichoke vinaigrette if you can find one. What do you want, Daughter?”

“Mashed potatoes and a plain salad.”

“You’re a growing girl.”

“Yes. But I should not grow too much nor in the wrong directions.”

“I think that handles it,” the Colonel said. “What about a fiasco of Valpolicella?”

“We don’t have fiascos. This is a good hotel, you know. It comes in bottles.”

“I forgot,” the Colonel said. “Do you remember when it cost thirty centesimi the liter?”

“And we would throw the empty fiascos at the station guards from the troop trains?”

“And we would throw all the left over grenades away and bounce them down the hillside coming back from the Grappa?”

“And they would think there was a break-through when they would see the bursts and you never shaved, and we wore the
fiamme nere
on the grey, open jackets with the grey sweaters?”

“And I drank grappa and could not even feel the taste?”

“We must have been tough then,” the Colonel said.

“We were tough then,” the
Gran Maestro
said. “We were bad boys then, and you were the worst of the bad boys.”

“Yes,” the Colonel said. “I think we were rather bad boys. You forgive this will you, Daughter?”

“You haven’t a picture of them, have you?”

“No. There weren’t any pictures except with Mr. d’Annunzio in them. Also most of the people turned out badly.”

“Except for us,” the
Gran Maestro
said. “Now I must go and see how the steak marches.”

The Colonel, who was a sub-lieutenant again now, riding in a camion, his face dust, until only his metallic eyes showed, and they were red-rimmed and sore, sat thinking.

The three key points, he thought. The massif of Grappa with Assalone and Pertica and the hill I do not remember the name of on the right. That was where I grew up, he thought, and all the nights I woke sweating, dreaming I would not be able to get them out of the trucks. They should not have gotten out, ever, of course. But what a trade it is.

“In our army, you know,” he told the girl, “practically no Generals have ever fought. It is quite strange and the top organization dislikes those who have fought.”

“Do Generals really fight?”

“Oh yes. When they are captains and lieutenants. Later, except in retreats, it is rather stupid.”

“Did you fight much? I know you did. But tell me.”

“I fought enough to be classified as a fool by the great thinkers.”

“Tell me.”

“When I was a boy, I fought against Erwin Rommel half way from Cortina to the Grappa, where we held. He was a captain then and I was an acting captain; really a sub-lieutenant.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. Not until after the war when we could talk together. He was very nice and I liked him. We used to ski together.”

“Did you like many Germans?”

“Very many. Ernst Udet I liked the best.”

“But they were in the wrong.”

“Of course. But who has not been?”

“I never could like them or take such a tolerant attitude as you do, since they killed my father and burned our villa on the Brenta and the day I saw a German officer shooting pigeons with a shot-gun in the Piazza San Marco.”

“I understand,” the Colonel said. “But please, Daughter you try to understand my attitude too. When we have killed so many we can afford to be kind.”

“How many have you killed?”

“One hundred and twenty-two sures. Not counting possibles.”

“You had no remorse?”

“Never.”

“Nor bad dreams about it?”

“Nor bad dreams. But usually strange ones. Combat dreams, always, for a while after combat. But then strange dreams about places mostly. We live by accidents of terrain, you know. And terrain is what remains in the dreaming part of your mind.”

“Don’t you ever dream about me?”

“I try to. But I can’t.”

“Maybe the portrait will help.”

“I hope so,” the Colonel said. “Please don’t forget to remind me to give back the stones.”

“Please don’t be cruel.”

“I have my small necessities of honor in the same proportions as we have our great and enveloping love. You cannot have the one without the other.”

“But you could give me privileges.”

“You have them,” the Colonel said. “The stones are in my pocket.”

The
Gran Maestro
came then with the steak and the scaloppine and the vegetables. They were brought by a sleek-headed boy who believed in nothing; but was trying hard to be a good second waiter. He was a member of the Order. The
Gran Maestro
served adroitly and with respect both for the food, and those that were to eat it.

“Now eat,” he said.

“Uncork that Valpolicella,” he said to the boy who had the eyes of an unbelieving spaniel.

“What do you have on that character?” the Colonel asked him, referring to his pitted compatriot, sitting chawing at his food, while the elderly woman with him ate with suburban grace.

“You should tell me. Not me you.”

“I never saw him before today,” the Colonel said. “He’s hard to take with food.”

“He condescends to me. He speaks bad Italian assiduously. He goes everywhere in Baedeker, and he has no taste in either food or wine. The woman is nice. I believe she is his aunt. But I have no real information.”

“He looks like something we could do without.”

“I believe we could. In a pinch.”

“Does he speak of us?”

“He asked me who you were. He was familiar with the Contessa’s name and had book-visited several palaces that had belonged to the family. He was impressed by your name, Madam, which I gave to impress him.”

“Do you think he will put us in a book?”

“I’m sure of it. He puts everything in a book.”

“We ought to be in a book,” the Colonel said. “Would you mind, Daughter?”

“Of course not,” the girl said. “But I’d rather Dante wrote it.”

“Dante isn’t around,” the Colonel said. “Can you tell me anything about the war?” the girl asked. “Anything that I should be permitted to know?”

“Sure. Anything you like.”

“What was General Eisenhower like?”

“Strictly the Epworth League. Probably that is unjust too. Also complicated by various other influences. An excellent politician. Political General. Very able at it.”

“The other leaders?”

“Let us not name them. They’ve named themselves enough in their memoirs. Mostly extremely plausible out of something called the Rotary Club that you would never have heard of. In this club, they have enameled buttons with their first names and you are fined if you call them by their proper names. Never fought. Ever.”

“Were there no good ones?”

“Yes, many. Bradley, the schoolmaster, and many others. Give you Lightning Joe as a good one. Very good.”

“Who was he?”

“Commanded the Seventh Corps when I was there. Very sound. Rapid. Accurate. Now chief of staff.”

“But what about the great leaders we heard about like the Generals Montgomery and Patton?”

“Forget them, Daughter. Monty was a character who needed fifteen to one to move, and then moved tardily.”

“I always supposed he was a great General.”

“He was not,” the Colonel said. “The worst part was he knew it. I have seen him come into an hotel and change from his proper uniform into a crowd-catching kit to go out in the evening to animate the populace.”

“Do you dislike him?”

“No. I simply think he is a British General. Whatever that means. And don’t you use the term.”

“But he beat General Rommel.”

“Yes. And you don’t think any one else had softened him up? And who can’t win with fifteen to one? When we fought here, when we were boys, the
Gran Maestro
and I, we won for one whole year with three to four against one and we won each one. Three main bad ones. That is why we can make jokes and not be solemn. We had something over one hundred and forty thousand dead that year. That is why we can speak gaily and without pomposity.”

“It is such a sad science; if it is a science,” the girl said. “I hate the war monuments, though I respect them.”

“I do not like them either. Nor the process which led to their construction. Have you ever seen that end of the thing?”

“No. But I would like to know.”

“Better not know,” the Colonel said. “Eat your steak before it gets cold and forgive me for talking about my trade.”

“I hate it but I love it.”

“I believe we share the same emotions,” the Colonel said. “But what is my pitted compatriot thinking three tables down?”

“About his next book, or about what it says in Baedeker.”

“Should we go and ride in a gondola in the wind after we have dined?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Should we tell the pitted man that we are going? I think he has the same pits on his heart and in his soul and maybe in his curiosity.”

“We tell him nothing,” the girl said. “The
Gran Maestro
can convey him any information we wish.”

Then she chewed well and solidly on her steak and said, “Do you think it is true that men make their own faces after fifty?”

“I hope not. Because I would not sign for mine.”

“You,” she said. “You.”

“Is the steak good?” the Colonel asked.