Across the River and Into the Trees (6 page)

But he had followed the discourse and, at the end, when the Lieutenant Colonel d’Annunzio, writer and national hero, certified and true if you must have heroes, and the Colonel did not believe in heroes, asked for a moment of silence for our glorious dead, he had stood stiffly at attention. But his platoon, who had not followed the speech, there being no loud speakers then, and they being slightly out of hearing of the orator, responded, as one man, at the pause for the moment of silence for our glorious dead, with a solid and ringing “
Evviva d’ Annunzio
.”

They had been addressed before by d’Annunzio after victories, and before defeats, and they knew what they should shout if there was any pause by an orator.

The Colonel, being then a lieutenant, and loving his platoon, had joined with them and uttered, with the tone of command, “
Evviva d’Annunzio
,” thus absolving all those who had not listened to the discourse, speech, or harangue, and attempting, in the small way a lieutenant can attempt anything, except to hold an indefensible position, or intelligently direct his own part in an attack, to share their guilt.

But now he was passing the house where the poor beat-up old boy had lived with his great, sad, and never properly loved actress, and he thought of her wonderful hands, and her so transformable face, that was not beautiful, but that gave you all love, glory, and delight and sadness; and of the way the curve of her fore-arm could break your heart, and he thought, Christ they are dead and I do not know whether either one is buried even. But I certainly hope they had fun in that house.

“Jackson,” he said, “that small villa on the left belonged to Gabriele d’Annunzio, who was a great writer.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson, “I’m glad to know about him. I never heard of him.”

“I’ll check you out on what he wrote if you ever want to read him,” the Colonel said. “There are some fair English translations.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jackson. “I’d like to read him anytime I have time. He has a nice practical looking place. What did you say the name was?”

“D’Annunzio,” the Colonel said. “Writer.”

He added to himself, not wishing to confuse Jackson, nor be difficult, as he had been with the man several times that day, writer, poet, national hero, phraser of the dialectic of Fascism, macabre egotist, aviator, commander, or rider, in the first of the fast torpedo attack boats, Lieutenant Colonel of Infantry without knowing how to command a company, nor a platoon properly, the great, lovely writer of
Notturno
whom we respect, and jerk.

Up ahead now there was a crossing place of gondolas at the Santa Maria del Giglio and, beyond, was the wooden dock of the Gritti.

“That’s the hotel where we are stopping at, Jackson.”

The Colonel indicated the three story, rose colored, small, pleasant palace abutting on the Canal. It had been a dependence of the Grand Hotel—but now it was its own hotel and a very good one. It was probably the best hotel, if you did not wish to be fawned on, or fussed over, or over-flunkied, in a city of great hotels, and the Colonel loved it.

“It looks O.K. to me, sir,” Jackson said.

“It is O.K.,” the Colonel said.

The motor boat came gallantly up beside the piling of the dock. Every move she makes, the Colonel thought, is a triumph of the gallantry of the aging machine. We do not have war horses now like old Traveller, or Marbot’s Lysette who fought, personally, at Eylau. We have the gallantry of worn-through rods that refuse to break; the cylinder head that does not blow though it has every right to, and the rest of it.

“We’re at the dock, sir,” Jackson said.

“Where the hell else would we be, man. Jump out while I settle with this sportsman.”

He turned to the boatman and said, “That was thirty five hundred, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, my Colonel.”

“I’ll not forget about the over-age jeep engine. Take this and buy your horse some oats.”

The porter, who was taking the bags from Jackson, heard this and laughed.

“No veterinarian will ever fix his horse.”

“She still runs,” the boatman said.

“But she doesn’t win any races,” the porter said. “How are you, my Colonel?”

“I couldn’t be better,” the Colonel said. “How are all the members of the Order?”

“All members are well.”

“Good,” said the Colonel. “I will go in and see the Grand Master.”

“He is waiting for you, my Colonel.”

“Let us not keep him waiting, Jackson,” the Colonel said. “You may proceed to the lobby with this gentleman and tell them to sign me in. See the sergeant gets a room,” he said to the porter. “We’re here for the night only.”

“The Baron Alvarito was here looking for you.”

“I’ll find him at Harry’s.”

“Good, my Colonel.”

“Where is the Grand Master?”

“I’ll find him for you.”

“Tell him I’ll be in the bar.”

THE bar was just across from the lobby of the Gritti, although lobby, the Colonel thought, was not the accurate term to describe that gracious entrance. Didn’t Giotto describe a circle, he thought? No, that was in math. What he remembered and loved best as an anecdote about that painter was: “It was easy,” said Giotto as he drew the perfect circle. Who the hell had said that and where?

“Good evening, Privy Counsellor,” he said to the barman, who was not a full paid-up member of the order but whom he did not wish to offend. “What can I do for you?”

“Drink, my Colonel.”

The Colonel looked out of the windows and the door of the bar onto the waters of the Grand Canal. He could see the big black hitching post for the gondolas and the late afternoon winter light on the wind-swept water. Across the Canal was the old Palace and a wood barge, black and broad, was coming up the Canal, her bluff bows pushing up a wave even though she had the wind behind her.

“Make it a very dry Martini,” the Colonel said. “A double.”

Just then the Grand Master came into the room. He was wearing his formal attire as a head waiter. He was truly handsome as a man should be, from the inside out, so that his smile starts from his heart, or whatever is the center of the body, and comes frankly and beautifully to the surface, which is the face.

He had a fine face with the long, straight nose of his part of the Veneto; the kind, gay, truthful eyes and the honorable white hair of his age, which was two years older than that of the Colonel.

He advanced smiling, lovingly, and yet conspiratorially, since they both shared many secrets, and he extended his hand, which was a big, long, strong, spatular fingered hand; well kept as was becoming, as well as necessary, to his position, and the Colonel extended his own hand, which had been shot through twice, and was slightly misshapen. Thus contact was made between two old inhabitants of the Veneto, both men, and brothers in their membership in the human race, the only club that either one paid dues to, and brothers, too, in their love of an old country, much fought over, and always triumphant in defeat, which they had both defended in their youth.

Their handshake was only long enough to feel, firmly, the contact and the pleasure of meeting and then the
Maitre d’Hotel
said, “My Colonel.”

The Colonel said, “
Gran Maestro
.”

Then the Colonel asked the
Gran Maestro
to accompany him in a drink, but the
Maitre d’Hotel
said that he was working. It was impossible as well as forbidden.

“Fornicate forbidden,” said the Colonel.

“Of course,” the
Gran Maestro
said. “But everyone must comply with his duty, and here the rules are reasonable, and we all should comply with them; me especially, as a matter of precept.”

“Not for nothing are you the
Gran Maestro
,” the Colonel said.

“Give me a small
Carpano punto e mezzo
,” the
Gran Maestro
said to the bar-tender, who was still outside of the Order for some small, not defined, unstated reason. “To drink to the
ordine
.”

Thus, violating orders and the principle of precept and example in command, the Colonel and the
Gran Maestro
downed a quick one. They did not hurry nor did the
Gran Maestro
worry. They simply made it fast.

“Now, let us discuss the affairs of the Order,” the Colonel said. “Are we in the secret chamber?”

“We are,” said the Grand Maestro. “Or I declare it to be such.”

“Continue,” said the Colonel.

The order, which was a purely fictitious organization, had been founded in a series of conversations between the
Gran Maestro
and the Colonel.
Its name was
El Ordine Militar, Nobile y Espirituoso de los Caballeros de Brusadelli
.
The Colonel and the head waiter both spoke Spanish, and since that is the best language for founding orders, they had used it in the naming of this one, which was named after a particularly notorious multi-millionaire non-taxpaying profiteer of Milan, who had, in the course of a dispute over property, accused his young wife, publicly and legally through due process of law, of having deprived him of his judgment through her extraordinary sexual demands.

“
Gran Maestro
,” the Colonel said. “Have you heard from our Leader,
The Revered One
?”

“Not a word. He is silent these days.”

“He must be thinking.”

“He must.”

“Perhaps he is meditating on new and more distinguished shameful acts.”

“Perhaps. He has not given me any word.”

“But we can have confidence in him.”

“Until he dies,” the
Gran Maestro
said. “After that he can roast in hell and we will revere his memory.”

“Giorgio,” the Colonel said. “Give the
Gran Maestro
another short
Carpano
.”

“If it is your order,” the
Gran Maestro
said, “I can only obey.”

They touched glasses.

“Jackson,” the Colonel called. “You’re on the town. You can sign here for chow. I don’t want to see you until eleven hundred tomorrow in the lobby, unless you get into trouble. Do you have money?”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said and thought, the old son of a bitch really
is
as crazy as they say. But he might have called me instead of shouting.

“I don’t want to see you,” the Colonel said.

Jackson had entered the room and stood before him at a semblance of attention.

“I’m tired of seeing you, because you worry and you don’t have fun. For Christ sake have yourself some fun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You understand what I said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat it.”

“Ronald Jackson, T5 Serial Number 100678, will present himself in the lobby of this Gritti Hotel at 1100 tomorrow morning, I don’t know the date, sir, and will absent himself from the Colonel’s sight and will have some fun. Or,” he added, “will make every reasonable attempt to attain that objective.”

“I’m sorry, Jackson,” the Colonel said. “I’m a shit.”

“I beg to differ with the Colonel,” Jackson said.

“Thank you, Jackson,” the Colonel told him. “Maybe I’m not. I hope you are correct. Now muck off. You’ve got a room here, or you should have, and you can sign for chow. Now try and have some fun.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson.

When he was gone, the
Gran Maestro
said to the Colonel, “What is the boy? One of those
sad
Americans?”

“Yes,” the Colonel said. “And by Jesus Christ we’ve got a lot of them. Sad, self-righteous, over-fed and under-trained. If they are under-trained, it is my fault. But we’ve got some good ones, too.”

“Do you think they would have done Grappa, Pasubio and the Basso Piave as we did?”

“The good ones, yes. Maybe better. But you know, in our army, they don’t even shoot for self-inflicted wounds.”

“Jesus,” said the
Gran Maestro
. He and the Colonel both remembered the men who decided that they did not wish to die; not thinking that he who dies on Thursday does not have to die on Friday, and how one soldier would wrap another’s puttee-ed leg in a sandbag so there would be no powder burns, and loose off at his friend from as far a distance as he figured he could hit the calf of the leg without hitting bone, and then fire twice over the parapet to alibi the shot. They had this knowledge shared between them and it was for this reason and for a true, good hatred of all those who profited by war that they had founded the Order.

They knew, the two of them, who loved and respected each other, how
poor
boys who did not want to die, would share the contents of a match box full of gonorrheal pus to produce the infection that would keep them from the next murderous frontal attack.

They knew about the other boys who put the big ten centime pieces under their arm-pits to produce jaundice. And they knew, too, about the richer boys who, in different cities, had paraffin injected under their knee-caps so they would not have to go to the war.

They knew how garlic could be used to produce certain effects which could absent a man from an attack, and they knew all, or nearly all, of the other tricks; for one had been a sergeant and the other a lieutenant of infantry and they had fought on the three key points, Pasubio, Grappa, and the Piave, where it all made sense.

They had fought, too, in the earlier stupid butchery on the Isonzo and the Carso. But they were both ashamed of those who had ordered that, and they never thought about it except as a shameful, stupid thing to be forgotten and the Colonel remembered it technically as something to learn from. So, now, they had founded the Order of Brusadelli; noble, military and religious, and there were only five members.

“What is the news of the Order?” the Colonel asked the
Gran Maestro
.

“We have ascended the cook at the Magnificent to the rank of Commendatore. He comported himself as a man three times on his fiftieth birthday. I accepted his statement without corroboration. He never lied ever.”

“No. He never lied. But it is a topic on which you must be chary in your credibility.”

“I believed him. He looked ruined.”

“I can remember him when he was a tough kid and we called him the cherry buster.”