Эрнест Хемингуэй - Across the River and Into the Trees

'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 litre?'

'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 then, 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 shotgun in the Piazzo 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 honour 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 to–day,' 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.'