“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.