“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.”