Ernest Hemingway

ACROSS THE RIVER AND INTO THE TREES
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CHAPTER XI

THEY came in, out of the wind and the cold, through the main entrance of the Gritti Palace Hotel, into the light and warmth of the lobby.

“Good evening, Contessa,” the concierge said. “Good evening, my Colonel. It must be cold outside.”

“It is,” the Colonel said, and did not add any of the rough or obscene phrases about the extent of the cold, or the force of the wind, that he could ordinarily have em­ployed, for their mutual pleasure when speaking, alone, with the concierge.

As they entered the long hallway that led to the big stairs and to the elevator, leaving, on your right, the en­trance to the bar, the doorway onto the Grand Canal, and the entrance to the dining room, the Gran Maestro came out of the bar.

He was wearing a formal white jacket, cut long, and he smiled at them and said, “Good evening, my Count­ess. Good evening, my Colonel.”

“Gran Maestro” the Colonel said. The Gran Maestro smiled and, still bowing, said, “We are dining in the bar at the far end. There is no one here now in the winter time and the dining room is too big. I have saved your table. We have a very fine lobster if you would like him to commence with.”

“Is he really fresh?”

“I saw him this morning when he came from the market in a basket. He was alive and a dark green and completely unfriendly.”

“Would you like lobster, Daughter, to start your dinner?”

The Colonel was conscious of using the word, and so was the Gran Maestro, and so was the girl. But to each one it meant a different thing.

“I wanted to have him for you in case any pescecani came in. They are down now to gamble at the Lido. I was not trying to sell him.”

“I would love some lobster,” the girl said. “Cold, and with mayonnaise. The mayonnaise rather stiff.” She said this in Italian.

“It isn’t too expensive?” she said to the Colonel, seri­ously.

“Ay hija mia,” the Colonel said.

“Feel in your right pocket,” she said.

“I’ll see that he is not too expensive,” the Gran Maestro said. “Or I’ll buy him myself. I could get him quite easily with a week’s wages.”

“Sold to TRUST,” the Colonel said, this being the code designation of the task force occupying Trieste. “He only costs me a day’s wages.”

“Put your hand in your right hand pocket and feel very rich,” the girl said.

The Gran Maestro had sensed this was a private joke and had gone; silently. He was happy about the girl, whom he respected and admired, and he was happy for his Colonel.

“I am rich,” the Colonel said. “But if you tease me about them, I will give them back, and on the linen tablecloth, and in public.”

He was teasing rough in his turn; throwing in the counter-attack without even thinking.

“No you won’t,” she said. “Because you love them already.”

“I would take anything I love and throw it off the highest cliff you ever saw and not wait to hear it bounce.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” the girl said. “You would not throw me off any high cliffs.”

“No,” the Colonel agreed. “And forgive me for talking (...)

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