Ernest Hemingway

ACROSS THE RIVER AND INTO THE TREES
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CHAPTER VIII

THE Colonel said nothing and preceded the boy down the corridor. It was large, wide and high ceilinged, and there was a long and distinguished interval between the doors of the rooms on the side of the Grand Canal. Natu­rally, since it had been a palace, there were no rooms without excellent views, except those which had been made for the servants.

The Colonel found the walk long, although it was a very short one, and when the waiter who served the room appeared, short, dark and with his glass eye in the left eye socket gleaming, unable to smile his full, true smile as he worked the big key in the lock, the Colonel wished that the door would open more rapidly.

“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 (...)

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