“But now, baby, it’s all over. I don’t operate now and I feel like hell. This is a terrible war, baby. You believe me when I say it. Now you cheer me up. Did you bring the phonograph records?”
“Yes.”
They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in my rucksack. I was too tired to get them out.
“Don’t you feel good yourself, baby?”
“I feel like hell.”
“This war is terrible,” Rinaldi said. “Come on. We’ll both get drunk and be cheerful. Then we’ll go get the ashes dragged. Then we’ll feel fine.”
“I’ve had the jaundice,” I said, “and I can’t get drunk.”
“Oh, baby, how you’ve come back to me. You come back serious and with a liver. I tell you this war is a bad thing. Why did we make it anyway.”
“We’ll have a drink. I don’t want to get drunk but we’ll have a drink.”
Rinaldi went across the room to the washstand and brought back two glasses and a bottle of cognac.
“It’s Austrian cognac,” he said. “Seven stars. It’s all they captured on San Gabriele.”
“Were you up there?”
“No. I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been here all the time operating. Look, baby, this is your old tooth-brushing glass. I kept it all the time to remind me of you.”
“To remind you to brush your teeth.”
“No. I have my own too. I kept this to remind me of you trying to brush away the Villa Rossa from your teeth in the morning, swearing and eating aspirin and cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think of you trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush.” He
