Maestro has for meat. Please drink your wine. You haven’t touched it.”
“I’ll touch it now,” the Colonel said. He did and it was pale and cold like the wines of Greece, but not resinous, and its body was as full and as lovely as that of Renata.
“It’s very like you.”
“Yes. I know. That’s why I wanted you to taste it.”
“I’m tasting it,” the Colonel said. “Now I will drink a full glass.”
“You’re a good man.”
“Thank you,” the Colonel said. “I’ll remember that all week and try to be one.” Then he said, “Gran Maestro.”
When the Gran Maestro came over, happy, conspiratorial, and ignoring his ulcers, the Colonel asked him, “What sort of meat have you that is worth our eating?”
“I’m not quite sure I know,” the Gran Maestro said. “But I will check. Your compatriot is over there in hearing distance. He would not let me seat him in the far corner.”
“Good,” the Colonel said. “We’ll give him something to write about.”
“He writes every night, you know. I’ve heard that from one of my colleagues at his hotel.”
“Good,” the Colonel said. “That shows that he is industrious even if he has outlived his talents.”
“We are all industrious,” the Gran Maestro said.
“In different ways.”
“I will go and check on what there actually is among the meats.”
“Check carefully.”
