“Bring them all and we’ll look at them,” the Colonel said.
The Gran Maestro left and the Colonel said, “What’s the matter, Daughter?”
“Nothing. Never anything. Always nothing.”
“You might as well pull out of it. We haven’t time for such luxuries.”
“No. I agree. We will devote ourselves to the cheese.”
“Do I have to take it like a corn cob?”
“No,” she said, not understanding the colloquialism, but understanding exactly what was meant, since it was she who had been doing the thinking. “Put your right hand in your pocket.”
“Good,” the Colonel said. “I will.”
He put his right hand in his pocket and felt what was there, first with the tips of his fingers, and then with the insides of his fingers, and then with the palm of his hand; his split hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “And now we begin the good part of it again. We will dedicate ourselves to the cheese with happiness.”
“Excellent,” the Colonel said. “I wonder what cheeses he has?”
“Tell me about the last war,” the girl said. “Then we will ride in our gondola in the cold wind.”
“It was not very interesting,” the Colonel said. “To us, of course, such things are always interesting. But there were only three, maybe four, phases that really interested me.”
“Why?”
