“And that pitted man with the caricature face? He has no such thing?”
“Of course not,” the Colonel told her. “If he is a mediocre writer he will live forever.”
“But you’re not a writer. How do you know this?”
“No,” the Colonel said. “By the grace of God. But I’ve read several books. We have a lot of time to read when we are unmarried. Not as much as the merchant marine maybe. But plenty. I can tell one writer from another and I tell you that a mediocre writer has a long span of life. They ought to all draw longevity pay.”
“Could you tell me any anecdotes, and we stop talking about this, which is my true sorrow?”
“I can tell you hundreds of them. All true.”
“Tell me just one. Then we will finish this wine and then go in the gondola.”
“Do you think you will be warm enough?”
“Oh, I’m sure I will.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the Colonel said. “Everything about war bores those who have not made it. Except the tales of the liars.”
“I would like to know about the taking of Paris.”
“Why? Because I told you that you looked like Marie Antoinette in the tumbril?”
“No. I was complimented by that and I know we are a little alike in profile. But I have never been in any tumbril, and I would like to hear about Paris. When you love someone and he is your hero, you like to hear about the places and the things.”
“Please turn your head,” the Colonel said, “and I will
