“Do you think we should give a homage to the Honorable Pacciardi?”
“As you wish.”
“Let’s defer it,” the Colonel said. He thought a moment, and signalled for another dry Martini.
“Do you think we might organize a homage and manifestation in some historic place such as San Marco or the old church at Torcello in favor of our Great Patron, Brusadelli, the Revered One?”
“I doubt if the religious authorities would permit it at this moment.”
“Then let us abandon all ideas of public manifestations for this winter, and work within our cadres, for the good of the Order.”
“I think that is soundest,” the Gran Maestro said. “We will re-group.”
“And how are you, yourself?”
“Awful,” the Gran Maestro said. “I have low blood pressure, ulcers, and I owe money.”
“Are you happy?”
“All the time,” the Gran Maestro said. “I like my work very much, and I meet extraordinary and interesting characters, also many Belgians. They are what we have instead of the locusts this year. Formerly we had the Germans. What was it Caesar said, ‘And the bravest of these are the Belgians.’ But not the best dressed. Do you agree?”
“I’ve seen them quite well costumed in Brussels,” the Colonel said. “A well fed, gay capital. Win, lose, or draw. I have never seen them fight though everyone tells me that they do.”
