beyond him as calculus is distant from a man who has only the knowledge of arithmetic, then he was not at home, and their contact was strained, and he wished the Colonel would return to things they both knew together when they were a lieutenant and a sergeant.
“What would you do about Mantova?” the Colonel asked.
“I do not know, my Colonel. I do not know whom you are fighting, nor what forces they have, nor what forces are at your disposal.”
“I thought you said we were Condottieri. Based on this town or on Padova.”
“My Colonel,” the Gran Maestro said, and he had diminished in no way, “I know nothing, truly, about Condottieri. Nor really how they fought then. I only said I would like to fight under you in such times.”
“There aren’t any such times any more,” the Colonel said and the spell was broken.
What the hell, maybe there never was any spell, the Colonel thought. The hell with you, he said to himself. Cut it out and be a human being when you’re half a hundred years old.
“Have another Carpano,” he said to the Gran Maestro.
“My Colonel, you will allow me to refuse because of the ulcers?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. Boy, what’s your name, Giorgio? Another dry Martini. Secco, molto secco e doppio.”
Breaking spells, he thought. It is not my trade. My trade is killing armed men. A spell should be armed if I’m to
