But he took it with his old wild-boar truculence, as he had taken everything all of his life, and he moved, still cat-like when he moved, although it was an old cat now, over to the open window and looked out on the great Canal which was now becoming as grey as though Degas had painted it on one of his greyest days.
“Thanks very much for the drink,” the Colonel said, and Arnaldo, who was talking into the telephone, nodded and smiled his glass-eyed smile.
I wish he did not have to have that glass eye, the Colonel thought. He only loved people, he thought, who had fought or been mutilated.
Other people were fine and you liked them and were good friends; but you only felt true tenderness and love for those who had been there and had received the castigation that everyone receives who goes there long enough.
So I’m a sucker for crips, he thought, drinking the unwanted drink. And any son of a bitch who has been hit solidly, as every man will be if he stays, then I love him.
Yes, his other, good, side said. You love them.
I’d rather not love anyone, the Colonel thought. I’d rather have fun.
And fun, his good side said to him, you have no fun when you do not love.
All right. I love more than any son of the great bitch alive, the Colonel said, but not aloud.
Aloud, he said, “Where are you getting on that call, Arnaldo?”
“Cipriani has not come in,” the waiter said. “They are
