called; then asked, “Do you want a dry Martini, too?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’d love one.”
“Two very dry Martinis,” the Colonel said. “Montgomerys. Fifteen to one.”
The waiter, who had been in the desert, smiled and was gone, and the Colonel turned to Renata.
“You’re nice,” he said. “You’re also very beautiful and lovely and I love you.”
“You always say that and I don’t know what it means but I like to hear it.”
“How old are you now?”
“Nearly nineteen. Why?”
“And you don’t know what it means?”
“No. Why should I? Americans always say it to you before they go away. It seems to be necessary to them. But I love you very much, too, whatever that is.”
“Let’s have a fine time,” the Colonel said. “Let’s not think about anything at all.”
“I would like that. I cannot think very well this time of day at any rate.”
“Here are the drinks,” the Colonel said. “Remember not to say, chin-chin.”
“I remember that from before. I never say chin-chin, nor here’s to you, nor bottom’s up.”
“We just raise the glass to each other and, if you wish, we can touch the edges.”
“I wish,” she said.
The Martinis were icy cold and true Montgomerys, and,
