The waitress went away and Johnson lit a cigarette and drank the coffee. The clock on the wall marked a quarter to ten. His watch was a little fast. The train was due at ten-thirty—an hour late meant eleven-thirty. Johnson called to the waitress.
“Signorina!”
“What would you like, sir?”
“You wouldn’t like to play with me?” Johnson asked. The waitress blushed.
“No, sir.”
“I don’t mean anything violent. You wouldn’t like to make up a party and see the night life of Vevey? Bring a girl friend if you like.”
“I must work,” the waitress said. “I have my duty here.”
“I know,” said Johnson. “But couldn’t you get a substitute? They used to do that in the Civil War.”
“Oh, no, sir. I must be here myself in the person.”
“Where did you learn your English?”
“At the Berlitz school, sir.”
“Tell me about it,” Johnson said. “Were the Berlitz undergraduates a wild lot? What about all this necking and petting? Were there many smoothies? Did you ever run into Scott Fitzgerald?”
“Please?”
“I mean were your college days the happiest days of your life? What sort of team did Berlitz have last fall?”
“You are joking, sir?”
“Only feebly,” said Johnson. “You’re an awfully good girl. And you don’t want to play with me?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said the waitress. “Would you like me to bring you something?”
“Yes,” said Johnson. “Would you bring me the wine list?”
“Yes, sir.”
Johnson walked over with the wine list to the table where the three porters sat. They looked up at him. They were old men.
