I
I
There had never been such a season at the Doric as the season that followed the Armistice; everyone was flocking to the restaurants now, in a kind of hilarious reaction. Millo was in the seventh heaven of delight, and so were most of his waiters, for people were recklessly spending their money, eating up banknotes with every mouthful, and washing them down with champagne or spirits, so that, naturally, when they got up to go, they left a fat tip behind them.
Millo had long since had to duplicate his band, for a supper without dancing was unheard of. It was said that among other excellent things, he possessed the best jazz-bands in London. The craze for dancing was on the increase, and now there was no age limit; the white-haired, the portly, the withered, the ailing, young or old, maid or matron, they must get up and dance; while a decadent Pan—discarding his reed-pipe—turned sobriety to bibbing and dignity to folly, with the help of a water-whistle.
Gian-Luca inspected his rooms one May morning and quietly nodded his head. Everything was perfect, from the vases of flowers to the well-polished plate and glass.
“Va bene,” he murmured, “it is all as it should be; that Daniele is a competent fellow.” And then he observed a fork out of place and hastily put it straight.
A man in a baize apron, with a dustpan and brush, was stalking a couple of waiters; every few minutes he would suddenly swoop at some microscopic speck on the carpet. At a long side-table a person in shirtsleeves opened endless packets of matches; he filled the match-stands with infinite care so that each little red head stood neatly in its place awaiting its coming cremation. Daniele was giving a last expert touch to the wicks of the spirit-lamps, pinching them firmly between finger and thumb, then spreading out their tips as though they were petals; for these wicks were important, since they would assist in the making of the temperamental Crêpe Suzette!
At last all was in order for the business of the day—and what a momentous business! The Doric would feed many hundred stomachs, postwar stomachs too, long deprived of their fill and now determined to get it.
The telephone began to ring every few minutes—people calling up to book tables; Gian-Luca must consult that complicated list which stood on a desk by the door.
“What name do you say is asking, Daniele? No, I do not know that name, we have not got a table.” Or: “The Duchess of Sussex? Yes, of course; how many, five? She can have her usual table in the window; and see that you put some flowers by each plate—say a couple of those pink roses.”
And now Gian-Luca was much in request, for the clients were calling in person. “Good morning, signore, a table for three—”
“Certainly, Milady, a table in the corner—will you take that one over there?”
“Ah, scusi, signorina, have you been waiting long? Yes, yes, I have seen to everything for supper, it shall be exactly as you wish.”
Gian-Luca was all ingratiating smiles, he seemed so anxious to please you. To see him was to think that he liked you for yourself—not for what you would eat for the good of the Doric; no, he liked you because you were just yourself—that was what was so charming about him. It made you feel genial, you glanced round the room in the hopes of finding someone to nod to, and there stood Roberto, that capital waiter with the really good knowledge of wine.
“Good morning, Roberto. So you’re back again. That’s splendid; I’m jolly glad to see you!”
And Roberto grinned shyly and bowed from the waist as though you had done him an honor—that was what was so nice about Roberto, he made you feel like a sultan. And there was Giovanni, and he too was smiling, smiling and rubbing his hands—Giovanni who knew how you liked your cold beef, not too underdone, just pink.
“Good morning, Giovanni! So you’re safe and sound. Glad to get back here, aren’t you?”
And Giovanni looked flattered: “I thank you, signore. I hope the signore is well?”
Oh, and there was Millo himself, also bowing, waiting to catch your eye—that was what was so nice about Millo, he never forgot the face of a client; a wonderful gift, and it went a long way towards making you feed at the Doric.
II
This then was the atmosphere of well-being that Millo had managed to create. He believed in giving people exactly what they wanted, for someone was certain to gain in the process, and as a rule it was the giver. Millo might sometimes smile rather wryly, he might even shake his wise head, but then he would murmur: “Le monde est ainsi fait.” And remember that he had not made it.
Of his vast staff whose duty it was to see that everyone got what they wanted, none so deft, so proficient, so agreeable as Gian-Luca, whose lips had acquired an automatic smile which he kept expressly for the clients. Millo, watching his clever headwaiter, would consider him well-nigh perfect. He would think:
“After all he was right to be ambitious; the man knows the worth of his talent, and why not? I am lucky to have him in days like these, when everyone feels so hungry!” And then he would chuckle a little to himself, thinking of the people who felt hungry.
But sometimes, if nobody happened to be looking, Gian-Luca’s face altered completely; it grew sullen and tired, it was quite a different face from the one that he showed to the clients. Backwards and forwards superintending the service went Millo’s clever headwaiter, and all that he did was supremely well done, for so many years had gone to his making that now he must work like a perfect machine, without hitch, without flaw, without hurry. There had been many days during that time in France when Gian-Luca had tried to work badly, to be inefficient, clumsy, forgetful of orders; hoping against hope to get sent to the Front if he ceased to give satisfaction. But then, even as now, his long training held, and he could not be other than himself, the perfect mess-sergeant, the perfect headwaiter, the master and slave of innumerable details, the man who could not see a fork out of place but that he must put it straight. He had slipped back into his groove at the Doric as though he had never been away, taking up his work just where he had left it; ordering his waiters, humoring his clients; with a watchful eye, too, for his master’s interests, which he served whenever he might.
Yet all the while, and herein lay the change, Gian-Luca cared nothing at all. If the Doric had suddenly fallen to pieces, and he himself with it, he would not have cared; a curious indifference had begun to possess him, he worked without interest or pleasure or ambition, because he had the habit of working. Now he would try not to think of his work, because if he thought about it too much he was filled with a sense of smallness. Everything he did now seemed infinitely small, and he himself seemed small in the doing; Millo, the Doric, Gian-Luca, all small—the servants of poor Lilliputians. And yet he could never stop doing small things, he would pause to pick up a pin; a badly-drawn curtain would worry his eyes until he must go and arrange it. A crumb on the carpet, a chair out of place, would cause him acute discomfort; but after he had spoken pretty sharply to Daniele, he would think: “Dio Santo! what does it matter? What do all these trifles matter?”
He began to grow anxious about himself, because of this curious indifference. He who had all but reached the height of his ambition, and could buy his own restaurant now if he chose, or if he preferred it get a manager’s job and work up in time to be a rival to Millo; he who had achieved so much single-handed in the face of unpropitious fate, what had he got to complain of? Nothing—and yet, somehow, the thought of his days lay heavy, like a cold, hard stone on his brain. The clashing of music, the clattering of dishes, the incessant talking and laughing; the perpetual movement of knives and forks, the perpetual chewing of food.
“Maître d’hotel!”
“Si, signore?”
“I want the wine-waiter.”
“Si, signore, I will send him at once!”
“Gian-Luca—”
“Si, signore?”
“I’d like some more hors d’oeuvres.”
“Si, signore, I will send you your waiter.”
Food, food, food—all those dozens of people thinking of it, talking of it, eating. His business in life just to see that they got it, just to see that they ate more and more. His head would feel dizzy with the fumes of the food, until he would grow almost stupid; but then he would suddenly pull himself up, while a kind of terror seized him.
“This is my life, my whole life,” he would mutter, “and I like it—I like my work.”
To assure himself how much he liked his work, he took to going down to the basement again, in the time between luncheon and dinner. He would stand on the steps that led into the great kitchen, and listen to the pulsing of that mighty heart; he would think of Millo, the heart of that heart, while he tried to recapture the lure of the place that had held him before the war. Food, food, food—great cauldrons of food. Food on the tables of wood and of iron; splashes of food on the walls, on the floor, on the clothes and the hands of men. The vastness of the thing would begin to oppress him—grotesque that it should be so vast—the vastness of the Doric and all that it stood for, the vastness of the appetites that it must appease, the vastness of that long vista of jaws. Yet the larger the Doric grew in his imagination, the smaller it seemed to become; so small that now it was crushing and squeezing; a prison, a press that closed in and in until he could scarcely breathe. But how could a thing be vast and yet small? Surely that way lay madness.
His hand would go up to his throat. He would think: “It is awful—it suffocates!” And then he would hurry away to the larders, afraid of these fantastic fancies.
In the principal larder there would be much to see, the chopping and slicing of meat, for instance; great chunks of raw meat, which a chef called Henri was forever dividing with his knife. There were also those long rows of newly-plucked chickens, with their necks swinging over the shelves, and those deep, white dishes of quaking entrails, and those slabs full of slow-moving, beady-eyed lobsters, who protested that they were alive. Henri would look up from his work with a smile, and perhaps he would say: “Good morning, Gian-Luca. Would you like to select a nice, fat lobster for your pretty Milady? You are always so fussy, and no wonder, for she is extremely gourmande, she will eat it up shell and all!”
And Gian-Luca might answer: “She is little and lovely—they are always the greediest kind.” But he would not select the fat lobster for Milady, instead he would just stand staring at Henri, and one day he said: “Do you like what you do? Do you like the feeling of food?”
“Ma foi! But why not?” laughed Henri, surprised. “Do I not live by their food?”
III
Gian-Luca still found consolation in his books, he still read the “Gioia della Luce,” and now Ugo Doria had written a new poem, an epic of peace and of peaceful things, of vineyards and hillsides and valleys. It had come to Gian-Luca like a breath of sweet air, like a cool hand laid on the forehead. He said to Maddalena:
“When I read Doria’s words I can almost believe in the Spirit—I can almost believe in your God, Maddalena, for that is how Doria writes sometimes—as though he wrote with his spirit.”
One day he went off to see the Librarian, taking the poem in his pocket. “Have you read it?” he demanded. “It is wonderful, sublime—it is equal to the ‘Gioia della Luce.’ ”
The Librarian shook his head. “No,” he said slowly; “I am sick unto death of books.”
Gian-Luca stared: “You are tired of your books? But I thought you loved books as I do.”
“A man may change—” the Librarian said softly, “perhaps every man must change.”
Then Gian-Luca was silent because he felt frightened, terribly frightened of change. But presently he said:
“A man must not change, he might lose himself in the process!”
“Would that matter very much?” inquired the Librarian. “Suppose he should find something better.”
“He is mad!” thought Gian-Luca. “He is obviously mad!” And he wished that he had not come. “It must be the shock of those boys getting killed within a week of each other.”
“Do you still care for books and food and stomachs?” the Librarian asked him gravely. “I am disappointed in books myself, such a lot of them seem to suggest indigestion—a kind of deranged mental stomach.”
“I care very much indeed,” said Gian-Luca, and his voice was loud and aggressive; “I care for the things that I know to be real; I cannot afford to be a dreamer like you. I am just a headwaiter at the Doric.”
“I know nothing so inexpensive as dreams—” said the little Librarian, smiling.
But Gian-Luca did not smile: “He is quite mad,” he mused; “I suppose they keep him on out of pity!”
IV
That summer Teresa said to Maddalena: “What is the matter with Gian-Luca?” For even Teresa, immersed in her business, had noticed a change in her grandson.
And then it was Rosa and Mario who spoke, and they both looked hard at Maddalena. “What is the matter with Gian-Luca?” they demanded, as though Maddalena were to blame.
Two days later Nerone called on Maddalena, and there he found the Padrona. The Padrona had just been giving advice as to how one should manage a husband.
“One should never allow him to sulk,” she was saying; “now I think your Gian-Luca is sulking.”
“Per Bacco, he is not!” Nerone protested; “the boy is doing nothing of the kind. I think he is probably ill, our Gian-Luca, I think you should send for a doctor.”
Rocca waylaid Maddalena one morning and beckoned her into the shop: “I do not much like the look of Gian-Luca, his face has grown dull and he speaks very little—I hope you take care of our child, Maddalena? He was born in our midst—such a queer little boy, with a positive terror of goats. You must not mind an old fellow like me speaking frankly: I think he is ill; he works very hard, and he needs his small comforts, and I hope you see that he gets them.”
Maddalena reassured them all as best as she could, but her own heart was deeply anxious. Gian-Luca looked weary and discontented; he was sleeping very badly, and when he got up his eyes would be vague and unhappy.
“What is the matter, amore?” she would say. “Try to tell me what is the matter.”
But he always replied: “There is nothing the matter; leave me in peace, donna mia.”
He was growing coldly unkind to Maddalena; never angry, just coldly unkind. At times he would treat her as though she were a stranger, preferring his books to her company, it seemed, and that summer he refused to go out of London when the time for their holiday arrived.
“I do not want people,” he told her firmly; “wherever one goes there are too many people.” So he sat at the open window and read, sometimes he would not speak for hours. Once he looked up and noticed her eyes: “You are always watching,” he said sharply; “stop staring, Maddalena, I do not like your eyes—they are frightened, they remind me of a rabbit in a trap; I wish you would look more cheerful.”
There were days when he found fault with everything she cooked. “How can I eat this mess!” he would grumble. “It is all greasy butter, you use too much butter. Dio Santo! I get enough grease at the Doric; cannot you cook more simply?” But then he would proceed to finish the whole dish. “I must eat, a man must eat,” he would mutter. And the watchful Maddalena would know that he was not hungry—would know that he forced himself to eat.
At moments her self-control would desert her, and then she would go down on her knees: “I love you so—” she would tell him wildly. “I am childless, Gian-Luca, I have no one but you; all these long years I have waited for a child—be kind to me—kiss me, Gian-Luca!”
He would look at her dumbly as though trying to be kind, and after a moment he would kiss her. “There, there, mia donna,” he would say, getting up; “there, there, mia donna, you are tired.”
Oh, indeed Maddalena had need of her prayers, had need of the kindly Madonna at St. Peter’s, had need of the Child who stood at her knee, and of Father Antonio, their priest. Father Antonio counselled much patience, it would surely come right, he told Maddalena. God worked in strange ways, but He knew His own business, and His business might well be a prodigal son—Maddalena must leave it to God.
And she honestly did try to leave it to God, try to have courage and patience, but her great faithful heart was failing a little. She would think:
“He came home to me safely from the war, but was it for this that he came home safely—so that he might grow to hate me?” Then she would remember her prayers for his safety, and something within her would tremble, and something within her would start to ask a question, over and over again it would ask it. “My God!” she would answer in a kind of desperation, “I was right to pray for my husband’s safety, every poor wife all over Europe was praying for her husband’s safety!”
V
Gian-Luca worked better than ever in the autumn, determined to slay this thing that possessed him, this spirit of indifference and depression. People were hurrying back from the country, and the Doric was full to overflowing once more; then one morning the telephone rang loud and long, it was someone demanding the headwaiter.
Gian-Luca put the receiver to his ear: “Yes, I am the headwaiter—the restaurant, yes—”
“I want a table for two,” came a voice, “it must be a small little table and quiet—for two, yes, next Thursday for lunch, half-past one—I want a quiet little table for two. Are you an Italian? Then for God’s sake talk Italian!” And the voice proceeded to order a luncheon that spoke well for its owner’s palate.
“What name, signore?” inquired Gian-Luca when at last the order was completed.
“Doria—have you got it?” came the voice less distinctly. “A table for Ugo Doria.”
Then Gian-Luca suddenly ceased to be a waiter. “Ugo Doria, the poet?” he babbled.
“Ma si, I am the poet—never mind about that, have you got it all down about the luncheon?”
Gian-Luca walked straight into Millo’s office. “Ugo Doria is lunching here next Thursday, signore; I have come to ask if I may serve him myself—”
Millo looked up from a bundle of papers. “Doria the poet?” he inquired.
“Si, signore, Ugo Doria, and coming to the Doric—I have just written down his order.”
Gian-Luca’s voice sounded young with excitement. Millo glanced at him in surprise. “You are fond of poetry then, Gian-Luca? Doria is certainly a great writer, but I did not know that you were a great reader. Have you read his new epic, ‘The Sowing of Peace’? It is very lovely, I think.”
“Yes, but have I your permission to serve him myself, signore?”
“Certainly, Gian-Luca, why not? Let Daniele take your place in the restaurant during luncheon, I would wish you to serve Ugo Doria.”
“Thank you,” said Gian-Luca, “you have made me very happy.” And his eyes were actually shining.
“How curious; he reads Ugo Doria’s poems,” thought Millo as his headwaiter left him. “How little one knows about other men’s minds, and as for their hearts—well, nothing.”
That afternoon Gian-Luca went back to Maddalena. “Maddalena! Where are you?” he shouted.
“I am here,” she answered, coming quickly towards him. “I am waiting for you, piccino.”
Then he hugged her, and laughed, and told her the great news—Ugo Doria was coming to the Doric. “And I shall serve him myself, Maddalena; my hands only shall serve him!” Presently he said: “When I was very young—before I left the Capo, Maddalena—I used to long for this thing to happen, I used to long to serve Doria. I used to see myself pouring out his wine and passing his food with a flourish; I used to wish to impress him, I remember—I distinctly remember that I wished to impress him—but he never came to the Capo.”
“And now you can do it all!” she said gladly; “you, who are a headwaiter! I hope he will know who it is who serves him, but of course he will see by your necktie.”
Gian-Luca teased her: “He will know by my appearance; he will know by my splendid appearance! He will say: ‘Why here comes the great Gian-Luca!’ And then no doubt he will write me a poem, inspired by my exquisite waiting.”
She scarcely dared to believe her own eyes, Gian-Luca was laughing with pleasure. He was young and gay and affectionate again, and all because Doria was coming to the Doric! But what did that matter, so long as he was happy, happy and kind to Maddalena?
She said: “I will bless this man Ugo Doria, because he has made you smile.”
Then Gian-Luca kissed her: “It is foolish perhaps, but yes, I feel as excited as a schoolboy.” After which he must needs get out Doria’s poems, and read her the “Gioia della Luce.”