I
On the following Thursday Gian-Luca arrived at the Doric an hour before his time. He must interview the head chef regarding certain dishes that Doria had specially ordered; he must speak to Roberto about the champagne; he must give the final directions to Daniele; in fact he must rouse the whole staff of the Doric by announcing Doria’s prospective visit.
Doria’s table would be in the octagon room, in a quiet corner by the window, and at each of the plates there should be a red carnation made up as a buttonhole, for Gian-Luca felt sure in his own mind, somehow, that Doria’s friend would be a man. He might be bringing a well-known statesman, or a soldier famous in war, or perhaps a poet less great than himself, to whom he was doing a kindness. But whoever he brought was sure to be important, if not now, then at some future date, for the man who had written the “Gioia della Luce” was not likely to cast his pearls before swine—and then greatness attracted greatness.
Gian-Luca, who was now nearly thirty-two years old, was weaving romances like a boy; he pictured Doria as slender and tall, with the strong, lean flanks of a racehorse; his eyes would be inspired, the eyes of a poet, but above all the man would convey a sense of bigness, bigness of mind, bigness of spirit; oh, yes, and bigness of sin when he sinned—for nothing small or despicable or mean could have written the “Gioia della Luce,” nor could it have conceived those many other poems that burnt with the fires of the flesh. Serene and enduring he must be, this Doria, in spite of those outbursts of passion—a pasture swept by occasional storms, a valley that harbored a mountain torrent, a mountain whose peak was covered in snow, and illumined by swift crude lightning.
To everyone he met at the Doric that morning, Gian-Luca said: “Doria is coming here today.”
And they answered: “Ugo Doria the poet?” Then Gian-Luca nodded and smiled.
Monsieur Martin, the head of the army of chefs, was inclined to be short in his manner, however. For no war stopgap was Monsieur Pierre Martin, but a culinary king returned to his kingdom, and now on his coat showed a green and red ribbon which stood for the Croix de Guerre.
“Parbleu, is he God?” inquired Monsieur Martin. “Is he God, this poet you speak of? I have never so much as heard his name; now if it could have been Rostand—but Rostand is dead, a very great pity, for only the French can write verses.”
“As you please,” said Gian-Luca; “let us not discuss writers, I am here to discuss their food.”
“Why not cook it yourself!” suggested Monsieur Martin. Gian-Luca smiled: “I should do it so badly; it is you who are the poet of the kitchen!”
After which Monsieur Martin had himself to smile, remembering his exquisite dishes.
“You may leave it to me,” he said, graciously enough; “I will care for your poet’s digestion.”