I
On his return Gian-Luca went to Millo and tendered his resignation. This he did very simply, giving no excuse, for indeed he had none to offer. “I cannot come back to the Doric,” he told Millo. “I cannot any longer be a waiter—all I can do is to thank you from my heart for your very great kindness and patience.”
Millo, who had long since ceased to be surprised at any queer happening in this queerest of worlds, said: “Allora—and what then?”
And Gian-Luca answered: “I myself am waiting to know.” Then he handed Millo those four months’ wages that had been his retaining fee, but at this Millo made a sound of impatience: “Do not be such an imbecile, Gian-Luca! You can give the money to Maddalena—at all events I do not want it.”
“I have not earned it,” Gian-Luca persisted, “for I cannot return to your service.”
“Well, never mind all that—” grunted Millo; then he added curiously: “You have left my service—whose service will you be in next, I wonder?” And he stared with interest at Gian-Luca.
Gian-Luca shook his head, and his strange, pale eyes looked past Millo and out beyond. “That I cannot tell you—” he said very gravely. “I must try to find myself first, signore—I am utterly lost—I must find myself again—and something else that I need.”
Millo sighed; he was going to sustain a great loss, he was losing his finest headwaiter. He had hoped against hope that Gian-Luca would come home quite cured of his curious condition. And then he was genuinely fond of this man who had served him faithfully for years, genuinely worried regarding his future—for Millo knew life even as Teresa knew it, a ruthless, intolerant business this life, in which there was no room for dreamers; so he said:
“You must do what you think best, Gian-Luca, but for God’s sake get rid of your illusions! Remember that the world is a very greedy place—it is only an extension of the Doric. To keep pace with the world one must wink at its follies and if necessary pander a little; there is no room for those who want to dig beneath the surface, we are too overcrowded, we are too civilized, we object to the disturbance and the dirt of excavations—and in any case, no one has time for much spade work, our everyday needs are too numerous.” Then he suddenly held out his hand to Gian-Luca, for he himself was very busy: “Well—I think that is all—take care of yourself, and remember I am here, if you need me.”
Gian-Luca grasped the strong, friendly hand: “I cannot find anything to say—” he faltered.
“No need,” Millo told him. “We part as good friends—and I hope you will prosper, Gian-Luca.”
Gian-Luca left him and went to the restaurant, where the early morning work was in progress; and there he found little Roberto and Giovanni and Daniele, and several of the others. He said to them all:
“I am leaving the Doric, I have come here to say goodbye.” And the words sounded ominous and sad to his ears, so that his heart misgave him.
But now they all gathered round talking at once: “Ma, Signor Gian-Luca! you are leaving the Doric? No, no, it cannot be possible!”
And seeing their surprised and incredulous faces, he realized that his faults had been forgotten, and only his virtues remembered. Then it was that he knew that he was fond of these men, especially of little Roberto; and he let his gaze rest on each of them in turn as though he wanted to remember their features—as though they were worthy of being remembered, these patient, uncomplaining servers. After he had drawn them all into his mind, his eyes wandered round the room, the room in which he too had patiently served—and the room seemed full of his own past emotions, of his longing for money, his restless ambition, his ruthless will to succeed. And all these things came at him gibing, deriding, tormenting, so that he trembled a little; for now they were striking as enemies, whereas once he had thought of them as friends. A shaft of pallid February sunshine was touching a table that stood just through the archway—the table at which Ugo Doria had feasted beside the little Milady. But all that seemed a long time ago, and the pain and the anger of it—and there near the door was Jane Coram’s table; someone had decked it with large hothouse roses, while the table itself had been widened and extended—perhaps she was giving a party.
Roberto was speaking: “We shall miss you, signore, it will not be the same here without you.” And his eyes of a skylark looking through bars were dim with something very like tears.
Gian-Luca pressed the little man’s hand: “I must thank you all—” he said slowly. “I must thank you for what you did when I was ill—and if I have sometimes been over-severe, I must ask you all to forgive me.”
But at this there arose a great hubbub of protest: “Ma no, ma no, Signor Gian-Luca!”
“You have always been perfectly just,” said Daniele.
“Davvero, that is true!” they agreed.
When at last he had said goodbye to his waiters, he made his way to the basement; for he wished to seek out the good-natured Henri and the dignified Monsieur Pierre Martin. As he went down the tortuous steel-rimmed staircase, he was met by a blast of hot air, for the great, greedy monster was stirring to action, and its breath was already heavy with the food that fumed on its tables of fire. He found the culinary King very quickly, but the King seemed preoccupied; he glanced up from a sizzling copper saucepan as though impatient of distraction. His eyes held the brooding, inward expression of a poet pregnant with song, and his white linen crown, which was slightly awry, had slipped to the back of his head. For Monsieur Pierre Martin was in the throes of a very real inspiration, he was busily inventing a dish of his own that would some day be called: “⸻ à la Martin.”
However, the French are proverbially polite, so he bowed as he greeted Gian-Luca: “Ah, Monsieur Gian-Luca, you are better, I hope?” But his gaze returned to the saucepan. “Encore de la crème, vite, vite!” he called sharply. “Bon Dieu! must I stand here all day?” And now he was frowning, and breathing quite hard, as a man breathes in moments of peril.
“I am leaving the Doric for good,” said Gian-Luca. “I have come to wish you goodbye.”
“Tiens—” murmured Monsieur Martin; and then again: “Tiens!” as he stirred with a delicate motion.
But now a young chef had returned with the cream, and the air was heavy with portent. “Excuse if I do not offer my hand—” said the great man, seizing the cream.
Henri was in his pantry as usual, and today he was cutting up veal. “Blanquette de Veau” would appear on the menu as one of the plats du jour.
“Ah! so you have returned,” he said, smiling at Gian-Luca, and he offered a greasy paw; then he tried the blade of his knife on his thumb and continued to cut up the veal.
“Yes,” said Gian-Luca, “I have returned—but only to say goodbye.” And he told the good Henri that he was leaving, that he was no longer a waiter.
But at that Henri laughed and looked very wise. “Once a waiter always a waiter,” said Henri, “and once a chef always a chef, mon ami—we can never get away from food. By the way,” he added, “our storeman leaves too, he is going back to Como to run a hotel. I for one am not sorry, a disagreeable fellow—I never could support Agostino!”
They talked on for a little about Agostino, then Gian-Luca bade Henri goodbye.
“This is only au revoir,” said Henri, smiling. “We shall soon have you back at the Doric.”
Gian-Luca went thoughtfully up the stone staircase and passed through the wide entrance hall. He pushed the swing door that led out into the street, and the door closed noiselessly behind him. He stood quite still on the pavement for a moment, staring down at his shoes; then he raised bewildered eyes to the Doric, sighed, and turned towards home.