‘You act like a married man,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘This war is killing me,’ Rinaldi said, ‘I am very depressed by it.’ He folded his hands over his knee.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘What’s the matter? Can’t I even have human impulses?’
‘No. I can see you’ve been having a fine time. Tell me.’
‘All summer and all fall I’ve operated. I work all the time. I do everybody’s work. All the hard ones they leave to me. By God, baby, I am becoming a lovely surgeon.’
‘That sounds better.’
‘I never think. No, by God, I don’t think; I operate.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But now, baby, it’s all over. I don’t operate now and I feel like hell. This is a terrible war, baby. You believe me when I say it. Now you cheer me up. Did you bring the phonograph records?’
‘Yes.’
They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in my rucksack. I was too tired to get them out.
‘Don’t you feel good yourself, baby?’
‘I feel like hell.’
‘This war is terrible,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Come on. We’ll both get drunk and be cheerful. Then we’ll go get the ashes dragged. Then we’ll feel fine.’
‘I’ve had the jaundice,’ I said, ‘and I can’t get drunk.’
‘Oh, baby, how you’ve come back to me. You come back serious and with a liver. I tell you this war is a bad thing. Why did we make it anyway?’
‘We’ll have a drink. I don’t want to get drunk but we’ll have a drink.’
Rinaldi went across the room to the washstand and brought back two glasses and a bottle of cognac.
‘It’s Austrian cognac,’ he said. ‘Seven stars. It’s all they captured on San Gabriele.’
‘Were you up there?’
‘No. I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been here all the time operating. Look, baby, this is your old tooth-brushing glass. I kept it all the time to remind me of you.’
‘To remind you to brush your teeth.’
‘No. I have my own too. I kept this to remind me of you trying to brush away the Villa Rossa from your teeth in the morning, swearing and eating aspirin and cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think of you trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush.’ He came over to the bed. ‘Kiss me once and tell me you’re not serious.’
‘I never kiss you. You’re an ape.’
‘I know, you are the fine good Anglo-Saxon boy. I know. You are the remorse boy, I know. I will wait till I see the Anglo-Saxon brushing away harlotry with a toothbrush.’
‘Put some cognac in the glass.’
We touched glasses and drank. Rinaldi laughed at me.
‘I will get you drunk and take out your liver and put you in a good Italian liver and make you a man again.’
I held the glass for some more cognac. It was dark outside now. Holding the glass of cognac, I went over and opened the window. The rain had stopped falling. It was colder outside and there was a mist in the trees.
‘Don’t throw the cognac out the window,’ Rinaldi said. ‘If you can’t drink it give it to me.’
‘Go something yourself,’ I said. I was glad to see Rinaldi again. He had spent two years teasing me and I had always liked it. We understood each other very well.
‘Are you married?’ he asked from the bed. I was standing against the wall by the window.
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you in love?’
‘Yes.’
‘With that English girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor baby. Is she good to you?’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean is she good to you practically speaking?’
‘Shut up.’
‘I will. You will see I am a man of extreme delicacy. Does she—?’
‘Rinin,’ I said. ‘Please shut up. If you want to be my friend, shut up.’
‘I don’t want to be your friend, baby. I am your friend.’
‘Then shut up.’
‘All right.’
I went over to the bed and sat down beside Rinaldi. He was holding his glass and looking at the floor.
‘You see how it is, Rinin?’
‘Oh, yes. All my life I encounter sacred subjects. But very few with you. I suppose you must have them too.’ He looked at the floor.
‘You haven’t any?’
‘No.’
‘Not any?’
‘No.’
‘I can say this about your mother and that about your sister?’
‘And that about your sister,’ Rinaldi said swiftly. We both laughed.
‘The old superman,’ I said.
‘I am jealous maybe,’ Rinaldi said.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I don’t mean like that. I mean something else. Have you any married friends?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I haven’t,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Not if they love each other.’
‘Why not?’
‘They don’t like me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am the snake. I am the snake of reason.’
‘You’re getting it mixed. The apple was reason.’
‘No, it was the snake.’ He was more cheerful.
‘You are better when you don’t think so deeply,’ I said.
‘I love you, baby,’ he said. ‘You puncture me when I become a great Italian thinker. But I know many things I can’t say. I know more than you.’
‘Yes. You do.’
‘But you will have a better time. Even with remorse you will have a better time.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, yes. That is true. Already I am only happy when I am working.’ He looked at the floor again.
‘You’ll get over that.’
‘No. I only like two other things; one is bad for my work and the other is over in half an hour or fifteen minutes. Sometimes less.’
‘Sometimes a good deal less.’
‘Perhaps I have improved, baby. You do not know. But there are only the two things and my work.’
‘You’ll get other things.’
‘No. We never get anything. We are born with all we have and we never learn. We never get anything new. We all start complete. You should be glad not to be a Latin.’
‘There’s no such thing as a Latin. That is “Latin” thinking. You are so proud of your defects.’ Rinaldi looked up and laughed.
‘We’ll stop, baby. I am tired from thinking so much.’ He had looked tired when he came in. ‘It’s nearly time to eat. I’m glad you’re back. You are my best friend and my war brother.’
‘When do the war brothers eat?’ I asked.
‘Right away. We’ll drink once more for your liver’s sake.’
‘Like Saint Paul.’
‘You are inaccurate. That was wine and the stomach. Take a little wine for your stomach’s sake.’
‘Whatever you have in the bottle,’ I said. ‘For any sake you mention.’
‘To your girl,’ Rinaldi said. He held out his glass.
‘All right.’
‘I’ll never say a dirty thing about her.’
‘Don’t strain yourself.’
He drank off the cognac. ‘I am pure,’ he said. ‘I am like you, baby. I will get an English girl too. As a matter of fact I knew your girl first but she was a little tall for me. A tall girl for a sister,’ he quoted.
‘You have a lovely pure mind,’ I said.
‘Haven’t I? That’s why they call me Rinaldo Purissimo.’
‘Rinaldo Sporchissimo.’
‘Come on, baby, we’ll go down to eat while my mind is still pure.’
I washed, combed my hair and we went down the stairs. Rinaldi was a little drunk. In the room where we ate, the meal was not quite ready.
‘I’ll go get the bottle,’ Rinaldi said. He went off up the stairs, I sat at the table and he came back with the bottle and poured us each half a tumbler of cognac.
‘Too much,’ I said and held up the glass and sighted at the lamp on the table.
‘Not for an empty stomach. It is a wonderful thing. It burns out the stomach completely. Nothing is worse for you.’
‘All right.’
‘Self-destruction day by day,’ Rinaldi said. ‘It ruins the stomach and makes the hand shake. Just the thing for a surgeon.’
‘You recommend it?’
‘Heartily. I use no other. Drink it down, baby, and look forward to being sick.’
I drank half the glass. In the hall I could hear the orderly calling. ‘Soup! Soup is ready!’
The major came in, nodded to us and sat down. He seemed very small at table.
‘Is this all we are?’ he asked. The orderly put the soup bowl down and he ladled out a plate full.
‘We are all,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Unless the priest comes. If he knew Federico was here he would be here.’
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘He’s at 307,’ the major said. He was busy with his soup. He wiped his mouth, wiping his upturned grey moustache carefully. ‘He will come I think. I called them and left word to tell him you were here.’
‘I miss the noise of the mess,’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s quiet,’ the major said.
‘I will be noisy,’ said Rinaldi.
‘Drink some wine, Enrico,’ said the major. He filled my glass. The spaghetti came in and we were all busy. We were finishing the spaghetti when the priest came in. He was the same as ever, small and brown and compact looking. I stood up and we shook hands. He put his hand on my shoulder.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ he said.
‘Sit down,’ the major said. ‘You’re late.’
‘Good-evening, priest,’ Rinaldi said, using the English word. They had taken that up from the priest-baiting captain, who spoke a little English. ‘Good-evening, Rinaldo,’ the priest said. The orderly brought him soup but he said he would start with the spaghetti.
‘How are you?’ he asked me.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How have things been?’
‘Drink some wine, priest,’ Rinaldi said. ‘Take a little wine for your stomach’s sake. That’s Saint Paul, you know.’
‘Yes I know,’ said the priest politely. Rinaldi filled his glass.
‘That Saint Paul,’ said Rinaldi. ‘He’s the one who makes all the trouble.’ The priest looked at me and smiled. I could see that the baiting did not touch him now.
‘That Saint Paul,’ Rinaldi said. ‘He was a rounder and a chaser and then when he was no longer hot he said it was no good. When
