Authors: Martha Gellhorn
Radin was watching the door; he was hungry and annoyed about this tardy whore who would be the American's girl. A woman crossed the hall of the hotel, passing among the tiny anchored tables; she stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the raised section of the bar and looked up at them. She had an amazing, beautiful, and unfriendly face. Her nose was that nose the ladies have in Rome, made of many fine not necessarily matching bones. It was so delicate that it seemed transparent. Her hair was white, but not naturally white; it had been bleached to this shining silver. She wore a dress of heavy dull white silk. That, Radin thought, is a woman to avoid. She came straight to them at the bar, touched Mike Marvin's arm, and said, 'Dahleeng.'
Now Radin stared at Mike, in surprise. You never knew anything about Americans. Radin had expected a black-haired girl, with big breasts and wedge shoes, and a towering hair-do. She would be too plump and have dark down on her lip and eyes like an erotic cow; and she would snuggle and coo and pout and ask for things. Instead, Marvin - who looked too simple for such tastes — had found this chic cobra. No, Radin thought, she found him.
'Contessa Valdini,' Mike said, apologetically. He did not like having to join in her masquerade. 'Lieutenant Radin, Lieutenant Count Tzchernski.'
Lieutenant Radin kissed her hand in a businesslike way. As Count Tzchernski was bending over her hand, she said, 'My dear Stas, I did not know you were in Rome.'
'I have just come.'
'You should have called me at once.'
'Of course,' he said. His voice sounded strange to Mike Marvin, too colourless to be insulting, and yet insulting.
For a moment, the three men looked at her with differently appraising eyes. Radin was thinking: Evidently the American is handsome, why didn't I notice that before? He was big and with fine shoulders and a narrow hard waist; and his hair was brown and lively; and he had a good brown young face. Handsome if unfinished, thought Radin, and full of strength. So the lady chose him. Mike Marvin thought: My God, I wonder if she really is a countess; and it made him shy. Stanislaw Tzchernski was thinking that Bianca Valdini had not changed; the young American photographer must be her present
amant de cœur
. He knew that officially she was the guide, the patroness, the whatever-it-was, of an American general, having rendered the same service to a German general, not so many months before. The only difference between theprofessionals and the amateurs, Count Tzchernski thought, is that the amateurs are more successful and they wear those wonderful broken noses of the aristocracy.
'We're all eating together,' Mike said.
'Are we?' asked Contessa Valdini.
What a hell of a way to talk, Mike thought, who does she think she is?
Are we
?
'Yes,' he said, frowning. 'Want a drink?'
'How have you been, Bianca?' Count Tzchernski asked.
'It has been very difficult here,' she said, with a little sigh. 'The bombings ...'
Oh, my ass, Mike Marvin said to himself, bombings. A minor mess on the outskirts; nobody sensible would call that bombings. They were damn lucky in Rome, due to the Pope being around, and they never seemed to appreciate it.
'Contessa Valdini,' Count Tzchernski said to Lieutenant Radin, 'lived in Rome all during the German Occupation.'
'
Sales Boches
,' said Radin, pleasantly.
'It must have been terrible for you,' Count Tzchernski went on. 'It is so much worse for women. The Germans are beasts about women.'
Contessa Valdini became a pinched, tightened white; the fine bones of her face were sharp under her skin; her eyes were black. Count Tzchernski was smiling a gentle commiserating smile.
What is this? Mike Marvin asked himself.
'How is your brother?' Contessa Valdini said. Her face was calm again, the shine of anger had gone from her eyes. 'And how is dear Caroline? Or are you and Caroline married now? It has been so many years since I had news of everyone in Warsaw.'
'Both dead,' said Count Tzchernski. '
Garçon, quatre cognacs
'
'Stas! I did not know. My dear, I'm dreadfully sorry. Forgive me ...' The Countess seemed really distressed; she laid her hand on Tzchernski's arm, and with the greatest casualness he turned to reach for the cognac glasses and dislodged it.
'Your charming brother, Caroline so lovely,' the Countess said.
Bad enough for the poor guy if they're dead, Mike Marvin thought, she doesn't have to talk about it. She ought to have learned the right manners for war, by now. He was considering whether he should tell her to shut up, when Tzchernski said, 'Yes. The Germans caught my charming brother and I understand Caroline starved. Of course, she was never strong. I believe pneumonia was the exact cause of her death.'
Radin, who was on the other side of Count Tzchernski, now said something in Polish and Tzchernski turned to answer him. They were absorbed in a conversation which provoked angry statements from Radin and laughter from Tzchernski.
Contessa Valdini said, 'Michel, let us leave them, they are both drunk, no? Let us go, the two of us alone, and quietly dine together.'
'I can't,' Mike said. 'They're friends of mine.'
'You do not consider what I wish?'
'What's the matter? Don't you like our allies, the Poles?'
'I wish to dine with you. It is why I came. You did not speak of anyone else.' The angry darkness had come back into her eyes.
'Well, I wish to dine with them, baby. So I guess you'll just have to put up with it.'
'No.'
'Okay.'
'I will not forgive this.'
'Oh, nuts.' I never liked her nose anyway, Mike was thinking, and I don't like women who make threats.
Contessa Valdini turned and walked down the steps from the bar, and across the wide hall. She moved elegantly and swiftly between the tables and did not look back.
The two Poles watched this and said nothing.
'I guess I lost my girl friend,' Mike said. 'Have another cognac.'
'I am very sorry,' Count Tzchernski said. 'It was my fault.'
'Who cares? Anyhow, I don't see it was your fault.'
'Yes. I was rude. It is stupid. It is Radin who has the political outlook. I have no outlook. But suddenly I became angry, thinking of Bianca and that German general she found no objection to. I said to myself, I do not like Bianca Valdini, nor any of those who found no objection to the Germans. It is why she left.'
'I find objection to the Germans, myself,' Mike said.
'Let us drink to the death of all Germans,' said Lieutenant Radin.
They drank again with pleasure.
'We should break the glasses,' Lieutenant Radin said, 'to make it serious. But here nobody understands to break glasses and we must pay the hotel. So now let us eat. There are many women. It is, like Stas always say, grotesque to worry for women.'
'Grotesque,' Mike agreed gravely.
'You are not angry?' Count Tzchernski asked.
'I never liked her nose,' Mike said.
The restaurant was a small room, panelled in brown wood; sort of like a men's club, Mike Marvin decided, though he had never been inside a men's club. The table-cloths were clean and the other people there ate quietly, with respect for the food. The electricity must be out of order, as it often was, or else they preferred the muted light of candles. It was a comfortable intimate place and Mike Marvin was glad to be with his friends, and no nuisance countess around. The Countess would not fit in here; she was a glaring woman, really. It was much pleasanter to be three men of the world, dining well, with a bottle of wine or two, and talking together in a manner women could not tolerate and therefore spoiled.
The conversation during dinner was confused and copious. Lieutenant Radin had made two long incomprehensible but apparently political speeches. Yes, yes, Count Tzchernski said soothingly, in every pause. Yes, yes, Mike said amiably. Count Tzchernski felt that he had to take care of the American because he had ruined his private life. He was trying to think of fine things to do for his new friend, so that his soul would not be darkened by regret for Bianca, who was worthless in some ways but probably had definite talent in others.
Mike Marvin struggled with the long thin spaghetti. 'It's like the hair of a drowned woman,' he said.
'Yes?' said Lieutenant Radin.
'The spaghetti,' Mike explained.
'I will find you another woman,' Count Tzchernski said. 'Rely on me. You are my brother. I know many women here, since my infancy.'
'Stas knows all women every place,' Radin said. 'Do not upset.'
'I do not upset,' Mike said.
'I cannot find you a woman tomorrow,' Count Tzchernski said, 'for tomorrow we return to the Regiment. You will return with us.
As my brother. If you are happy, the Colonel will give you a commission. The Colonel is a charming man.' He tapped his forehead, to show how the Colonel was. 'Round the bend,' Count Tzchernski added, in the interests of greater clarity. 'You will love the Colonel. Anyone can command a Staghound. You sit in it and look all around you. If you see anything you pick up the radio telephone and you scream for help. Nothing happens. Then the Germans shoot at you. Then you drive as fast as you can and hide behind a tree. It is very easy. You will love it.'
'I bet I will.'
'There is a man in my Staghound,' said Lieutenant Radin, 'he plays the accordion better as Paderewski. You will enjoy it.'
'Why not?' Mike said.
'More wine, no?' Lieutenant Radin asked.
'You know,' Mike said, 'there's one thing I like about war.'
'I like war very much,' Count Tzchernski said, 'when there is no fighting. Many friends, no work, travel all over every country. I am going to invent a new war without fighting. Fighting is stupid. In fighting, everyone becomes excited and disagreeable; also it causes much damage.'
'I like war because you never have to pay for anything,' Mike said. 'Now if they could just fix up the peace so you got everything on orders or requisitions or something like that, people would be crazy about it.'
'There should be many Popes,' Lieutenant Radin said.
'Why?' Mike asked.
'Where there is a Pope, they do not damage. Look at Rome. Very beautiful. Everybody takes care because they have the Pope. If we have a Pope in Warsaw, we still have Warsaw. The same London. First they put a Pope everywhere; then they make war without fighting; then nobody must pay for nothing. Afterwards, everybody is happy.'
'My friend,' Mike said, 'that's one of the best ideas I ever heard.'
'Radin is a man of the highest intelligence. We will now drink to his intelligent ideas,' Count Tzchernski said.
'Gentlemen,' said Mike, 'it's a privilege to eat with a pair of thinkers.'
'You are my brother,' Count Tzchernski said. 'Rely on me.'
'I think we need some brandy to settle us,' Mike suggested.
'I finish my meat,' Lieutenant Radin said. 'This is the best meat since Cairo. We do not eat so much at the Regiment.'
Presently, putting down his brandy glass, Count Tzchernski said, 'We should ask for the bill and see if we can pay it.'
Mike Marvin pulled out a wad of cigar-store coupons from his pocket, the Liberation money. He counted it uneasily. 'I'd like to invite you but I don't know if I've got enough.'
'No, no,' Count Tzchernski said, 'each one will pay what he has. If it is not sufficient, we will thank them very much and say we are sorry. We have done our best; they cannot expect us to do more.'
Mike Marvin looked at this man with admiration; apparently Poles had fewer problems than other people. He was sorry he had never met any Poles before; it seemed such a waste to have your life with no Poles in it. They were men who knew how to live, how to think, how to take events as they occurred, calm, courteous, knowledgeable men. There was a lot to be learned from Poles. And luckily, too, he had almost enough money for the bill, as the Poles had very little. He still felt that everything was free in war and that you were not hounded by the drab necessity of paying for what you wanted. No one could possibly consider these cheesy little coupons as money; these similar green notes were another of the splendid inventions, like travel orders and billeting slips, which had grown from the war and which proved to any reasonable person that all the peacetime anxiety about money was unnecessary.
Count Tzchernski decided they would walk in the Borghese Gardens. The streets were dark and empty except for occasional soldiers and occasional sentries, but even in the dark the city smelled of sun and sun-warmed stone, and once they were in the gardens there was also the smell of grass and pine trees. They jumped a few incompetent slit trenches, which the Romans had dug without enthusiasm and would have found useless in case of need. The slit trenches irritated Mike Marvin. Why did the silly Italians have to go around mucking up this marvellous park? They walked down an alley of tall black cypresses and found themselves in a cleared space where a fountain wasted water handsomely, in the moonlight. The fountain was made of marble with carved marble benches around it, and they stood still to hear the loveliness of falling water and silence. A circle of trees, that looked like willows, walled in the fountain and kept it secret. The place was so remote and so perfect that they felt they were the first people ever to have seen it.
Mike Marvin thought suddenly; I don't give a damn about this war. Everything he had done for two years became idiotic; why would anyone want to rush around in jeeps, tanks, planes, or alternately on his hands and knees, taking pictures? Who wanted to look at those pictures anyway? What everyone was doing, everywhere, was idiotic. All of it, the misery and the boredom and the pompousness and the babbling and the anguish and the death, was crazy; a sickness, a mistake. It would end simply because it had to, because it was no good. And he knew what was coming afterwards though he had not been able to imagine it until this moment. Now, tonight, he was seeing the very face of peace so he could recognize it and never forget it; the ancient beauty of this fountain, which had been here before they became so smart with their great big global wars, and would outlast them.