Gian-Luca looked down at the little man with interest; so Roberto was longing to fly. Roberto had never shown signs of any longings; he had just been very neat, very skillful, very quick, with a most retentive memory for a vintage; and all the time he had been longing for wings, longing to conquer the air—perhaps he had longed to fly out of the Doric—what a curious thing was life.
A few weeks later went Giovanni, the trancheur, and he too confided in Gian-Luca. The war was loosening all tongues it seemed.
“I hope I may never come back—” said Giovanni. “I shall try to get killed very soon.”
“Madonna! But why?” inquired Gian-Luca, startled. “You are such a wonderful trancheur, Giovanni; Millo will certainly keep your place open—what have you got to complain of?”
Giovanni looked away: “It is not that, my friend, I know I am an excellent trancheur—but when a man has a great pain in his heart—”
“Not that girl who married the porter, surely!”
“Ma si, my Anna,” Giovanni nodded gravely.
Gian-Luca stared incredulously at him—all this sorrow it seemed, over Anna. Anna had not even been attractive, a red-haired girl with the eyes of a fox—and after the first not a sigh from Giovanni, not a tremor of that long, thin, accurate knife. What a curious thing was love.
V
One day soon after Giovanni’s departure, Gian-Luca was sent for by Millo. Millo was looking both tired and worried.
“Now we are going to lose Riccardo,” he said; “this is a fearful war!” He stared at Gian-Luca in silence for a moment, and then: “It is you who shall take his place, I will make you the head of the restaurant, with an increase of salary, of course.”
Gian-Luca thought: “The large restaurant—ah, so I get it at last!” And he knew that he had been hoping for this, ever since Italy had joined in the war.
It seemed like a kind of revenge on life, this sudden rise in his fortunes—a revenge on Riccardo, whom Italy wanted. His heart was beating with fierce resentment, for one by one they were all going home, these neat, quiet waiters of the Doric; and one by one they would cease to be waiters, they would look upon splendid, terrible things, with the eyes of men who were brothers.
“My God! If only I could go with them—” he thought, “if only I too belonged—” But his face was impassive as he stood before Millo, and his voice when he spoke was quite calm. He said: “And the octagon room, signore? Who will take charge of my octagon room? It is very important, I have my special clients, I am used to their little fads.”
“Do you mean that you want that too?” inquired Millo, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
“That is what I should very much like,” smiled Gian-Luca. “I should like to undertake both rooms.”
Millo considered him thoughtfully, and his tolerant eyes were a little puzzled. There was something he did not understand about Gian-Luca, something very angry yet coldly ambitious, he had only suspected it of late. He could feel the hard, calculating thing as he sat there, and the nearness of it oppressed him. For even to Millo, engrossed in the Doric, came a sudden, unexpected revulsion.
“You have your ambitions, I observe,” he said quietly; “oh, well, it is an ill wind that blows no one any good!”
“As you say, signore, a very ill wind—you are right, I have my ambitions.”
“Sit down,” ordered Millo, “we must talk this thing out, we must see if your idea will work. You would wish to retain your old salary of course, to which I am to add Riccardo’s—for you know and I know just how valuable you are, but above all you know it—is not that so, Gian-Luca?”
“Magari,” murmured Gian-Luca softly.
“Very well. But have you considered what this will mean? You will have a motley crew of waiters under you, not the well-trained men that you have been used to—and soon you may have a few irritable clients, for our food is already less good than it has been. At the same time I will not lower my flag one instant before I must, therefore you will have to be answerable to me for the standard of two rooms instead of one. I have known a long time that of all my headwaiters you are undoubtedly the most competent, but no man can do more than his best, Gian-Luca; are you sure that your best will content me?”
“If it does not, signore, you have only to speak—”
“Very well,” said Millo, “we will try it and see. Riccardo is going in ten days’ time.”
Riccardo smiled rather unpleasantly when Gian-Luca told him the news. “So at last you jump into my shoes,” he remarked. “It pays well to feel that one has no country.”
Gian-Luca was patient. “Perhaps—” he replied. He could very well afford not to lose his temper.
“Oh, yes, but surely!” retorted Riccardo. “However, I have a feeling in my bones that I am not going to get killed.”
“In that case you may get your old job back again, unless I should prove to be the better man, Riccardo.”
“And if you should prove to be the better man?”
“Then it is Millo who will have to decide. One cannot have everything in this world—you have a country and I have your job, that seems to me perfectly fair.”
Riccardo turned on his heel and left him. “He means to oust me if he can,” he thought bitterly. “He means to make himself indispensable to Millo, he has always wanted to oust me.”
Gian-Luca was thinking: “If I were Riccardo, I would not be caring so much about my job, but since I am Gian-Luca, then I care very much—a man must care about something—”
VI
And now Gian-Luca worked as never before, for he felt himself second only to Millo. There
