Gian-Luca inspected his rooms one May morning and quietly nodded his head. Everything was perfect, from the vases of flowers to the well-polished plate and glass.
“Va bene,” he murmured, “it is all as it should be; that Daniele is a competent fellow.” And then he observed a fork out of place and hastily put it straight.
A man in a baize apron, with a dustpan and brush, was stalking a couple of waiters; every few minutes he would suddenly swoop at some microscopic speck on the carpet. At a long side-table a person in shirtsleeves opened endless packets of matches; he filled the match-stands with infinite care so that each little red head stood neatly in its place awaiting its coming cremation. Daniele was giving a last expert touch to the wicks of the spirit-lamps, pinching them firmly between finger and thumb, then spreading out their tips as though they were petals; for these wicks were important, since they would assist in the making of the temperamental Crêpe Suzette!
At last all was in order for the business of the day—and what a momentous business! The Doric would feed many hundred stomachs, postwar stomachs too, long deprived of their fill and now determined to get it.
The telephone began to ring every few minutes—people calling up to book tables; Gian-Luca must consult that complicated list which stood on a desk by the door.
“What name do you say is asking, Daniele? No, I do not know that name, we have not got a table.” Or: “The Duchess of Sussex? Yes, of course; how many, five? She can have her usual table in the window; and see that you put some flowers by each plate—say a couple of those pink roses.”
And now Gian-Luca was much in request, for the clients were calling in person. “Good morning, signore, a table for three—”
“Certainly, Milady, a table in the corner—will you take that one over there?”
“Ah, scusi, signorina, have you been waiting long? Yes, yes, I have seen to everything for supper, it shall be exactly as you wish.”
Gian-Luca was all ingratiating smiles, he seemed so anxious to please you. To see him was to think that he liked you for yourself—not for what you would eat for the good of the Doric; no, he liked you because you were just yourself—that was what was so charming about him. It made you feel genial, you glanced round the room in the hopes of finding someone to nod to, and there stood Roberto, that capital waiter with the really good knowledge of wine.
“Good morning, Roberto. So you’re back again. That’s splendid; I’m jolly glad to see you!”
And Roberto grinned shyly and bowed from the waist as though you had done him an honor—that was what was so nice about Roberto, he made you feel like a sultan. And there was Giovanni, and he too was smiling, smiling and rubbing his hands—Giovanni who knew how you liked your cold beef, not too underdone, just pink.
“Good morning, Giovanni! So you’re safe and sound. Glad to get back here, aren’t you?”
And Giovanni looked flattered: “I thank you, signore. I hope the signore is well?”
Oh, and there was Millo himself, also bowing, waiting to catch your eye—that was what was so nice about Millo, he never forgot the face of a client; a wonderful gift, and it went a long way towards making you feed at the Doric.
II
This then was the atmosphere of well-being that Millo had managed to create. He believed in giving people exactly what they wanted, for someone was certain to gain in the process, and as a rule it was the giver. Millo might sometimes smile rather wryly, he might even shake his wise head, but then he would murmur: “Le monde est ainsi fait.” And remember that he had not made it.
Of his vast staff whose duty it was to see that everyone got what they wanted, none so deft, so proficient, so agreeable as Gian-Luca, whose lips had acquired an automatic smile which he kept expressly for the clients. Millo, watching his clever headwaiter, would consider him well-nigh perfect. He would think:
“After all he was right to be ambitious; the man knows the worth of his talent, and why not? I am lucky to have him in days like these, when everyone feels so hungry!” And then he would chuckle a little to himself, thinking of the people who felt hungry.
But sometimes, if nobody happened to be looking, Gian-Luca’s face altered completely; it grew sullen and tired, it was quite a different face from the one that he showed to the clients. Backwards and forwards superintending the service went Millo’s clever headwaiter, and all that he did was supremely well done, for so many years had gone to his making that now he must work like a perfect machine, without hitch, without flaw, without hurry. There had been many days during that time in France when Gian-Luca had tried to work badly, to be inefficient, clumsy, forgetful of orders; hoping against hope to get sent to the Front if he ceased to give satisfaction. But then, even as now, his long training held, and he could not be other than himself, the perfect mess-sergeant, the perfect headwaiter, the master and slave of innumerable details, the man who could not see a fork out of place but that he must put it straight. He had slipped back into his groove at the Doric as though he had never been away, taking up his work just where he had left it; ordering his waiters, humoring his clients; with a watchful eye, too, for his master’s interests, which he served whenever he might.
Yet all the while, and herein lay the change, Gian-Luca cared nothing at all. If the Doric had suddenly
