“What name, signore?” inquired Gian-Luca when at last the order was completed.
“Doria—have you got it?” came the voice less distinctly. “A table for Ugo Doria.”
Then Gian-Luca suddenly ceased to be a waiter. “Ugo Doria, the poet?” he babbled.
“Ma si, I am the poet—never mind about that, have you got it all down about the luncheon?”
Gian-Luca walked straight into Millo’s office. “Ugo Doria is lunching here next Thursday, signore; I have come to ask if I may serve him myself—”
Millo looked up from a bundle of papers. “Doria the poet?” he inquired.
“Si, signore, Ugo Doria, and coming to the Doric—I have just written down his order.”
Gian-Luca’s voice sounded young with excitement. Millo glanced at him in surprise. “You are fond of poetry then, Gian-Luca? Doria is certainly a great writer, but I did not know that you were a great reader. Have you read his new epic, ‘The Sowing of Peace’? It is very lovely, I think.”
“Yes, but have I your permission to serve him myself, signore?”
“Certainly, Gian-Luca, why not? Let Daniele take your place in the restaurant during luncheon, I would wish you to serve Ugo Doria.”
“Thank you,” said Gian-Luca, “you have made me very happy.” And his eyes were actually shining.
“How curious; he reads Ugo Doria’s poems,” thought Millo as his headwaiter left him. “How little one knows about other men’s minds, and as for their hearts—well, nothing.”
That afternoon Gian-Luca went back to Maddalena. “Maddalena! Where are you?” he shouted.
“I am here,” she answered, coming quickly towards him. “I am waiting for you, piccino.”
Then he hugged her, and laughed, and told her the great news—Ugo Doria was coming to the Doric. “And I shall serve him myself, Maddalena; my hands only shall serve him!” Presently he said: “When I was very young—before I left the Capo, Maddalena—I used to long for this thing to happen, I used to long to serve Doria. I used to see myself pouring out his wine and passing his food with a flourish; I used to wish to impress him, I remember—I distinctly remember that I wished to impress him—but he never came to the Capo.”
“And now you can do it all!” she said gladly; “you, who are a headwaiter! I hope he will know who it is who serves him, but of course he will see by your necktie.”
Gian-Luca teased her: “He will know by my appearance; he will know by my splendid appearance! He will say: ‘Why here comes the great Gian-Luca!’ And then no doubt he will write me a poem, inspired by my exquisite waiting.”
She scarcely dared to believe her own eyes, Gian-Luca was laughing with pleasure. He was young and gay and affectionate again, and all because Doria was coming to the Doric! But what did that matter, so long as he was happy, happy and kind to Maddalena?
She said: “I will bless this man Ugo Doria, because he has made you smile.”
Then Gian-Luca kissed her: “It is foolish perhaps, but yes, I feel as excited as a schoolboy.” After which he must needs get out Doria’s poems, and read her the “Gioia della Luce.”
II
I
On the following Thursday Gian-Luca arrived at the Doric an hour before his time. He must interview the head chef regarding certain dishes that Doria had specially ordered; he must speak to Roberto about the champagne; he must give the final directions to Daniele; in fact he must rouse the whole staff of the Doric by announcing Doria’s prospective visit.
Doria’s table would be in the octagon room, in a quiet corner by the window, and at each of the plates there should be a red carnation made up as a buttonhole, for Gian-Luca felt sure in his own mind, somehow, that Doria’s friend would be a man. He might be bringing a well-known statesman, or a soldier famous in war, or perhaps a poet less great than himself, to whom he was doing a kindness. But whoever he brought was sure to be important, if not now, then at some future date, for the man who had written the “Gioia della Luce” was not likely to cast his pearls before swine—and then greatness attracted greatness.
Gian-Luca, who was now nearly thirty-two years old, was weaving romances like a boy; he pictured Doria as slender and tall, with the strong, lean flanks of a racehorse; his eyes would be inspired, the eyes of a poet, but above all the man would convey a sense of bigness, bigness of mind, bigness of spirit; oh, yes, and bigness of sin when he sinned—for nothing small or despicable or mean could have written the “Gioia della Luce,” nor could it have conceived those many other poems that burnt with the fires of the flesh. Serene and enduring he must be, this Doria, in spite of those outbursts of passion—a pasture swept by occasional storms, a valley that harbored a mountain torrent, a mountain whose peak was covered in snow, and illumined by swift crude lightning.
To everyone he met at the Doric that morning, Gian-Luca said: “Doria is coming here today.”
And they answered: “Ugo Doria the poet?” Then Gian-Luca nodded and smiled.
Monsieur Martin, the head of the army of chefs, was inclined to be short in his manner, however. For no war stopgap was Monsieur Pierre Martin, but a culinary king returned to his kingdom, and now on his coat showed a green and red ribbon which stood for the Croix de Guerre.
“Parbleu, is he God?” inquired Monsieur Martin. “Is he God, this poet you speak of? I have never so much as heard his
