in Monte Carlo. 'Monsieur Weingrass is not in his suite. He was to have dinner this evening at the Hotel de Paris, opposite the casino.'
'Do you have the number, please?'
'But of course,' replied the ebullient woman. 'Monsieur Weingrass is a most charming man. Only tonight he brought us all flowers; they fill up the office! Such a beautiful person. The number is—'
'Desole,' intoned the male operator at the Hotel de Paris with unctuous charm. 'The dining room is closed, but the most generous Monsieur Weingrass informed us that he would be at Table Eleven at the casino for at least the next two hours. If any calls come for him, he suggested that the person telephoning should ask for Armand at the casino. The number is—’
'Je suis tres desole,' gurgled Armand, obscure factotum at the Casino de Paris in Monte Carlo. 'The delightful Monsieur Weingrass and his lovely lady did not have luck at our roulette this evening, so he decided to go to the Loew's gaming room down by the water—an inferior establishment, of course, but with competent croupiers; the French, naturally, not the Italians. Ask for Luigi, a barely literate Cretan but he will find Monsieur Weingrass for you. And do send him my affectionate greetings and tell him I expect him here tomorrow when his luck will change. The number is—’
'Naturalmente!' roared the unknown Luigi in triumph. 'My dearest friend in all my life! Signer Weingrass. My Hebrew brother who speaks the language of Como and Lago di Garda like a native—not the Boot or even Napoletano; barbarians, you understand—he is in front of my eyes!'
'Would you please ask him to come to the telephone. Please.'
'He is very engrossed, Signore. His lady is winning a great deal of money. It is not good fortuna to interfere.'
'Tell that bastard to get on this phone right now or his Hebrew balls will be put in boiling Arabian goat's milk!'
'Che cosa?'
'Do as I say! Tell him the name is Mossad!'
'Pazzo!' said Luigi to no one, placing the telephone on his lectern. 'Instabile!' he added, cautiously stepping forward towards the screaming craps table.
Emmanuel Weingrass, his perfectly waxed moustache below an aquiline nose that bespoke an aristocratic past and his perfectly groomed white hair that rippled across his sculptured head, stood quietly amid the gyrating bodies of the frenetic players. Dressed in a canary-yellow jacket and a red-checked bow tie, he glanced around the table more interested in the gamblers than in the game, every now and then aware that an idle player or one of the excited crowd of onlookers was staring at him. He understood, as he understood most things about himself, approving of some, disapproving of many, many more. They were looking at his face, somewhat more compact than it might be, an old man's face that had not lost its childhood configurations, still young no matter the years and aided by his stylish if rather extreme clothing. Those who knew him saw other things. They saw that his eyes were green and alive, even in blank repose, the eyes of a wanderer, both intellectually and geographically, never satisfied, never at peace, constantly roving over landscapes he wanted to explore or create. One knew at first glance that he was eccentric; but one did not know the extent of the eccentricity. He was artist and businessman, mammal and Babel. He was himself, and to his credit he had accepted his architectural genius as part of life's infinitely foolish game, a game that would involuntarily end for him soon, hopefully while he was asleep. But there were things to live, to experience while he was alive; approaching eighty he had to be realistic, much as it annoyed and frightened him. He looked at the garishly voluptuous girl beside him at the table, so vibrant, so vacuous. He would take her to bed, perhaps fondle her breasts—and then go to sleep. Mea culpa. What was the point?
'Signore?' whispered the tuxedoed Italian into Weingrass's ear. 'There is a telephone call for you, someone I could never in my life have respect for.'
'That's a strange remark, Luigi.'
'He insulted you, my dear friend and most considerate guest. If you wish, I will dismiss him in the language of barbarians which he so justly deserves.'
'Not everyone loves me as you do, Luigi. What did he say?'
'What he said I would not repeat in front of the grossest French croupier here!'
'You're very loyal, my friend. Did he give you his name?'
'Yes, a Signer Mossad. And I tell you he is deranged,
