Soon we became engaged in conversation with a man and woman directly opposite us. They were in a gay mood and had already passed on to the coffee and liqueurs. I gathered from their remarks that they were theatre people.
It was rather difficult to carry on a continued conversation owing to the presence of the hooligans on either side of us. They felt that they were being snubbed, simply because we were talking of things beyond their ken. Every now and then the lieutenant made some dumb remark about «the stage». The other one, the detective, was already in his cups and getting nasty. I loathed the both of them and showed it openly by ignoring their remarks completely. Finally, not knowing what else to do, they began to badger us.
«Let's move into the other room,» I said, signalling the proprietor. «Can you give us a table in there?» I asked.
«What's the matter?» he said. «Is there anything wrong?»
«No,» I said, «we don't like it here, that's all.»
«You mean you don't like ms,» said the detective, snarling the words out.
«That's it,» I said, snarling back at him.
«Not good enough for you, eh? Who the hell do you think you are any way?»
«I'm President McKinley—and you?»
«Wise guy, eh?» He turned to the proprietor. «Say, who is this guy anyway... what's his line? Is he trying to make a sap out of me?»
«Shut up!» said the proprietor. «You're drunk.»
«Drunk! Who says I'm drunk?» He started to totter to his feet, but slid back again into the chair.
«You better get out of here... you're making trouble. I don't want no trouble in my place, do you understand?»
«For crying out loud, what did I do?» He began to act like an abused child.
«I don't want you driving my customers away,» said the proprietor.
«Who's driving your customers away? This is a free country, ain't it? I can talk if I wanta, can't I? What did I say... tell me! I didn't say nothin' insultin'. I can be a gentleman too, if I wanta...»
«You'll never be a gentleman,» said the proprietor. «Go on, get your things and get out of here. Go home and sleep!» He turned to the lieutenant with a significant look, as if to say—this is your job, get him out of here!
Then he took us by the arm and led us into the other room. The man and woman sitting opposite us followed. «I'll get rid of those bums in a minute,» he said, ushering us to our seats. «I'm very sorry, Mr. Miller. That's what I have to put with because of this damned Prohibition law. In Italy we don't have that sort of thing. Everybody mind his own business... What will you have to drink? Wait, I bring you something good....»
The room he had brought us to was the private banquet room of a group of artists—theatre people mostly, though there was a sprinkling of musicians, sculptors and painters. One of the group came up to us and, after introducing himself, presented us to the other members. They seemed pleased to have us in their midst. We were soon induced to leave our table and join the group at the big table which was loaded with carafes, seltzer bottles, cheeses, pastries, coffee pots and what not.
The proprietor came back beaming. «It's better in here, no?» he said. He had two liqueur bottles in his arms. «Why you don't play some music?» he said, seating himself at the table. «Arturo, get your guitar... go on, play something! Maybe the lady will sing for you.»
Soon we were all singing—Italian, German, French, Russian songs. The idiot brother, the chef, came in with a platter of cold cuts and fruit and nuts. He moved about the room unsteadily, a tipsy bear, grunting, squealing, laughing to himself. He hadn't an ounce of gray matter in his bean, but he was a wonderful cook. I don't think he ever went for a walk. His whole life was spent in the kitchen. He handled foodstuffs only—never money. What did he need money for? You couldn't cook with money. That was his brother's job, juggling the money. He kept track of what people ate and drank—he didn't care what his brother charged for it. «Was it good?» that's all he cared to know. As to what they had had to eat he had only a rough, hazy idea. It was easy to cheat him, if you had a mind to do so. But no one ever did. It was easier to say, «I have no money... I'll pay you next time.» «Sure, next time!» he would answer, without the slightest trace of fear or worry in his greasy countenance. «Next time you bring your friend too, hah?» And then he'd give you a clap on the back with his hairy paw—such a resounding thwack that your bones shook like dice. Such a griffin he was, and his wife a tiny, frail little thing with big, trusting eyes, a creature who made no sound, who talked and listened with big dolorous eyes.
Louis was his name, and it fitted him perfectly. Fat Louis! And his brother's name was Joe—Joe Sabbatini. Joe treated his imbecilic brother much as a stable-boy would treat his favorite horse. He patted him affectionately when he wanted him to conjure up an especially good dish for a patron. And Louis would respond with a grunt or a neigh, just as pleased as would be a sensitive mare if you stroked its silky rump. He even acted a little coquettish, as though his brother's touch had unlocked some hidden girlish instinct in him. For all his bearish strength one never thought of Louis' sexual propensities. He was neuter and epicene. If he had a prick it was to make water with, nothing more. One had the feeling, about Louis, that if it came to a pinch he would sacrifice his prick to make a few extra slices of saucisson. He would rather lose his prick than hand you a meagre hors-d'oeuvre.
«In Italy you eat better than this,» Joe was explaining to Mona and myself. «Better meat, better vegetables, better fruit. In Italy you have sunshine all day. And music! Everybody sing. Here everybody look sad. I don't understand. Plenty money, plenty jobs, but everybody sad. This is no country to live in... only good to make money. Another two-three years and I go back to Italy. I take Louis with me and we open a little restaurant. Not for money... just have something to do. In Italy nobody make money. Everybody poor. But god-damn, Mr. Miller... excuse me... we have good time! Plenty beautiful women... plenty! You lucky to have such a beautiful wife. She like Italy, your wife. Italians very good people. Everybody treat you right. Everybody make friends rightaway...»
It was in bed that night that we began to talk about Europe. «We've got to go to Europe,» Mona was saying.
«Yeah, but how?»
«I don't know, Val, but we'll find a way.»
«Do you realize how much money it takes to go to Europe?»
«That doesn't matter. If we want to go we'll raise the money somehow...»