It was warm and
The young gentleman felt relieved.
He was no longer
breaking the law.
Sitting on the
bank he took the bottle of marsala out of his pocket and passed it to
Peduzzi passed it back.
The youth took a drink and
passed it back to Peduzzi.
Peduzzi passed it back again.
"Drink," he said, "drink. It's your marsala."
short drink the young gentleman handed the bottle over.
Peduzzi had been
watching it closely.
He took the bottle very hurriedly and tipped it
The gray hairs in the folds of his neck oscillated as he drank, his
eyes fixed on the end of the narrow brown
He drank it all.
The sun shone while he drank.
It was wonderful.
This was a great day, after all.
"Senta, caro! In the
morning at seven."
had called the young gentleman caro several times and nothing had happened.
It was good marsala.
His eyes glistened.
Days like this
stretched out ahead.
It would begin at seven in the morning.
They started to walk up the hill toward the village.
gentleman went on ahead.
He was quite a way up the hill.
Peduzzi called to him.
"Listen, caro, can you let me take five
lire for a favor?"
"For today?" asked the young gentleman frowning.
"No, not today.
Give it to me today for
I will provide
everything for tomorrow.
Pane, salami, formaggio, good stuff for all of
You and I and the Signora.
Bait for fishing, minnows, not
Perhaps I can get some marsala.
All for five lire.
Five lire for a favor."
The young gentleman looked through his
pocketbook and took out a two-lire note and two ones.
"Thank you, caro.
Thank you," said Peduzzi, in the tone of one member of the Carleton Club
accepting the Morning Post from another.
This was living.
He was through with the
hotel garden, breaking up frozen manure with a dung fork.
man had a big lot of money after that race and he took to coming into Paris
If they raced at Tremblay he'd have them drop him in the
village on their way back to Maisons.
He and I would sit out in front
of the Cafe de la Paix and watch the people go by:
It's fun sitting there.
There's streams of people going by and all sorts of guys come up and
want to sell you things.
I loved to sit there with my old man.
That was when we'd have the most fun.
Guys would come by
selling funny rabbits that jumped if you
squeezed a bulb and my old man would kid them.
He could talk French
just like English and all those guys knew him 'cause you can always tell a
jockey - we always sat at the same table and they got used to seeing us.
There were guys selling matrimonial papers.
rubber eggs that when you squeezed them a rooster came out of them.
There was one old wormy looking guy that went by with postcards of
Paris, showing them to everybody, and, of course, nobody ever bought any.
Then he would come back and show the under side of the pack and they
would all be smutty postcards and lots of people would dig down and buy them.
Gee, I remember the funny people that used to go by.
around supper time looking for somebody to take them out to
eat and they'd speak to my old man.
He'd make some joke at them in French and they'd pat me on the head and
Once there was an American woman sitting with her kid daughter
at the next table and they were both eating ices.
I kept looking at the
girl, she was awfully good looking.
I smiled at her and she smiled at
me but that was all that ever came of it, even though I kept an eye out for
I made up ways that I was going to speak to her.
I wondered if I got to acquainted
with her if her mother would let me take her out to Auteuil or Tremblay.
I never saw either of them again.
Anyway, I guess it wouldn't
have been any good, anyway, because looking back on it I remember the way I
thought out would be best to speak to her was to say, "Pardon me, but perhaps I
can give you a winner at Enghien today?"
at the Cafe de la Paix, my old man and me.
We had influence with the
waiter as my old man drank whisky and it cost five francs.
That meant a
good tip when the saucers were counted up.
My old man was drinking more
than I had ever seen him and he wasn't riding at all now.
He said that
whisky kept his weight down.
I noticed he was putting it on just the
He'd busted away from his old gang out at Maisons and seemed to
like just sitting around on the boulevard.
He was dropping money every
day at the track.
He'd feel sort of doleful after the last race, if
We'd get to our table, he'd have his first
whisky and then he'd be fine.
He'd be reading the
Paris-Sport and he'd look over at me and say, "Where's your girl, Joe?" to kid
me on account I had told him about the girl that day at the next table.
I would get red, but I liked being kidded about her.
It gave me
a good feeling. "Keep your eye peeled for her, Joe," he'd say, "she'll be
Hemingway, from In Our Time
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