“Yes. Fortunately it’s just as easy to eat ravioli with the left hand.”
“There is that to be said for it, I suppose. Will you have some of this wine?”
“I don’t think so, thank you.”
“Yes, you’re wise. The best Italian wines never leave Italy.” He dropped his voice. “Ah! Here are the other two passengers.”
They looked like mother and son. The woman was about fifty and unmistakably Italian. Her face was very hollow and pale and she carried herself as if she had been seriously ill. Her son, a handsome lad of eighteen or so, was very attentive to her and glared defensively at Graham, who had risen to draw back her chair for her. They both wore black.
Haller greeted them in Italian to which the boy replied briefly. The woman inclined her head to them but did not speak. It was obvious that they wished to be left to themselves. They conferred in whispers over the menu. Graham could hear José talking at the next table.
“War!” he was saying in thick, glutinous French; “it makes it very difficult for all to earn money. Let Germany have all the territory she desires. Let her choke herself with territory. Then let us go to Berlin and enjoy ourselves. It is ridiculous to fight. It is not businesslike.”
“Ha!” said the Frenchman. “You, a Spaniard, say that! Ha! That is very good. Magnificent!”
“In the civil war,” said José, “I took no sides. I had my work to do, my living to earn. It was madness. I did not go to Spain.”
“War is terrible,” said Mr. Kuvetli.