“Good-by,” I said. “They’ll be awfully glad to see you.”
“Good-by,” said Meyers. “You come around to the galleria. You know where my table is. We’re all there every afternoon.” I went on up the street. I wanted to buy something at the Cova to take to Catherine. Inside, at the Cova, I bought a box of chocolate and while the girl wrapped it up I walked over to the bar. There were a couple of British and some aviators. I had a martini alone, paid for it, picked up the box of chocolate at the outside counter and walked on home toward the hospital. Outside the little bar up the street from the Scala there were some people I knew, a vice-consul, two fellows who studied singing, and Ettore Moretti, an Italian from San Francisco who was in the Italian army. I had a drink with them. One of the singers was named Ralph Simmons, and he was singing under the name of Enrico DelCredo. I never knew how well he could sing but he was always on the point of something very big happening. He was fat and looked shopworn around the nose and mouth as though he had hayfever. He had come back from singing in Piacenza. He had sung Tosca and it had been wonderful.
“Of course you’ve never heard me sing,” he said.
“When will you sing here?”
“I’ll be at the Scala in the fall.”
“I’ll bet they throw the benches at you,” Ettore said. “Did you hear how they threw the benches at him in Modena?”
“It’s a damned lie.”
“They threw the benches at him,” Ettore said. “I was there. I threw six benches myself.”
“You’re just a wop from Frisco.”
“He can’t pronounce Italian,” Ettore said. “Everywhere he goes they throw the benches at him.”