She looked at him as though she had forgotten him completely. “In Fiesole? I was there just a year ago.”
“I suppose it’s pretty well recovered from the war. I told you how I used to love visiting there before the war. I hope it will always be pleasant.”
“I think it will,” said Carla.
“Europe must’ve been very nice before the war,” said Holton.
George Robert Lewis made an elaborate motion to show just what it had been before the war; as he was finishing his movement the waiter brought them their dinner: a number of dishes with filet of sole at the center.
“I hope you enjoy it,” said the waiter spitefully, putting the dishes down loudly and angrily. He walked away, his duty done.
Lewis sighed. “These dreadful waiters, they presume so. I suppose that it’s all a part of the American dream. Shall we begin?” Like a priest of a pagan cult he began to perform the ritual of arranging plates, of removing covers, of neatly moving food from plate to plate, and finally of eating. The others imitated him.
“When,” asked Robert Holton, after the main part of the dinner had been eaten, “will the show start?”
Lewis put down his fork carefully, swallowed, and said, “Very soon, I think. What time is it?” There was an examination of watches: ten-fifteen. “The show starts at ten-thirty. I hope you’re not impatient. The audience is very often as interesting as the show. But I must say that de Bianca’s dance is in another world and that we mustn’t miss it. I’ll be very curious to know how you react.”
“There used to be a place in Paris like this where they had a wonderful dancer of the same type. I suppose he’s the type of dancer I think he is?” said Carla.