I gave a little bow. ‘You flatter me.’
She smiled. ‘It is a pretty scene you make last night, throwing your glass on the floor and walking out on poor little Riccardo. Also Walter was very upset. He is sensitive and—’ She must have seen the tenseness in my face for she stopped then. ‘Why do you behave like that, signore?’
The unexpected directness of the question took me by surprise. ‘I was drunk,’ I answered tersely. ‘Suppose we leave it at that.’
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. The waiter arrived with the drinks. ‘Salute!’ She raised the glass to her lips. The green of the creme de menthe was a shocking contrast to the red gash of her lips, but it matched her eyes. I emptied the bottle of seltz into my glass and drank.
There was an uncomfortable silence which was broken by her saying, ‘I do not think you were drunk last night. You were very strung up and you had been drinking. But you were not drunk.’
I didn’t answer. I was thinking of Shirer, seeing him again in the glare of the street light stroking the side of his upper lip with the tips of his fingers. ‘Have you known Walter Shirer long?’ I asked.
‘Two or three years perhaps. I am from Napoli and he has a vineyard there. He is producing a very good Lachrima Christi. You know him before you meet him last night, eh? That is why you are so upset.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I knew him during the war. We were in the Villa d’Este together.’
‘Ah, now I understand. That is the place he escape from. But you are not the Englishman who accompany him.’
‘No.’