Thus, violating orders and the principle of precept and example in command, the Colonel and the Gran Maestro downed a quick one.
They did not hurry nor did the Gran Maestro worry.
They simply made it fast.
''Now, let us discuss the affairs of the Order,'' the Colonel said. ''Are we in the secret chamber?''
''We are,'' said the Grand Maestro. ''Or I declare it to be such.''
''Continue,'' said the Colonel.
The order, which was a purely fictitious organization, had been founded in a series of conversations between the Gran Maestro and the Colonel.
Its name was El Ordine Militar, Nobile y Espirituoso de los Caballeros de Brusadelli.
The Colonel and the head waiter both spoke Spanish, and since that is the best language for founding orders, they had used it in the naming of this one, which was named after a particularly notorious multi-millionaire non-taxpaying profiteer of Milan, who had, in the course of a dispute over property, accused his young wife, publicly and legally through due process of law, of having deprived him of his judgment through her extraordinary sexual demands.
''Gran Maestro,'' the Colonel said. ''Have you heard from our Leader, The Revered One?''
''Not a word.
He is silent these days.''
''He must be thinking.''
''He must.''
''Perhaps he is meditating on new and more distinguished shameful acts.''
''Perhaps.
He has not given me any word.''
''But we can have confidence in him.''
''Until he dies,'' the Gran Maestro said. ''After that he can roast in hell and we will revere his memory.''
''Giorgio,'' the Colonel said. ''Give the Gran Maestro another short Carpano.''
''If it is your order,'' the Gran Maestro said, ''I can only obey.''
They touched glasses.
''Jackson,'' the Colonel called. ''You're on the town.
You can sign here for chow.
I don't want to see you until eleven hundred tomorrow in the lobby, unless you get into trouble.
Do you have money?''
''Yes, sir,'' Jackson said and thought, the old son of a bitch really is as crazy as they say.
But he might have called me instead of shouting.
''I don't want to see you,'' the Colonel said.
Jackson had entered the room and stood before him at a semblance of attention.
''I'm tired of seeing you, because you worry and you don't have fun.
For Christ sake have yourself some fun.''
''Yes, sir.''
''You understand what I said?''
''Yes, sir.''
''Repeat it.''
''Ronald Jackson, T5 Serial Number 100678, will present himself in the lobby of this Gritti Hotel at 1100 tomorrow morning, I don't know the date, sir, and will absent himself from the Colonel's sight and will have some fun. Or,'' he added, ''will make every reasonable attempt to attain that objective.''
''I'm sorry, Jackson,'' the Colonel said. ''I'm a shit.''
''I beg to differ with the Colonel,'' Jackson said.
''Thank you, Jackson,'' the Colonel told him. ''Maybe I'm not.
I hope you are correct.
Now muck off.
You've got a room here, or you should have, and you can sign for chow.
Now try and have some fun.''
''Yes, sir,'' said Jackson.
When he was gone, the Gran Maestro said to the Colonel, ''What is the boy?
One of those sad Americans?''
''Yes,'' the Colonel said. ''And by Jesus Christ we've got a lot of them.
Sad, self-righteous, over-fed and under-trained.
If they are under-trained, it is my fault.