Evening in Byzantium
“Alone. He had spoken to enough people that day. The restaurant was one of the best in town, expensive and usually crowded. But tonight, except for himself and two loud parties of English, the men florid and excessively barbered, the women overdressed and bejeweled, the room was empty. The English groups were not connected with the Festival but were vacationing in Cannes. He had seen them all the night before at the casino, men and women alike playing for high stakes. The women were sopranoing a...bout other holiday places, Sardinia, Monte, as they called it, Capri, St. Moritz, the compulsory stations of the rich. The men were complaining about the Labor government, currency restrictions, the bank rate, devaluation, their voices booming over the high trill of their wives.
There will always be an England, Craig thought as he ate his salade niçoise.
Pablo Picasso came in with a party of five, and the handsome woman who owned the restaurant fussed him into a table along the opposite wall. Craig looked at him once, admired the bull-like vitality radiating from the small stocky figure, the great naked head, the dark eyes that were somehow gentle and fierce at the same time.MoreLess
There will always be an England, Craig thought as he ate his salade niçoise.
Pablo Picasso came in with a party of five, and the handsome woman who owned the restaurant fussed him into a table along the opposite wall. Craig looked at him once, admired the bull-like vitality radiating from the small stocky figure, the great naked head, the dark eyes that were somehow gentle and fierce at the same time.MoreLess
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