y. g. to the girl behind the pastry counter. Two, you mean? she asked. No, he said, one for a vecchio. Oh, she said, a vecchio, and laughed, getting down the bottle. She poured out the three muddy looking drinks into three glasses. The wife was sitting at a table under the line of newspapers on sticks. The y. g. put one of the marsalas in front of her. You might as well drink it, he said, maybe it'll make you feel better. She sat and looked at the glass. The y. g. went outside the door with a glass for Peduzzi but could not see him.
I don't know where he is, he said, coming back into the pastry room carrying the glass.
He wanted a quart of it, said the wife.
How much is a quarter litre? the y. g. asked the girl.
Of the bianco? One lira.
No, of the marsala. Put these two in, too, he said, giving her his own glass and the one poured for Peduzzi. She filled the quarter litre wine measure with a funnel. A bottle to carry it, said the y. g.
She went to hunt for a bottle. It all amused her.
I'm sorry you feel so rotten, Tiny, he said. I'm sorry I talked the way I did at lunch. We were both getting at the same thing from different angles.
It doesn't make any difference, she said. None of it makes any difference.
Are you too cold? he asked. I wish you'd worn another sweater.
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