Cocaine by Pitigrilli Read Free Book Online

Columbus showed them a cigarette lighter or a box of Valda tablets. Even Parisian cocottes , when they undress in the presence of an Italian, expect him to put his hands to his brow in utter amazement at the revelation that women are differently made to men. Cocktails are made like that in my country too, Tito said to himself. If you had drunk all the cocktails that I have, you’d have delirium tremens by now.
    “Allow me to introduce Dr — who deals with German politics; Professor —, who handles the Russian section, and M. —, our medical correspondent,” he said.
    Then, pointing to Tito, he said.
    “M. Titò Arnodi.”
    “Tito Arnaudi,” the owner of the name corrected him.
    “M. Titò Arnodi, our new colleague,” the man repeated.
    Tito took in only the end of their names (ein in the case of the German, ov in the case of the Russian and ier in the case of the medical correspondent). The three gentlemen concerned leapt from their stools to shake hands with their new colleague.
    “And now I’ll take you to your office,” the editorial secretary said. “And on the way I’ll take the opportunity of introducing you to your fellow countryman who deals with Italian politics. C’est un charmant garçon.”
    Tito put his glass on the counter and shook hands with the German, the Russian and the scientist, who climbed back on to their observation stools.
    Beyond the bar there was another room with two billiard tables, and beyond that there was the restaurant for the editorial staff of The Fleeting Moment and their friends.
    Tito and his companion walked down a corridor, and three or four messengers rose and sat down again as they passed. It was like a hotel corridor, with doors on either side; all that was missing was shoes outside the doors and trousers hanging on hooks on the door posts. As they passed the doors they heard the clatter of typewriters, all tuned in together, the ringing of telephone bells and the sound of feminine voices.
    The secretary knocked at the door.
    “ Entrez ,” someone answered.
    A number of colored cushions lay on a lounge chair, and a man lay on the cushions. One leg slid to the ground, and Pietro Nocera rose with its aid.
    “Good gracious.”
    “Tito Arnaudi.”
    “Good heavens, Pietro Nocera.”
    “Fancy seeing you in Paris.”
    “I’ve been here a month. And you?”
    “I’ve been here a year. Are you passing through?”
    “Goodness no.”
    “Are you staying in Paris, then?”
    “Not only that, I’m staying on this newspaper.”
    And before Pietro Nocera recovered from his surprise the secretary said: “I’m putting you in the next office. I’ll have the communicating door opened, so that you won’t have to go out into the corridor if you want to talk.”
    “And how on earth did you get here?”
    “I’ll tell you. And you?”
    “I’ll tell you too.”
    “Are you free for lunch?”
    “Completely.”
    “There’s a restaurant on the premises.”
    “So I’ve seen.”
    “So you’ll have lunch with me.”
    “Do you realize the gravity of what you are saying?”
    “I do.”
    “In that case I accept.”
    “I’ll order you oysters still redolent of the sea.”
    The secretary left the two friends together to allow all their sentimental gases to expand.
    Pietro Nocera telephoned to the bar. “Two Turins,” he said.
    He turned to Tito and explained that he had ordered Italian vermouth for the sake of local color. “Sit there, facing me, so that I can have a good look at you. Your complexion has changed a bit, but otherwise you’re just the same. And what brought you to Paris? And how’s that old aunt of yours?”
    “Don’t let’s talk indecencies at table.”
    “So you’ve taken to journalism too?”
    “As you see.”
    “And how did that happen?”
    “It’s quite simple. I’m a journalist just as I might be a cinematograph operator or a boatswain on a sailing ship or a conjuror.”
    “You’re quite right,” Pietro Nocera said. “One takes