Manhattan
1995
An albanian saying"there are no keys to hell-the doors are open to all men"
1
The dream was always the same.Plunging into the marsh, forcing his way through the reeds and mist, pushing the punt hard, Guilio Orsini standing at the front finding the way through and then the engine close by breaking into life and a burst of machine-gun fire.
Guilio went over head-first, always did, and Chavasse floundered through the reeds and the bitterly cold water and then, mysteriously, like a curtain, the reeds parted and there was the lagoon and the oat, the Buona Esperanza, and Orsini was at the rail leaning over, hand out-stretched."now, Paul, Now."
And Chavasse reached and the mist seemed to increase and there was the roaring of the engine and the boat slapped away, vanished, and he was alone again.
Chavasse was subject to dreams of the past, and had always suspected it was a legacy of hi Vreton father. An old race, the Bretons, an ancient people.But this he had not had for some years.Still...he got off the bed, went to the window of his suite and looked down at Manhattan. The lights sparkled in the evening dusk. He liked New York and always had. There as an excitement there, an infinte probability to things.
When the phone went he answered at once,"Chavasse."
"Ah, Sirl Paul. Tino Rossi."
"Good Evening, Mr Rossi."
"Listen, I know we're meeting later for dinner at the Saddle Room, but I wondered wether you'd mind coming round to my apartment at the Trump Tower first."
1995
An albanian saying"there are no keys to hell-the doors are open to all men"
1
The dream was always the same.Plunging into the marsh, forcing his way through the reeds and mist, pushing the punt hard, Guilio Orsini standing at the front finding the way through and then the engine close by breaking into life and a burst of machine-gun fire.
Guilio went over head-first, always did, and Chavasse floundered through the reeds and the bitterly cold water and then, mysteriously, like a curtain, the reeds parted and there was the lagoon and the oat, the Buona Esperanza, and Orsini was at the rail leaning over, hand out-stretched."now, Paul, Now."
And Chavasse reached and the mist seemed to increase and there was the roaring of the engine and the boat slapped away, vanished, and he was alone again.
Chavasse was subject to dreams of the past, and had always suspected it was a legacy of hi Vreton father. An old race, the Bretons, an ancient people.But this he had not had for some years.Still...he got off the bed, went to the window of his suite and looked down at Manhattan. The lights sparkled in the evening dusk. He liked New York and always had. There as an excitement there, an infinte probability to things.
When the phone went he answered at once,"Chavasse."
"Ah, Sirl Paul. Tino Rossi."
"Good Evening, Mr Rossi."
"Listen, I know we're meeting later for dinner at the Saddle Room, but I wondered wether you'd mind coming round to my apartment at the Trump Tower first."
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