The Marshal Makes His Report by Magdalen Nabb Page B

soon be over.
    As he began to push his way forward a delicious smell floated to his nostrils, sharp, aromatic, cutting through the smell of car fumes. A pity, he thought, that he was in uniform, otherwise . . . The enticing smells got stronger as he made his way through the crowd. He couldn’t see the long table from which the demonstrators were being served but he knew what was on it. He could smell the hot toast with garlic, oil and salt, the crisp, wafer-thin pizza with rosemary scattered on it— and surely that was Tuscan sausage? Well, there was nothing to be done, so it would do him no good to think about it. Some good at least came from the fact that the crowd was shifting in the direction of the food, which meant he could get along better. And get along he did until a voice shouted, ‘Marshal!’
    He paused. Of course, whoever it was need not be calling him. The square was full of uniformed men.
    ‘Marshal!’ He recognized the voice though, he thought.
    ‘Over here!’ Foreign. That was it. Yorke, the English boy. An umbrella was being waved furiously above the heads of the crowd. The Marshal stood still and waited, letting the people flow round his great black bulk as though he were a rock in a choppy sea. The umbrella disappeared, reappeared, then its owner came into view. ‘Ah!’ The umbrella was lowered. In his other hand he cradled a miniature pizza, still sizzling on a small paper napkin, as carefully as though it were a baby bird. A swift mouthful disposed of it.
    ‘Excuse me.’ He waggled his umbrella in the direction of the source. ‘But it’s in a good cause.’ And to the Marshal’s mild astonishment he folded the little paper napkin as though it were of silk and slid it into the top pocket of his blue linen jacket, adjusting the protruding folds with a little flourish.
    ‘Never drop litter,’ he said. ‘I saw you from a distance,’ he went on. ‘Well, you’re very visible for one reason and another. You, of course, didn’t see me.’
    ‘No, no, I . . .’
    ‘An umbrella is a useful object. Look!’ He pointed to where a tour guide held a large red umbrella aloft and strode off with a crocodile of weary-looking people straggling after him, their arms burnt to the colour of the umbrella. ‘Very useful—really I’ve always regretted not joining the Guards. Too small, you see, though nicely made. There are things I want to tell you. Which way are you going?’
    ‘Me? I—to the Palazzo Ulderighi . . .’ He almost added, ‘Unfortunately.’ He felt at ease with this young man, strange though he was with his quick way of talking and the odd things he said that you couldn’t at all follow. And though he was so young he had a way about him that was old, a sort of mock-gravity which, combined with the umbrella, made the Marshal think of Charlie Chaplin.
    ‘In that case,’ William Yorke said, looking about him solemnly, ‘we shall leave this merry scene and hope that all this effort, including my heroic champing of all that good food, will prevent the barbarians from opening their hamburger joint in the precincts of the cathedral. We’d better not talk Ulderighi talk here. Follow me!’ He raised his umbrella, pressed the spring and snapped it open. The Marshal, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face behind the dark glasses, followed him.
    For the Marshal, it was a relief not to have to ring the bell and affront the sullen face of the porter who always made him feel like an unwelcome guest rather than an official caller. William let them in with his keys. In the courtyard the piano music filtering down from the dancing school was almost entirely drowned by that of Emilio who was practising something very loud and, the Marshal thought, modern.
    ‘I like a nice tune, myself,’ William said as he opened up the studio. But he said it in such an odd voice, despite a serious face, that the Marshal, who had been on the point of agreeing with him, hesitated and said