From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [63]
“He should have believed in his art,” Mazzioli said.
“Believe in my ass,” Warder said. “Did you ever hear of a guy named Titian?”
“A little,” Mazzioli said, irked because he did not know him well enough to have a theory.
“He painted a little job called Venus of Urbino,” Warden grinned at him slyly. “It was a picture of a woman with her finger up her cunt.”
Mazzioli was really shocked. “I don’t believe it.”
“Look it up, kid,” Warden grinned. “He believed in his art. He made a lot of money off it, too, I hear.”
Looking at the horror still on Mazzioli’s face, Warden laughed outright. “So Grant’s got the clap, hey?” he said, conversationally.
“I told him he should have taken a pro,” Mazzioli said distastefully, but still angrily. “He never takes a pro after he gets a piece of ass. Or at least use a rubber. But he dont do that either. Crazy fool.” He was still thinking about the picture, and it made him shudder.
Warden snorted contemptuously. “Do you wash your feet with your socks on, kid? After such a beautiful, soul-stirring thing as a piece of ass you want to go take a goddam pro and come out smellin like a dispensary. Where’s your sense of adventure? You’re the kind of rabbit would look for the nails in a piece of antique furniture.”
“What?” asked Mazzioli.
“Nothin,” Warden snorted. “Where’d Grant say he got it?”
“At the Ritz Rooms,” Mazzioli said distastefully.
“Serves the son of a bitch right. He should of known better’n to go to that crummy joint. He’ll be a goddam private in the rear rank when he gets out of the hospital. So he’s payin for it.” Warden stood up and banged his fist down on his desk so hard that Mazzioli jumped in spite of himself.
“Let that be a goddam lesson to you, Corporal,” Warden said violently, “if you dont want to lose those goddam stripes you love so much.”
“Who?” Mazzioli said, astonished. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Stick to your goddamned rubber glove and become a queer, like the sex hygiene lectures advise you.”
“Now listen,” Mazzioli said indignantly.
“You listen,” Warden said. “I got some very, very important business to attend to, see? And I wont be back till probly four o’clock. You stay here in this Orderly Room till I get back, see? and if I hear of you even goin to the latrine, I’ll bust you down tomorrow, see?”
“Aw, for Christ’s sake, Top,” Mazzioli protested. “I got some things I have to do this afternoon.”
“This business of mine,” Warder said, grinning to himself, “is strictly official. You had the whole goddam morning off to discuss art. You got a soft job; if you dont like it, you can quit any time. How many cupsacoffee you have in Choy’s this morning, hah?”
“I only went down for coffee once,” Mazzioli protested.
“Four o’clock. And you better be here when I get back. Theres about six letters there to be typed up and next week’s drill schedule to type up. Not counting all the filin that you’ve let get behind.”
“Okay, Top,” Mazzioli said dejectedly as Warden shouldered himself into his raincoat and picked up a sheaf of papers, seeing his afternoon sacktime departing on the black wings of tyranny. The Warden, and his prisoners. Anything to keep somebody from doing what they wanted. He was a manic-depressive, Mazzioli decided suddenly, happily, or a paranoiac.
He stepped to the window to watch through the dim gloom of the rainy afternoon where The Warden might be going. Official business, my old fanny.
But Warden had anticipated that, and he walked along the street around the quad, resolutely through the rain, it drumming boomingly on his sugar-stiff campaign hat and rustling in his raincoat, that was already beginning to wet his back, and climbed the stairs to Regimental Hq above the sallyport.
From the porch he looked back across the quad and saw Mazzioli’s head and shoulders dark against the light from the Orderly Room window, almost as if he had his nose pushed against the glass. What