Berenson wrote a beautiful thing about the book and compared it to Homer. Hope this isn't a sign that he's getting old and going off his head. This is my great hope now. This is that I love you. There is nothing else of interest, Miss Adriana.
The two pigeons passed in front of us again but in the opposite direction. The male pigeon had ruffled feathers, he was starting to get impatient. Now Bemelmans was looking at the pigeons too, without speaking.
I wondered when I would see Papa again. If I could also say to him, as he once did to me: "Please come quickly so we can have fun."
Two shoes divided the pigeons. She turned her head as if to make sure she was being followed, instead of her lover she saw the shoes and flew away.
The shoes moved in the direction of our table. I looked up. "Hi Adriana." the owner of the shoes smiled at me. "Hello." I smiled at the blue-eyed blond man.
"Giuseppe Berto, Ludwug Bemelmans." I said introducing the men.
"Can I sit with you?" Berto asked.
"Of course. I didn't know you were in Venice." I said.
"There's a kind of writers' convention." Berto said.
"Speaking of your great friend, I'm re-reading A Farewell to Arms. Nice book. I confess that I love him, Hemingway, for an infinite number of reasons, even if in writing I am not as close to him as the critics have thought. Hemingway... ouch! why are you kicking me in the shin?"
"Sorry... I just wanted to stretch my legs..." It wasn't true. I had kicked him - but I didn't intend to kick him that hard - to stop him: preferably he didn't talk about Hemingway at the moment. "How many days are you in Venice?" I asked.
"It depends on the convention." Berto said moving the chair.
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