* * * * *
The dark face on the pink embroidered pillow turned coldly toward me.
"Che volete?" he demanded. The secretary opened his mouth to translate.
I said quickly, "Scusí; parlo un po' la lingua. Non bisogno un
traduttore."
Zorchi said languidly in Italian, "In that case, Mario, you may go.
What do you want with me, Weels?"
I explained my duties as a Claims Adjuster for the Company, pointing
out that it was my task, indeed my privilege, to make settlement for
injuries covered by Company policies. He listened condescendingly. I
watched him carefully while I talked, trying to estimate the approach
he might respond to if I was to win his confidence.
He was far from an attractive young man, I thought. No longer behind
the shabby porter's uniform he had worn on the platform of the station,
he still had an unkempt and slipshod appearance, despite the heavy
silken dressing gown he wore and the manifest costliness of his room.
The beard was still on his face; it, at least, had not been a disguise.
It was not an attractive beard. It had been weeks, at the least, since
any hand had trimmed it to shape and his hair was just as shaggy.
Zorchi was not impressed with my friendly words. When I had finished,
he said coldly, "I have had claims against the Company before, Weels.
Why is it that this time you make speeches at me?"