FOR THE LIFE OF ME, I still don’t know if you should remember people’s names or their faces. I believe that names were one of God’s many inventions, or rather one of his “foresights.” I think he did it to avoid complications.
He started out by calling the first man Adam and the first woman Eve, rightly guessing that they would subsequently reproduce almost ad infinitum. He may also have had taxes in mind. How could people pay their taxes if they didn’t have first and last names?
But I am still convinced that the label society pins on a man counts less than what he is really like inside. That is the reason why I have never made a concerted effort to remember my customers’ names. I recognize them when I see them. I am delighted to welcome them after a long absence, but often I have no idea what their names are, because knowing their names doesn’t change a thing. Feelings are transmitted and exchanged by words and by thought, not by name, rank, and serial number.
Besides, how can you ask someone you have known for fifteen or twenty years, “By the way, what’s your name?”
True, I am often embarrassed, especially when someone gives me regards from another customer whose name also means nothing to me. I have to pretend to remember the name, because I do not want to be rude, and, besides, I know full well that I would recognize the man if I saw him, and that I would be very pleased to have his greetings from a friend.
I remember the day a man walked into Harry’s Bar and said, “My name is Smith. My son said to say hello to you.”
I thanked him warmly, but no bell rang in my head at the mention of the name.
A little later, after doing the round of the tables, I went back to Mr. Smith.
“You know,” he said, “my son is working with Mastroianni in New York.”
I replied that I was delighted to hear it.
“Pardon me, the name is Rocco Papaleo,” Mr. Smith added.
I automatically held out my hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, my name is Cipriani.”
He gave me a long glance full of reproof and pity and then burst out: “That’s the title of the film my son is working on.”
I nearly fainted, but I managed to rush off to my office in a sweat. I did not dare go back out to the restaurant until Mr. Smith had finished his meal.
Despite such embarrassing moments, I remain convinced that names are not what count in the restaurant business. I was confirmed in this belief by what happened one morning at Harry’s Bar during the Venice Film Festival.
Sitting at the bar was a very attractive young Venetian woman with long blond hair, one of whose many lovers had for a while included the director of the film festival. Her black toy poodle was sitting politely at her feet. And I was at the cash register.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the director of the film festival open the door for his wife. The two of them walked in, and the poodle immediately recognized the man — his old friend and his mistress’s companion. Without knowing the man’s name, the dog honored him with the most frantic, enthusiastic, and passionate outburst of joy I have ever seen. Icy is the best word to describe the atmosphere that the little dog managed to create, unbeknownst to himself.
But among the habitués of Harry’s Bar, there are two whose names I will never forget, because they taught us all something about civility and grace that I have treasured ever since.
For as long as I can remember, Mr. and Mrs. Wood were always the same, from long before the magnificent hostelry that was the Grand Hotel was shut down and sold to the regional government without a word of protest. They used to come to Venice every year in August, and around six o’clock in the evening, they would be out on the balcony of their large first-floor room to watch the noiseless traffic on the Grand Canal. And so it was for many years. After the Grand Hotel closed, they stayed at the Bauer and later at the Gritti. They always had lunch and dinner at Harry’s Bar.
Mr. Wood died not too long ago at the age of ninety. Tall and elegant down to the smallest details, he was a man of simple tastes, and he observed things and people from behind his eyeglasses with great interest and a touch of shrewd humor. Mrs. Wood is a small woman. She has white hair, thinning now and gathered in a white veil. She dresses with great care, stands erect, and is very knowledgeable; and the authoritative way she has of speaking, her chin slightly tipped up, is softened by the nice kind eyes.
I knew that if they didn’t come August second, it would be the third, and they always arrived in the morning — a habit that suggested civility. They took a delicate pleasure in finding the same small things each year, fixed points for calm reflection on past love and feelings and joys.
One winter morning, five years ago, someone told me they were very ill. He was paralyzed, and she had one of those illnesses it is hard to recover from. I thought about them with the melancholy associated with things that pass forever. But one day the following summer, Mr. Wood appeared at the door sitting in a shiny wheelchair. “How do you like my new car, Cipriani?” He stood up, a little more bent than usual, and very determinedly walked to his table. She accompanied him of course, very thin and frail. She leaned on a large cane, the only purpose of which, I am sure, was to keep her from being blown away by the wind.
After that, they had more difficulty doing things, but they compensated by taking even greater care in their dress, often with a touch of coquettishness. Old age and paralysis became the favorite subject of Mr. Wood’s quick, humorous sallies. One day we managed to get him and his wheelchair onto a crowded vaporino. As soon as we had secured him a place, I could see he wanted to tell me something. I leaned over and listened carefully, because he has a way of swallowing half his words, which makes it hard to understand him. “You look tired today, Cipriani,” he said. “Would you like my chair?”
Once, I told the waiter to remove the ashtray from his table, “Mr. Wood doesn’t smoke.” “Not yet,” he remarked. A friend commented, “You’re looking good, Mr. Wood,” and he replied, “I’m not looking.” Mrs. Wood usually looked at him and laughed on these occasions. It was like a game, a secret understanding they had. He pretended to be slow to see the comic side and took his time before giving a hearty laugh.
But the main reason I can never forget Mr. and Mrs. Wood is something they did two or three years before he died. It was the only time in the whole history of Harry’s Bar that everyone stopped talking and looked to see what was happening.
He arrived first, and although he was not yet confined to a wheelchair, it was hard for him to get to the table. Nevertheless he managed without help from anyone. She came a quarter of an hour later. When he saw her at the door, he gripped the arms of his chair and slowly rose to his feet. She came over and stood at the table as if she were waiting for something. Everyone in the place seemed to sense that these two magnificent old people were about to offer us a marvelous lesson in life.
Old Mr. and Mrs. Wood’s lifeline was so slender that you could sense the overwhelming power of the spirit in every thing they did. And for a magic moment everyone’s attention was on them. She turned her face up to him, and he bowed his head to give her the sweetest kiss on the cheek. Time and space stood still for an instant, but I wished they would have stopped forever, because I am sure that of all the thousands and millions of kisses ever given or received in all the lands and islands known to the world, this was without the shadow of a doubt one of the most special.