“Go to sleep, Gian-Luca,” she said coldly.
After that they did not whisper any more, and he must have obeyed her and fallen asleep, for the very next moment it was morning.
IV
That day he said: “Rosa, tell me, who is Olga-how-lovely-she-was?”
Rosa went crimson. “You listen!” she chided, frowning at him darkly.
He ignored this remark and clung to his point: “Who is Olga?” he persisted. At the back of his mind was a far, faint memory of having heard that name before.
“You come quick, or I go tell Nonna! You come quick out!” scolded Rosa; and then relenting, “Oh, look, look, caro! See those pretty flowers, Rosa buy you a bunch.”
He was not deceived, though he took the flowers and allowed her to stoop and kiss him. For some reason she did not like Olga, that was plain—perhaps because Olga had his sort of hair.
At dinner he looked up from a plate of macaroni and said suddenly, “Who is Olga?”
There ensued a long moment of deathly silence while Teresa and Fabio stared at each other; then Teresa said quietly: “Where have you heard?”
And Gian-Luca answered: “Last night.”
“Olga,” said Teresa, “was my little girl. She is not here, she is dead.”
“Olga,” said Fabio, “was your mother, Gian-Luca.” And getting up slowly he went to a drawer. “This is her picture when she was small—this is Olga, Gian-Luca.”
Gian-Luca clapped his hands: “Pretty, pretty!” he babbled, delighted with what he saw.
Teresa and Fabio exchanged a quick glance, then Fabio put away the photograph. Teresa took up her knitting again—she was knitting a waistcoat for Fabio. Gian-Luca watched her efficient brown hands moving in the bright-colored wools; he was thinking of Nonna’s little girl. Nonna’s little girl was a matter of importance, was something that he could understand; moreover, it was comforting, it brought Nonna nearer, it made her seem so much more accessible somehow, and more—well, a trifle more like other people. Rosa, for instance, had a little girl now, a plump, fretful creature of two and a half; her name was Berta, and she grabbed Gian-Luca’s toys with amazing acquisitiveness for one who was so young. Rosa would dump her down on the floor while she swept and dusted his room in the morning, pausing now and then to exclaim in admiration: “Bella, la mia Berta!” And then to Gian-Luca: “Bella, la mia bambina, non e vero?”
Gian-Luca thought that Berta was cross and fat and ugly, and in any case he was rather jealous of her, she took up too much of Rosa’s time. But Nonna’s little girl looked neither cross nor ugly; on the contrary, she was pretty and had masses of dark hair. He stared across at Nonna; had she ever played? he wondered—with him she was anything but playful!
Nonna must have felt that his eyes were upon her, for she raised her own eyes and said, not unkindly: “We will not talk of Olga, Gian-Luca.”
“Why?” he protested.
“She is dead,” said Nonna: “one does not talk of the dead.” And after that nobody talked any more, so the meal was finished in silence.
V
In the afternoon Fabio reached down his hat and went in search of Gian-Luca: “Come, tesoro, I will take you for a walk, Nonna will guard the shop.” He held out a friendly hand to the child, and together they turned into the street. “Would you like to go and play with Berta?” inquired Fabio, anxious, as always, to be kind.
Gian-Luca shook his head, but after a moment: “I would like to play with Olga.”
Fabio said dully: “Olga is in heaven, she cannot play, piccino.”
“No?” Gian-Luca’s voice sounded doubtful. “Do they not play in heaven, Nonno? Do they not want to play?”
“They are with God,” Fabio told him gently.
“And will not God play with them?”
“God does not play.”
“I do not like God,” said Gian-Luca.
“And yet He is good—” murmured Fabio to himself. “I am almost certain He is good—”
They walked on in silence for a while after that; it was hot, and Gian-Luca’s legs began to flag, Fabio stooped down and took him in his arms.
“Nonno is a horse, you shall ride!” he said gaily, as though to reassure the child.
Fabio ran a little and Gian-Luca laughed, thumping to make him go faster. In this manner they returned to Old Compton Street; the sweat was pouring down Fabio’s face. At the door of his shop stood Rocca, the butcher, enjoying the balmy air. Rocca saw Fabio:
“Buon giorno, Capitano!” Rocca had been a good soldier in his day, and now he used military titles for fun. “Buon giorno, Capitano!” he shouted.
Rocca was much esteemed for his meat, which was usually both cheap and tender. He was also much esteemed for himself—an honest fellow if somewhat lacking in the gift of imagination. As a rule, his display of edible wares was moderately unobtrusive, but today he had something arresting to show; Rocca had purchased a couple of kids, which dangled outside his window. The kids were very realistic indeed, they hung there complete, pelts and all. Their little hind legs were bent back over sticks, their noses pointed to the pavement. They looked young but resigned, and their patient mouths had set in a vaguely innocent smile. In their stomachs were long, straight purposeful slits through which their entrails had been drawn. Despite that innocent smile on their mouths, their eyes were terribly dead and regretful, and as they swung there, just over the pavement,
