Leone was a lumping lad of sixteen, his expression was bovine and surly. Like his father, he wore his hair en brosse, but in his case, the top of his pate was so black that it looked like a monster pen-wiper. His thick throat was bare, he was wearing no collar, and his shirt was unfastened for coolness; round his neck hung a little gilt crucifix and a medal of the Virgin Mary. He spoke seldom, eyeing Gian-Luca with suspicion, but his voice when he did speak was gruff; his voice was already that of a man, and his lip was well shadowed with down. He appeared to be curiously unobservant except in regard to beetles; butterflies also attracted his attention, which was rather unfortunate for them. The little, round beetles crept out of the vines, disturbed by the busy peasants, and whenever a beetle came the way of Leone, Leone crushed it with his foot. His hand would swoop out to afflict flying things, a game at which he was unusually dexterous, and the palm of his hand would be covered with powder from the wings of his unfortunate victims. Gian-Luca looked once or twice at Sisto, who however, seemed to be quite unperturbed by the unpleasant pastime of his offspring, and presently Leone wandered away, muttering something about chickens.
Then his father turned to Gian-Luca with a smile. “A fine fellow, no? He is useful on the farm; my Claudio is a soldier in the Bersaglieri, but this one shall be a fattore.”
Sisto was making a great effort to be friendly, despite the unfortunate incident of the mare; he was very disappointed in Maddalena’s husband; however, they must make the best of him. He had said to his wife on the previous night: “He is queer, Maddalena’s husband. Imagine it, making a poor woman walk because of a beast—and then our Giuseppina—I remarked: ‘She is twenty years old, Giuseppina, do you expect her to fly?’ ”
“He is very handsome,” his wife had replied; “a fine figure he has, but too thin; and how little he eats—such an excellent supper, such good ravioli, and the melanzane ripiene. All that I could lay my two hands on I cooked, and then he must come and eat nothing!”
Sisto had shrugged his shoulders in disgust: “He is hardly a man, my Lidia; and as for not eating, he ate many grapes, and figs, and much bread; but such stuff is for children, I think he is hardly a man!”
However, he had always been fond of Maddalena, so that now he was trying to be friendly. “Are you feeling the heat?” he inquired of Gian-Luca. “You English are not used to the heat.”
Gian-Luca looked surprised: “But I am not English; I thought you knew I was Italian.”
“Ma no, you are English,” laughed Sisto, amused. “You speak fine Italian, but your manners are English, and then, who but an Englishman pushes a cart that has a good horse to draw it?”
Gian-Luca was silent, this was quite unexpected. So Sisto regarded him as English! But at last he said firmly: “You are quite wrong, Sisto, I consider myself an Italian—there are many Italians living in England.”
“All the same, you are English,” smiled Sisto. His round, brown face looked incredibly stubborn. “One can see that you are English,” he persisted; “your clothes, your behavior, your manner of eating—” Then he hastened to add: “They are nice folk, the English, we like them, they bring us much money.”
How many times in his life had Gian-Luca listened to similar words: “The English are rich, they bring us much money.” Yes, and how many times had he himself said them! He stared at Cousin Sisto in exasperation.
“One gets sick of this talk of their money,” he muttered.
“Caspita, I do not!” chuckled Sisto.
And now Cousin Sisto wished to hear about London, and above all about the Doric. Did it pay? Was the food good? What sort of a man was Millo? Had Gian-Luca grown rich? His Nonna must be rich; it paid well, a salumeria! Gian-Luca tried to answer all these questions politely, and after a little, to his infinite relief, Sisto began to talk of the Marchese, who he said was a person of vast importance, owing to his very great wealth. Now Sisto must puff himself out and grow pompous; was he not the fattore? And the watch-chain protruded on his round little stomach, and a long coral horn, worn against the evil-eye, swung to and fro from the watch-chain.
“It is I who do all things,” he told Gian-Luca, “a very responsible position. The Marchese is merry, he admires pretty women, and he has a dull wife. She is good, poverina—too good; it is said that she longs to be a nun. The Marchese says: ‘Sisto, I leave all to you, take care of my grapes, and see that you weigh them.’ And I answer: ‘You may trust me, Signor Marchese, not the pip of a grape shall be stolen.’ Which reminds me,” went on Sisto, glancing at his watch, “that the hour has arrived for the weighing of the grapes; it is time that we hurry home!”
They turned and went back to the courtyard of the farm, in which had been set up an immense pair of scales. The peasants had begun to arrive with full baskets balanced on their heads or their shoulders. Sisto eyed them with open suspicion and made notes in a thick black notebook.
“Avanti!” he ordered peremptorily, and the weighing of the grapes began.
Each peasant in turn must empty his burden on to the giant scales; Sisto weighed it, then the grapes were tipped back
