But you answered: “No—I hate it! It bleeds—I hate the dead-shop!” That was what you called it: “The dead-shop.”
III
Strange days; Gian-Luca himself thought them strange, filled as they were with new excitements; indeed, when he finally had to go to school it seemed rather flat by comparison. He was naughty at school, but not really very naughty, there being no Nonna there to see, and on the whole he liked it, there were lots of other children; not small, fat, silly children like Rosa’s ugly Berta, but large, thin, clever children like himself.
It had been arranged to send him to the Board School, which was undenominational and took all creeds alike—only Gian-Luca had no creed. Beyond Scripture lessons therefore, which left him rather cold, his mind was quite undisturbed by doctrine. Teresa shrugged her shoulders.
“Can it matter either way?”
“I am not quite sure—” said Fabio doubtfully.
“In that case I will judge, and I say it cannot matter.”
And as usual Teresa decided.
Fabio was rather tired, life was tiring him a little, and the business was growing every day. He had long since ceased to take an active part in his religion, that had been the duty of Teresa in the past; religious forms were made, he felt, for women. Teresa’s secession from the Church had grieved and shocked him, he had grown to depend on her prayers. He suspected that Teresa’s prayers had been both loud and fierce, the kind that would be heard for the sake of peace alone, if for no other reason. Fabio could not pray like that; perhaps he lacked conviction, he had always been a shy and doubtful man; it had solaced him, however, to know that his Teresa stood up to God and asked for what they wanted. At times, of course, Teresa prayed only for herself, as when she knelt beside the bed demanding God’s forgiveness. She had done continual penance, and so, via her, had Fabio; and although this had contributed to wearing down his manhood, at the same time it had brought him more in touch with God, by proxy; that is with Teresa’s God. Left to find God for himself, by reason of Teresa’s disaffection, he could only grope for something that was kind; something that was softer and more loving than Teresa, something that would understand his needs. Freed from her religious spells he no longer liked her God, though the fact that he disliked Him made him fearful. He felt angry with Teresa, who had thus disturbed his peace, who had suddenly left him in the lurch. So, partly in anger, partly in pity, and a little in superstition, Fabio had baptized Gian-Luca. It had been his final act of defiance against Teresa, there would never be another—not now.
Fabio had grown much older—it was Olga’s death that had aged him—this winter he had suffered from pains across his back. The pains had been lumbago, or so the doctor said, and when they caught him, Fabio had some ado to move, had just to stand quite still and call Teresa. For some reason the lumbago would make him think of God. God—lumbago, lumbago—God; that was how it came to Fabio.
“I do believe He is kind—” thought Fabio in self-pity, clinging to the counter in acute distress.
He was frightened when he thought of God, and when he got lumbago he was even more frightened of the pain across his back—that, no doubt, was why he coupled them together.
There had been a final argument about Gian-Luca’s school, when Fabio, lying prostrate with red flannel round his middle, had suggested that they might consult a priest.
“That I will not,” said Teresa. “You may if you wish, my Fabio, but the time is short, the child must go next week.”
“Corpo di Dio!” bellowed Fabio, who had tried to move in bed, and whose face was bedewed with agony. “I care not what you do—only bring my liniment! I care not where you send him, so you rub me!”
IV
Rosa was deeply shocked and so was Nerone, while the Signora Rocca was appalled. She announced her intention of calling on Teresa for the purpose of expressing her disgust.
“Leave them in peace, for God’s sake!” advised her husband. “Have they not already had their troubles?”
“And have I not had mine?” inquired his wife severely, and whenever she said this, Rocca’s tardy conscience smote him, and he thought it wiser to be silent.
Rosa spoke to Mario, who, although not very pious, had been known to make Novenas for his bunion. “Is it not dreadful, Mario, the little Gian-Luca—no father and now no religion, not at all!” And finding her Berta, she began to kiss her warmly, whereupon her Berta yelled.
Rosa gave Gian-Luca a little Rosary and taught him to say his beads; but Gian-Luca sucked and bit the beads until they came apart, and one of them got swallowed by mistake.
Nerone stumped round to Fabio on an angry wooden leg: “First you naturalize yourself, then you neglect yourself the Church, then you take Gian-Luca away, what next I ask? You become a Protestant perhaps? No wonder you sell us bad salame.”
Except for Signora Rocca, they all attacked poor Fabio; not one of them dared tackle Teresa. The butcher’s wife was different, she had money of her own, she went to Mass in purple silk on Sundays. Teresa was busy in the cash-desk when she arrived, but together they went into the parlor.
“A little glass of wine?”
“No, I thank you.”
“What a pity, we have some such excellent Chianti!”
“I have come,” said the signora, taking the easy-chair, “to discuss the wine of the spirit.”
“Ah!” murmured Teresa. “Do you think that we should stock it?”
“I have come,” said the signora, “to speak about Gian-Luca, whose soul is in the greatest peril.”
“How so?” inquired Teresa.
“Can you ask?” Signora Rocca opened her enormous eyes as far as they would go. “Can you ask, when I hear that
