Fabio would say: “But you are an Italian, what need you care for the foolish English, they have nothing to do with us!”
And he, Gian-Luca would reply: “That is so. I hate the English as Nerone hates them; they are stupid, they have the brains of pigs, they think only of beer and roast beef!” Then Fabio would pat him on the back with approval: “It is good to be Italian, very good,” he would say; “your father was also an Italian. Your father was a very great man, he was a soldier; he also owned vineyards, enormous vineyards, from which comes the finest Chianti. When he died, he said: ‘Take care of my Gian-Luca and tell him how splendid I was!’ ”
Gian-Luca decided to speak on a Sunday, when Fabio would be free to attend. It should be in the morning before Fabio went out. Teresa would be sitting by the fire; Teresa would look up from her knitting for a moment; she might even wish to join in their conversation, adding some reassuring words of her own … In any case Teresa must be there. They would tell him those glorious things about his father that he had imagined for himself: they might even say that his father’s name was none other than Leonardo.
But when the momentous occasion arrived, Gian-Luca felt strangely shy; Fabio was reading his paper by the window, Teresa was knitting by the fire as he had pictured; it was all as it should be, it was all quite perfect, yet Gian-Luca felt strangely shy. He began to fidget with this thing and that, moving aimlessly about the room, picking up objects and putting them down—much as Fabio did when mentally distressed—until at last Teresa, who disliked this habit, looked up from her knitting with a frown.
“Can you not find what you want, Gian-Luca? I wish that you would read your book.”
He hesitated with a vase in his hand; it fell and was broken to pieces.
Teresa’s frown deepened: “Dio! Gian-Luca, now see what foolishness you do!”
He caught his breath, staring down at the vase; then suddenly he began to speak wildly. “I am not happy—I am very unhappy—I want to know about my father!”
In the silence that followed he could hear his own heart beating. Fabio had crushed the newspaper in his hand.
“Your father?” Fabio’s voice sounded very faraway, and the eyes that he turned on Gian-Luca were frightened.
But now Gian-Luca was feeling less afraid; he was able to go on almost calmly: “You knew my father, Nonno—I would like to hear about him—I have often thought that his name was Leonardo, I have thought that my father was a soldier.”
Then Fabio told the truth in a moment of panic: “But I never knew your father, Gian-Luca, I never knew your father’s name.”
Gian-Luca stood quite still staring at him: “You knew my mother—” he began.
“Your mother was my child—” said Fabio unsteadily. “Your mother was my own poor child!”
Gian-Luca considered for a moment, then he said: “And she never brought my father to show you? That was strange, for Rosa showed Mario to Nerone—she says so—Rosa showed Mario to Nerone, she says, a long time before they got married.”
“I think he is old enough to know,” said Teresa. “The children of our country age sooner than the English—”
Her voice was quiet; it was almost detached, as though she were speaking of a stranger.
“Not yet,” protested Fabio quickly.
“I would like to know,” said Gian-Luca.
Teresa surveyed him in silence for a moment, then: “You have a right to know—come here.”
He went and stood patiently beside her, while she picked up a stitch that she had dropped; this accomplished, she looked him full in the eyes:
“It is I who must tell you, it seems, Gian-Luca.”
“Too soon! Too soon!” muttered Fabio from the window.
But Teresa shook her head: “He has asked—he has been thinking—it is therefore not too soon—it is I who must tell him, it seems—”
Her fingers were moving with incredible swiftness, the sound of her needles was rhythmical, precise—like the tapping of a small machine. The eyes that met Gian-Luca’s were defiant, unafraid—but they made Gian-Luca feel afraid.
“Listen,” she said, “listen carefully, Gian-Luca—we never knew your father—we do not even know whether your father is dead or alive. He did not marry Olga as Mario married Rosa—he did not wish to give you his name. We do not know your father’s name, and that is why we call you by ours; that is why when Olga died at your birth you remained here and lived with us. Mario was good, he had love for Rosa, so he gave her his name in marriage. Your father had no love for you nor for your mother—he gave neither marriage nor name.” She paused to allow her words to sink in.
“Then he was not good?” faltered Gian-Luca.
“He was bad,” said Teresa. “He was cruel and bad; have I not just told you so?”
Gian-Luca stared at her, pale and aghast: “Then my father was not a great man—not a soldier?”
“Who knows, Gian-Luca; to be great in this world does not mean that a man is good.”
“But—” he said miserably, “you do not know his name—and I thought that his name was Leonardo—”
“We shall never know your father’s name, I am afraid; your mother kept it a secret.”
“Then was she also bad?”
“Your mother was all goodness,” Teresa’s sallow cheeks flushed with a painful crimson.
“And yet I have not got a name—” he persisted. “You say that I have not got a name—” Then a sudden thought struck him and he too flushed crimson: “Does that make me different from other boys, Nonna?
