Alone in the room that had once been Olga’s, Gian-Luca made friends of his books. He would talk to them, pet them: “Oh, bello!” he would say, stroking a page with his hand. Or he might feel disapproval, in which case he would scold: “That is ugly, I do not like that line; if you were in Italian it would fit much better, it would not have so many small words.”
He made a shelf from an old packing-case, so that his friends might be well lodged, and when it was finished he nailed it to the wall directly opposite his bed. The shelf was just long enough to cover the wounds that had gaped in the plaster for years.
“Bene!” smiled Gian-Luca, “I have hidden them all now; they were ugly, I am glad that they are hidden!”
One morning he sought out Fabio in the shop, asking him gravely for books.
“Ma che! I have none, but here are macaroons!” laughed Fabio, giving him a handful.
Gian-Luca ate the macaroons with much gusto, but the next day he sought out Mario.
“Can you lend me some books?” inquired Gian-Luca.
“Ma che! I have none,” said Mario.
Then, seeing Gian-Luca’s look of disappointment, Mario scratched his chin, thinking hard: “I have it, Gian-Luca! I know where you must go, you must go to the Free Lending people; there they have hundreds and thousands of books; you can bring away with you a sackful.”
Gian-Luca discovered the Free Library, but he asked for books in Italian.
The Librarian smiled. “We have nothing in Italian—plain English, my child, that’s what we keep here—try Shakespeare, he’s not bad you know!”
As the days went on the Librarian grew more friendly. “Do you write yourself?” he inquired without a tremor. Gian-Luca shook his head. “You should try,” said the Librarian, “it’s never too young to begin.”
“So far I am reading,” Gian-Luca told him.
“So I have observed,” said the Librarian.
“Some day I shall make money, and then I will write,” Gian-Luca remarked confidentially. “It is better to grow rich before writing lovely things, otherwise one might starve.”
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—” began the Librarian, and he laughed. “I see that you appreciate England, my child; however, I believe that some writers make money—”
“It is dangerous, my grandmother says that it is dangerous, and she is very clever,” said Gian-Luca. “You see, I have only got myself, so I cannot write until I am rich.”
“I wish I’d only got myself,” sighed the Librarian; “there are quite a number of me.”
“How many?” asked Gian-Luca, rather surprised.
“Five girls and two boys,” said the Librarian.
It was true that Teresa had mocked at poets when Gian-Luca had mentioned quite vaguely one evening that it must be rather fine to write verses.
“That is not for you,” she had told him firmly. “For you is a business life—some day you may inherit this shop of ours, when Nonno and I are dead. Although,” she had added, “we see no reason why you should not read if you find it amusing, but never read so much that you neglect other matters. Poets are very foolish people as a rule—they must also be very conceited. Nonno and I are not young any more, so you must be self-reliant, a worker—you cannot afford to start scribbling nonsense, for you stand very much alone.”
This had neither surprised nor shocked Gian-Luca, indeed he agreed with Teresa. A person who was minus even a name would have to fight hard for a place in the world, and something in this thought made him stubborn and defiant—his arrogant underlip shot out a little whenever he remembered himself.
He was old for his age, every day he felt older; perhaps it was because he now knew life so well, knew all sorts of queer things about fathers and children—children who had no real names. Every morning on waking he looked at his motto, kneeling up in bed the better to see it; and every night he would examine it afresh—he found it so reassuring.
“I have got myself,” he would mutter softly, and his muttering was not unlike a little prayer, and then: “I am neither Italian nor English—not anything at all—I am just Gian-Luca.”
At times this made him feel very lonely, but at others it struck him as being rather splendid; and when this happened his mouth would grow willful, with its arrogant underlip.
However, Gian-Luca did try to write verses, though shy and shamefaced about it. He felt quite sure that it was a waste of time, but as he had nothing very useful to do and something inside him kept asking and urging, he decided to give it its own way. Of the poems by that unknown Italian poet, there was one that Gian-Luca particularly adored: “Gioia della Luce” the poem was called, “The Joy of Light,” and the more he read it the less he understood its meaning, and yet somehow he felt that he did understand it—but not exactly with his brain. The poem was long, it went on and on in a turbulent torrent of words. The great, ringing words stumbled over each other, shouting, proclaiming, lifting up their arms—at least that was the idea that came to Gian-Luca—the words were lifting up their arms! It made him want to laugh, it made him want to cry, it made him want to run for miles and miles. It reminded him of bluebells and blossoms at Kew Gardens, of the longings that Mario had sometimes for the sea, of things that
