“Let me ask the Padrone to take him at the Capo,” Mario insisted eagerly.
“Sacramento!” yelled Nerone. “You and your Capo! And nothing you are, no, less than nothing! It is I who provide for Rosa and the children, it is I who scrape and save. As for you, you have nothing so far as I can see but a bunion on your left foot. I would not exchange my good wooden leg for your bunion—no, that I would not!”
“I am thinking, Mario,” said Fabio slowly; “I am thinking of what you have said. If I kept Gian-Luca for two years in the shop, he might go to you afterwards. Already I can see him in a neat white waistcoat and a little black satin tie; I can see him in a fashionable restaurant after he has learnt at the Capo. He is one of those boys who is bound to rise; he will have such a fine appearance, I cannot promise that you will keep him long; still, no doubt it would be good training—”
“As for that, no better exists,” bragged Mario. “Will he not be under me?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fabio in enormous relief; “then I think we can take it as settled. I have always intended to make him a waiter; I have my ideas for Gian-Luca!”
“Then why did you come to consult us, Dio Santo!” bawled Nerone, now thoroughly roused.
“I wished to hear what you would say,” Fabio told him. “We are such old friends that I thought it only courteous to tell you of my plans for the boy.”
III
Everyone thought Fabio’s decision a wise one, including Gian-Luca himself. Gian-Luca, aged twelve, had no exalted ideas, and very few illusions about life. It seemed to him perfectly natural and right that he should help Fabio in the shop, and that afterwards he should work under Mario at the celebrated Capo di Monte. Most people that he knew did just that sort of thing, or at all events, something very like it. “And,” argued Gian-Luca, “if I cannot write well, perhaps I can serve well—even better than Mario.” For at twelve years old he already had great confidence in his own ability to serve.
“What fun you will have!” said Berta enviously, with her eye on a jar of fruit toffee from Turin. “There are so many things one can eat in this shop, it is ever so much nicer than ours.” She and her brother had wandered in one Saturday afternoon, to find Gian-Luca in a little white jacket, importantly installed behind the counter. He looked at her disdainfully.
“We do not eat, Berta, that is not the way to grow rich; we offer our sweets to our customers, they eat and we keep the money.”
“Oh, but think—” persisted Berta. “Just one little bit! That cannot be worth a farthing.”
“You are not to!” cried Gian-Luca, catching at her hand. “You are not to go stealing our toffee!”
“Dirty pig!” retorted Berta; “I do not want your toffee, we have much nicer toffee at home.”
“Then leave it alone, and do not touch those raisins, you are squashing them soft with your fingers!”
Geppe strolled round with his hands in his pockets: “Good day,” he said, nodding in the manner of Nerone; “it appears that we shall have some fine weather.”
“Good day,” said Gian-Luca, bowing a little; “it appears that we undoubtedly shall.” Geppe’s game was certainly very appealing, Gian-Luca’s eyes began to sparkle. “And now,” he said pompously, “I will show you how I serve; you go out and come in again.”
At that moment, however, Teresa appeared: “Be off, you two children!” she commanded. “Have you sorted that wrapping-paper, Gian-Luca? You have not? Then do so at once.”
“Ha, ha!” mocked Berta. “He is so very grand and he does not know how to sort paper!”
“I do!” said Gian-Luca.
“You do not!” sneered Berta. “It is obvious that you do not.”
Gian-Luca’s arm shot out across the counter and he tugged at a lock of black hair.
“Take that!” yelled Berta, slapping his face.
“And that!” he retorted, with a truly frightful pinch. “And that!” spluttered Berta, beginning to scratch, whilst Geppe ate olives in a corner.
“And this!” remarked Teresa, as she seized Rosa’s offspring and thrust them forth into the street. “And now,” she said, turning again to Gian-Luca, “if you think you have finished behaving like a baby, I will show you how to sort paper.” She proceeded to explain the art of saving, as applied to paper and string. “One does not always give a new piece,” she told him. “One uses one’s discretion according to the order; small orders may be done up in old bits of paper—say anything under two shillings.”
Gian-Luca nodded, rather red in the face and considerably humbled in spirit. “And what must one do, Nonna, if they ask for something that does not exist in the shop?”
“In that case one persuades them to take something else; they should never go away empty-handed.”
“But if they do not want it?”
“You must make them think they want it; that is the art of good selling.”
“I will try—” he murmured doubtfully, forgetting for the moment how proficient in all things he was.
IV
There was much to learn about the art of selling, as Gian-Luca was soon to discover. There was also much to learn about the ways of people who came for the purpose of buying. There were people who spoke with habitual rudeness, who ordered you about your own shop. When you handed them the parcel they never said “Thank you,” they just turned and went out of the door. You longed to make faces at these sort of people or to pinch them like you pinched Berta; however, you remembered that at least they had to pay, and that consoled you a little. There were people who never knew
