Adam’s Breed

quite what they wanted, who could never make up their minds. They asked you for tomatoes, but their eyes strayed to funghi; when you showed them the funghi they inquired about biscuits: “I wish to take home a small present,” they told you. In the end, as like as not, they bought cheese. There were people who never fancied anything handy, anything that lived low down: “Let me see that honey up there,” they would say, pointing; “no, not this⁠—that honey up there, if you please, I think it looks fresher than this.” There were people who believed in always being friendly, no matter how busy you were. They usually arrived when the shop was quite full, and engaged you in long conversations about nothing⁠—but they always counted their change. There were people who seemed unable to see you, who looked over your head at Fabio or Teresa. You leant across the counter in your most approved manner: “Are you being served?” you inquired politely, but they answered: “I think I’ll wait, thank you.” But the worst kind of people were those who did see you, and appeared to be amused at what they saw. These people made you nervous as you struggled with their parcels or tried to make out their bills. They would thank you profusely with mock gravity, they might even tweak your ear, and they frequently called you objectionable names like “Kiddie,” “My lad,” or “Infant.” After such people left you began to grow downwards, you began to get smaller and smaller. In the end your head barely reached above the counter⁠—at least, that was the way you felt.

On the whole, however, you enjoyed serving people; you could study them while you served. You realized quite soon that you never knew people until you began to serve them.

V

During Gian-Luca’s two years at the shop, he learnt about all sorts of things. England was busily fighting the Boers, so Gian-Luca learnt a little about war, and a little about Death, from hearsay. The Boer War in no way affected his people, it scarcely even touched their trade; but into Old Compton Street there crept a sense of sadness⁠—Rosa was constantly wiping her eyes for the mothers she did not know. He learnt about Teresa, and in place of his love there grew up an aloof respect. He saw her as she was when she stood at the helm, hardheaded, closefisted, fearless in business, with a kind of genius for affairs. He learnt about Fabio; about his little fears, his weariness, his sense of growing old, the pains in his back that made him think of God, that God who was part of the pains in his back, but never quite a part of Fabio. And Gian-Luca, very young, very strong, and very gallant as he seized the long knife and sliced the salame, began to pity Fabio and, in pitying, despised him⁠—as is sometimes the way of youth.

All his life he had seen packing-cases arrive, and had often watched Fabio unpack them. But never before had he quite understood the full significance of all those large cases, that now arrived in their hundreds. There were certainly more than there used to be, and this fact was rather exciting; for in each was a smell or a series of smells, a taste or a series of tastes. Every case contained something that someone would eat, an astonishing quantity when seen all together, and this meant that the whole world was always hungry⁠—incredibly hungry, preposterously hungry, ready and eager to consume every morsel that Teresa and her kind could produce. He found this thought amusing; he would look at a cheese and begin to speculate about it: “I wonder who you will go to,” he would think; “I wonder whose palate you will tickle.” He visualized millions of red, gaping caverns, into which must be poured something pleasing to the taste. “We are right who take up this business,” he would think; “they could never get on without us!” And then there would come a sense of secureness, he would feel less alone in the world.

VI

Gian-Luca still went to the Free Library, and this surprised the Librarian. “I should think you’d have no time for reading,” he remarked, “now that you’re such a man of business. I should think that you must feel rather bored with books, considering there’s no money in them⁠—”

“What has that got to do with it?” inquired Gian-Luca, staring at him in surprise; for at this time he was very much a Latin; he kept two distinct Gian-Lucas, one for beauty, one for business, and so far they had never collided.

“I can’t make you out,” said the puzzled Librarian; “it’s so queer that you like books at all.”

“Rocca likes music,” Gian-Luca told him, “he goes to the gallery at Covent Garden; Rocca is mad about opera!”

“And who is Rocca?” inquired the Librarian. “He sounds very hard, somehow.”

“Rocca’s our butcher, he used to be a soldier. When he was a little boy he knew Garibaldi,” said Gian-Luca, defending Rocca.

“Ah, well,” smiled the Librarian, “it’s a very large world, there must surely be room for us all⁠—Come and see me some day, I live in Putney; perhaps you could come to tea?”

“It would have to be a Sunday,” Gian-Luca told him gravely. “I am very busy all the week⁠—”

“That will do; you can come next Sunday at four⁠—I will show you my own special books. What would you like for tea⁠—Chelsea buns? Or do you prefer Swiss roll?”

“I prefer Swiss roll, apricot,” said Gian-Luca.

“I will tell my wife,” promised the Librarian.

VII

Gian-Luca arrived at the Librarian’s house punctually at four the next Sunday. Fabio had laughed when bidding him goodbye:

“It seems you make new English friends, piccino. Now I have never been the friend of a Librarian, though perhaps I may have fed one⁠—it may be so⁠—unless they eat only books!”

The Librarian lived in