Gian-Luca watched Mario with the bright, alert eyes of a dog who expects an order; he was anxious to study the celebrated manner that Mario employed to the clients. Mario had said: “You assert yourself, but with grace—you expatiate on the food.” And Gian-Luca, who was there on his first day to learn, waited, growing ever more anxious. He remembered all the things that Mario had said about tempting the appetite; his words regarding the handling of dishes—only that morning he had spoken of a flourish, and remarked that a plate should appear out of space, quickly but without noise. He had begged Gian-Luca to watch all his movements, and not only to watch but to copy—and yet now Mario was doing none of these things, and moreover he was making a noise. Schmidt, on the other hand, could carry four dishes and two plates with never a sound, but when Mario did likewise the pyramid slipped; and once a truly dreadful thing happened, for Mario upset a large dish of salad right on to the shoulder of a client. Gian-Luca dashed forward to the rescue with his napkin, but he only rubbed in the mayonnaise; the client, a fat business man, objected; the Padrone was called to apologize, and Mario, pale, with goggling eyes, stood there doing nothing at all. Of course after that Mario may have been nervous, for a number of small things happened; an irate lady was given a chop when her order had been for chicken; a coffee cup was broken; some clients were kept waiting unduly long for their food.
“I say, look here, waiter, we can’t sit here all day; do hurry up with that mutton!”
And Mario was dumb—that was what was so dreadful, he neither protested nor cajoled. And he hobbled; the more impatient they grew the more ostentatiously he hobbled. There was peace at Schmidt’s tables, comparative peace; but Mario was having a bad day.
“Perhaps,” thought Gian-Luca, “he watches the Padrone too much, and that makes him careless.”
The Padrone was certainly well worth watching, for his strange sign-language was now in full swing; he appeared to be spelling things out on his fingers as though they were all deaf and dumb. From time to time his sallow cheeks would swell as though about to burst, and this happened whenever Mario went near him, and yet he remained quite speechless. The Padrone’s silence was more terrifying than the explosion of a bomb, for one felt that he must be gathering force for what was to come later on. Possibly Mario was feeling this too, for his face looked worried and pale.
“Via! Do not get under my feet!” he kept hissing in Gian-Luca’s ear.
There were far too many plates and dishes for the lift, and in consequence much running up and down to and from the kitchen.
“Can you not help?” whispered Mario furiously, turning to glare at Gian-Luca.
“What must I do?” Gian-Luca whispered back.
“Why, take all those dishes to the scullery, and on your way up bring a basket of rolls, and I want some more clean knives and forks.”
“Und I vant four coffee and fasti,” ordered Schmidt. “You hurry und bring me at once.”
“Gian-Luca,” came the Padrona’s soft voice, “go and get me a few clean glasses.”
It was almost as though as Mario’s first protest, a spell had been suddenly broken. Now the orders poured in on Gian-Luca like hail; hitherto he had not been asked to assist, being there on his first day to learn.
“Hallo, boy! Can you give me a match?” said a young man, and proceeded to hold out a cigar.
“Send me that waiter; I’ve asked for my bill!” came a voice from the opposite table.
Up and downstairs with armfuls of dishes, with glasses, with coffee, with ices, went Gian-Luca. He had no time to observe Mario’s methods and he felt that this might be just as well. His arms ached from the weight of the large metal trays, his legs ached from the steep kitchen stairs, his head ached from a superhuman effort to remember, not one thing, but more like a dozen. In the kitchen Moscatone had returned to bad temper, and he almost threw the food at Gian-Luca. The man who washed up in the vault-like pantry would keep sending messages to the Padrone—of a kind that could not be repeated. Whenever this happened Gian-Luca snatched his plates and tried hard to pretend not to hear; then the man who washed up got offended with Gian-Luca and called him an insolent, bandy-legged puppy, and many less complimentary things.
At half-past three there were still people eating, just two little inconsiderate groups; or rather not eating, but chewing the cud, a habit that all waiters learn to dread very early in their careers. At half-past four Gian-Luca got his luncheon, which consisted of odds and ends; he shared them with Schmidt and the now sulky Mario who refused to speak or to look up. But the odds and ends were both plentiful and good, and Schmidt and Mario had each a glass of beer wherewith to enliven their spirits. After gobbling their food they all got up stiffly and went to the door for some air. Presently Mario decided to go home for a little, while Schmidt went out for a stroll; but Gian-Luca, feeling work-tired for the first time in his life, preferred to remain at the Capo.
V
That evening Mario acquitted himself better; Rosa had managed to cheer him up, and when he came back he was looking almost playful.
“Ah, Gian-Luca,” he said very brightly, as they washed their hands together at the sink, “and what do you think of the Capo di Monte? Is it not rather
