Mario still bragged when Gian-Luca would listen—yes he actually still had the face to brag! Even after eight months of daily revelations, he continued to weave romances. Gian-Luca would stare incredulously at him, finding no adequate words; feeling hot and uncomfortable all down his spine, blushing with embarrassment for him. Then gradually a light began to dawn on Gian-Luca, though he tried to turn away his eyes; with a terribly clear vision he perceived the truth—Mario bragged from self-abasement; Mario had long ago realized himself, and he lied from the humility of failure.
“But a man should not fail,” thought Gian-Luca sternly. “Who has got the time for failures?”
Meanwhile he could not help glowing a little with the knowledge of his own success. The Padrone was pleased; he could see that by his fingers which now seldom signaled to him. Poems were all very well, thought Gian-Luca, for those who wished to stay poor—he knew a poet now who fed at the Capo, that was when he fed at all. He was always hungry and he never washed his neck, and moreover, he seldom paid his bills.
“Sapristi!” the Padrone would grumble when he saw him. “I am stupid to give that vile little worm credit; but he knows those of Chelsea, some that are famous, and they are the people I want. They shall come to the Capo and paint pictures on my walls, and eat foolish dry birds like peacocks. I shall make them believe that the peacocks strut in with their tails spread out: I shall say: ‘If only you had seen him, how he walked round the kitchen, so lovely, so elegant, only this morning!’ And then they will think that he tastes all the better; I know them; they like a sensation.”
So the poet got credit from time to time, but from time to time he did not; and when he came back with some money in his pockets he would usually be looking rather thin. He said to Gian-Luca:
“You’re a handsome boy, why don’t you go as a model? I can get you taken on by Munster, if you like; he’s looking for a sort of John the Baptist.”
“What would he pay me?” inquired Gian-Luca promptly.
“That depends on his circumstances. When he’s flush he pays well; otherwise, my true Italian, he might pay you nothing at all.”
“Then I think I am better where I am,” smiled Gian-Luca, “for some day I shall be a headwaiter.”
“Oh, summit of all ambition!” sighed the poet, who was picking a cutlet bone.
Gian-Luca surveyed him with patient eyes; he forgave much in one who was so hungry. There were not many people, for the luncheon hour was past, so he talked to the poet a little.
“You write poetry, do you not?” he said politely.
The young man looked up in feigned surprise. “Is it possible that my fame gets abroad?” he inquired. “Yes, I write, and I read too beautifully aloud—my own poems, of course; other people’s are so dull. I’ll send you my latest production, if you like, because I adore your profile. Only beautiful people are allowed to read my book; I’ve stated that clearly in the preface.”
But the book was never sent, for the poet went to Paris, owing ten pounds to the Padrone.
“No,” thought Gian-Luca, “I do not think I will write poems; I do not think I will try any more.”
II
The Padrone liked Gian-Luca so well that he went in person to see Fabio. “I hear that you are cheap,” was how he began. “Now suppose I should give you an order?”
“We are cheaper than cheap,” said Fabio promptly, “and we only sell of the best.”
“That remains to be seen,” said the Padrone suspiciously. “I have heard that story before.”
Now Fabio was mild, but the mildest Italian responds like an old warhorse to a bugle when he senses the battle of a bargain. Fabio’s eyes began to shine in anticipation, and he rubbed his plump hands on his apron.
“I am likely to require twelve dozen tins of tomatoes,” the Padrone announced with unction. “On so large an order what discount do I get? My order depends on the discount.”
“Is that all?” exclaimed Fabio. “So insignificant an order—will you not be requiring paste?”
“That is as it may be,” grinned the Padrone. “Let us first come to terms for the tomatoes.”
“Shall we say two percent, for cash?” inquired Fabio.
“Per Bacco! No!” shouted the Padrone.
“That is generous,” remarked Fabio in a rising crescendo.
“It is robbery!” retorted the Padrone.
They argued, they glared, they thumped on the counter, bringing strange but explicit accusations. One would have thought that blows were in the offing, so fierce were their faces and their gestures. As a matter of fact they were fast becoming friends, acquiring a mutual respect. In the end they retired to the room behind the shop and opened a bottle of wine.
“Salute!” smiled Fabio.
“Felicita!” bowed the Padrone, lifting his glass with an air. “Tomorrow we deliver without fail,” promised Fabio. “Do not incommode yourself unduly, Signor Boselli; tomorrow will be good, but a day more or less—”
“I thank you for your courtesy,” beamed Fabio.
III
In the course of a week came the beautiful Padrona to pay her respects to Teresa. Teresa surveyed her with critical eyes, not at all
