Adam’s Breed

high⁠—you no longer sell good food⁠—that is why you grow so proud and rich, no doubt.” Sometimes Rosa appeared too, just to pass the time of day, and if it were a weekend she brought her Berta with her. Berta worked for Madame Germaine⁠—née Smith and wedded Bulgin⁠—who sold exclusive models in her shop near Wardour Street. Berta ran all the errands and took models home to clients⁠—one in every dozen costumes might, with any luck, be French. Berta was temperamental and thought she loved Gian-Luca; she was always making eyes⁠—enormous eyes. Her hair had grown more frizzy and, if possible, more black, and she wore it in a heavy pompadour. She refused to speak Italian, but had learnt a little French from the sisters at her convent school; this she tried hard to remember so that she could plague Nerone who loathed the French because about a hundred years before they had stolen those bronze stallions from St. Mark’s. For the rest she spoke in English; not the rather stilted English of Gian-Luca who had never really learnt to clip his words, but in the English of the workrooms; and she spoke it without accent, that is, of course without a foreign accent.

Gian-Luca loathed and feared her; she was always edging close, and he lived in mortal terror that one day she would kiss him. Her hand was always waiting to be squeezed or stroked or cuddled; he felt sure of this whenever he observed it. And so, when Berta came, which was as often as she could, Gian-Luca would rush back to the Capo. The bar would be deserted until the dinner-hour, still, it was at least a sanctuary from Berta.

VI

Gian-Luca dressed one morning with almost painful care; he was going to say goodbye to the Padrona. In two days’ time he would take up his new work, but this morning he was going to say goodbye. It had all seemed so queer and unreal the night before⁠—the pantry, the kitchen with its giant Moscatone, the long low restaurant, the chattering diners, the clanking of the glasses and bottles in the bar; and above all, he himself, in his shabby old dress-suit, writing orders, serving dishes, fetching drinks, striking matches. It had seemed as though his body did these duties out of habit, while he stood aside and thought of the Padrona.

The suit he wore this morning had been a present from Fabio, and very smart it was, an immaculate grey tweed.

Fabio had said: “I would not have you shabby before Millo. We wish him to observe that our little business prospers. Is that not so, Teresa?”

And she had nodded: “That is so.”

Gian-Luca stared at his reflection in the glass, and in spite of his heartache he approved of what he saw. He gave a final touch to his necktie and his hair, then, picking up his hat, he went downstairs.

“Do not be long,” called Fabio from the shop. “I must consult you⁠—I have certain business matters to discuss regarding Millo.”

Old Compton Street was foggy, there was mud on the pavement: Gian-Luca stooped and turned up his new trousers, for one part of him remembered that he wore expensive clothes. At Nerone’s door stood Rosa with her hair still done in curlers; she was shaking out a very dusty mat. She smiled broadly at Gian-Luca:

“How smart you look, piccino! What would Berta say, I wonder!” And she laughed.

Geppe peered across her shoulder, he looked spotty and unwashen. “He is lucky, not like me who have to stop at home,” he grumbled.

“Continue with your sweeping!” said Rosa, turning quickly. “You cannot have swept out half the shop.”

There were lights in Rocca’s window because it was so foggy. Rocca himself was moving in and out among his corpses. As Gian-Luca passed he saw him neatly slicing off a shoulder with a quick, experienced sweep of his knife. The whole street was very busy preparing for its business, which consisted of supplying other people’s daily needs.

“They need so much, so very much⁠—how funny!” thought Gian-Luca, who himself was only conscious of needing the Padrona.

The Padrone was waiting for him when he reached the Capo; he was in a great hurry to go out.

“Here you are!” he said impatiently, glancing at his watch. “Be good enough to sign the wages book.” Then he held out his hand, turning affable, it seemed: “Well, I wish you good fortune. I am sorry to lose you, but when one is young one must think of oneself.” The Padrone did not wish to quarrel with Fabio, it was much too convenient to deal at his shop.

“May I see the Padrona?” faltered Gian-Luca.

“Sicuro, she will want to wish you luck. Gemma!” he called. “Gian-Luca is here.”

“Let him come up,” came a voice.

“Go up,” said the Padrone, “you know the way. I have to go to the City.” He shook hands once again and turned to the door. Gian-Luca went slowly up the stairs.

The Padrona was sitting on a low settee. The firelight fell on her thick coils of hair and slanted across her averted face, which was partially shielded by her hand. She did not look round, and Gian-Luca in the doorway stood watching her in silence for a moment, then he closed the door quietly and stepped into the room.

“It is I,” he said softly. “Gian-Luca.”

She nodded; and now she was looking at him, smiling very kindly, he thought. “I hope you will be happy, Gian-Luca,” she said, and then fell silent again.

A coal crashed into the grate and lay there smoking; the Padrona pushed it with her foot. Outside in the passage a cuckoo clock struck nine; the small, childish sound of it seemed to fill the room. Gian-Luca’s strange eyes were very wide open, his breath came a little fast. As he stood there he could hear the beating of his heart, he could hear the Padrona’s breathing. Then he drew himself up, he felt suddenly strong,