IX
There came an afternoon a few months later when the real goodbyes must be said. Gian-Luca and his wife went to Old Compton Street, where the clan had gathered itself together as it did on all momentous occasions.
Fabio wept as he kissed Gian-Luca, remembering that night many years ago when his cheek had been pressed against an unwanted child—“Little Gian-Luca come to Nonno,” he had said. So now, because he was growing very old, he must needs shed a few facile tears. Rosa was there with Berta’s twins whom she had not dared to leave at home, for like the other young things whom Rosa had cared for, the twins had become unruly. Nerone was there, with twenty-four packets of good Macedonia which he pressed upon Gian-Luca; and after a little Mario came in, then Rocca with his signora.
Nerone grumbled: “The English are slow, and as for the French, they are slower. Moreover the French stole those horses from St. Mark’s—I consider it a pity that we fight for the French. However,” he added, “it cannot be helped, and thank God we have Italy now; Italy will quickly finish up the war. Ma che! What a wonderful country!” And then he produced a snapshot of Geppe, which he carried about in his pocket. “Here is young Italy!” said Nerone proudly. “Does not the boy look magnificent?”
Rocca said: “Give them a thrust from me, a good thrust in the belly, Gian-Luca, and remember to say as your bayonet goes in: ‘This is a present from Rocca!’ ”
Mario, whose eyes were moist with emotion, dared not speak because of the lump in his throat. Teresa was silent because, since the war, she so seldom spoke at all.
In the end Rosa threw her arms round Gian-Luca and her tears splashed on his tunic, just as they had splashed long ago on to his head, spoiling his appetite for breakfast. Everyone promised to be at the station to see the troop train depart; everyone kissed Gian-Luca on both cheeks, then seized both his hands and kissed him again—all save Teresa who kissed him on the forehead, coldly, as though she kissed because she must. And at that Maddalena’s heart swelled with anger, and finding Gian-Luca’s hand she pressed it. She, who was so gentle, hated old Teresa at that moment for a woman of iron and steel, for a woman without the bowels of compassion, who all through Gian-Luca’s life had denied him.
But as they walked home together that evening, Gian-Luca said: “Listen, my Maddalena, she grows old, the Padrona of the Casa Boselli—they are very short-handed in the shop, I notice. Will you not go and help Nonna sometimes? I think she would be very glad.”
Maddalena marveled at his infinite patience, the patience that could keep him loyal to Teresa.
“I admire her so much,” he was saying thoughtfully, “she is rather a splendid old woman, I think—and what a fine head she still has for business!”
Who could deny him so simple a request? Certainly not Maddalena at that moment. “All that you wish I will do,” she promised, glancing at his calm, happy face in the lamplight—so calm, so happy, in spite of the fact that in three days’ time he would leave her.