I + 

By the time that Gian-Luca was eleven years old, the resentment felt against the Bosellis for their choice of a school had all but disappeared. It could not well be otherwise; people still deplored it, but Fabio and Teresa were cogs in the machine that turned out the happenings of everyday life for the little group of exiles. And then, there was Fabio’s salumeria, no one could get on without his wares⁠—the sausages, the paste, the rich yellow oil, the straw-covered bottles of Chianti; nor could they get on without Fabio himself⁠—Fabio always so mild and friendly, with his halo of rough, grey hair. He had shown no resentment at their criticism, indeed he had seemed to feel that it was just; on the other hand, he had taken no steps to undo his grievous error. Against such humble but stubborn placidity the storm had raged in vain; now it had practically beaten itself out, and Fabio, Teresa, and the young Gian-Luca were once more at peace with their neighbors. + 

To this happy and desirable state of affairs Gian-Luca himself contributed not a little; people liked him, he was amiable and good on the whole. + 

“Can it be,” they murmured, “that the English Board School is not so infernal after all?” + 

Certainly Gian-Luca was not at all infernal, his temper was less violent than it had been. His manners were no worse than those of other children, indeed, they were rather better; he shone by comparison with Rosa’s son, Geppe⁠—a turbulent creature of six years old, born just before Gian-Luca’s first term at school. Moreover, Gian-Luca was a handsome child; he was slim and tall for his age. His hair had retained its ashen fairness, and grew low on his forehead from a little cap-like peak⁠—the boys made fun of this at school. His mouth was well modelled, but the underlip protruded slightly; a willful mouth, a mouth that might some day harden to endeavor or soften to dissipation. He was pale, with that curious southern pallor that turns to bronze in the sun. His hands were long-fingered and strong, like Teresa’s, but more firmly and delicately fashioned. + 

People whispered together: “He is beautiful, Gian-Luca, but not with the beauty of Olga Boselli.” + 

And their pleasure in his beauty was another ground for kindness; did they not spring from the race that had bred Donatello, Verrocchio, and the Della Robbias? + 

One thing only in Gian-Luca could they find to resent⁠—he seemed to them strangely aloof. They could not be certain of what he was thinking⁠—his eyes gave no clue to his thoughts. Other children looked tearful, or merry, or greedy, or sly, as the case might be; but Gian-Luca’s expression was calm and distant⁠—he always seemed to be staring through people at something they had not perceived. + 

“What are you staring at?” Nerone would grumble. “Dio! One would think that you knew me by now! Is it that you find me so handsome a fellow? Or is it that you look at something beyond me⁠—and if so what do you look at?” Gian-Luca would flush with embarrassment; conscious perhaps, that in staring at Nerone his eyes had merely sought an object to rest on while his thoughts were busy elsewhere. + 

At this time in his life he was very full of thoughts⁠—almost as full as he had been when an infant⁠—only now the thoughts were more definite and hard; they came striking at his brain like so many pebbles; he could almost feel them as they struck. Two thoughts in particular had begun to obsess him; the thought of his father and the thought of his country. No one at home ever mentioned his father, he might never have had a paternal parent⁠—he began to think this was very strange. Certain awkward questions that he could not answer were occasionally asked him at school; the boys wanted to know if his father was dead, and if he had been an Italian. + 

Gian-Luca knew a little about his mother, but nothing about his father, and since every other child appeared to own a father, he supposed that he must have owned one, too, and further that his father must naturally be dead, otherwise why had he never seen him? Very well then, that was settled; his father must be dead, but he wanted to ask Fabio what to call him; a name was a very great assistance, he felt; it helped you to visualize the person⁠—meanwhile he invented a name for his father, and after a little it became so familiar that it sounded quite true when he spoke it. + 

“My father was called Leonardo,” said Gian-Luca, in reply to a question at school one day. + 

“Then you’re an Italian,” was the prompt retort. “What’s the good of pretending you’re English!” + 

And this was another thing that worried Gian-Luca, he had pretended to be English⁠—a kind of betrayal of something or someone in order to appear more like his schoolmates. This betrayal of his would haunt him at night when he lay in bed waiting for his pictures; they very seldom came now, which also disturbed him; his nights were just sleep, or those hard-little thoughts that struck against his brain like pebbles. He often heard Nerone inveighing against Fabio, for what he called “the desertion of his country.” But Gian-Luca could never understand what he meant; who could be more Italian than Fabio? Did not Fabio eat pasta and drink good red wine that came in big cases from Italy? As for Gian-Luca, it was only when at school that he ever thought of being English; he was lonely at school, they left him out of things⁠—and moreover they called him “Macaroni.” + 

Fabio had taken to remarking lately: “You grow so very English, Gian-Luca.” + 

And Teresa would say: “You speak now as they do, you will soon have a Cockney accent.” + 

“That is not so,” Gian-Luca would protest. “I do not like their ugly accent.” + 

Nerone would pity him: “Poor Gian-Luca, you have no Church, what a disaster!” + 

But this fact did not worry Gian-Luca in the least, what he wanted was a country, not a Church. + 

“If I am English I cannot be Italian,” he argued, bewildered and distressed, “and yet if I am English I am like the other boys⁠—then why do they leave me out of things?” He finally decided that he hated the English who always left him out of things. In spite of this, however, he made colossal efforts to model himself on their pattern; he longed with the unfailing instinct of youth to be like his companions at school. He yelled, he shoved, he kicked out his boots; if the other boys swore, Gian-Luca swore too. Whatever they did, he would follow suit, hoping against hope to win their approval. But although they liked him, it was only as a stranger who had suddenly appeared within their gates; his grandfather sold queer, outlandish foodstuffs, while Gian-Luca himself had been heard to speak Italian⁠—enough in all conscience to set him apart as a kind of unnatural freak! + 

Gian-Luca grew an outward crust of indifference, which however, did not deceive them; they suspected that underneath it he was soft, and they prodded to find the softness. He still disliked passing Rocca’s shop, and this they quickly divined. They went out of their way to make him pass it whenever occasion offered. Rocca, these days, had relays of kids all hanging with their heads to the pavement; he was even more prosperous than he had been, a fact that he attributed entirely to the kids⁠—he said that they had brought him luck. The boys made a habit of punching the kids for the pleasure of seeing them swing, for the pleasure also of laughing at Gian-Luca, who invariably turned a little pale. But one day Gian-Luca, in a kind of desperation, doubled up his fist and punched too. He punched until Rocca came out to protest, and even after that he still punched. + 

“Take that! And that! And that!” he spluttered, panting and white to the lips. + 

“Look at young Macaroni!” applauded the boys. “Go it, young Macaroni!” + 

Then Gian-Luca turned on them like a thing demented: “Beasts!” he yelled. “How I hate you⁠—you beasts! Porci! Sporcaccioni!” + 

And naturally after this incident there was a coldness between Gian-Luca and his schoolmates. + 