VIII
When Gian-Luca was conscripted in the June of that year he was conscious of a great relief; thankful that the moment had arrived at last when he no longer had any choice in the matter.
He said to Maddalena: “I am ready to go, I am ready to fight side by side with the English. There have been days lately when I have felt that I must fight. As a woman you may not understand; it is something that lies hidden in all men, I think—a kind of primitive instinct.”
And she answered: “I am only a woman, amore, and my heart is terribly afraid—and yet I am glad to think that you go—so perhaps I do understand.”
Then his mind became practical again from long habit, and he smiled contentedly at her: “I have managed to make certain of my job before going, my job will be waiting for me when I come back. I am lucky, for now I can go to the war with Millo tucked away in my pocket; he will never forget the work I have done, what the Doric owes to Gian-Luca.”
But a few days later he was greatly disturbed to find himself placed in the Army Service Corps. They said that with so much experience as a waiter, he might prove very useful to them.
“This is not what I want at all,” he protested. “I wish to go out and fight.”
“Everyone must go where they are most useful now,” was all the reply he got.
“If you had your little fancies why didn’t you enlist in the early days?” inquired a comrade-in-arms. “In the early days a man could pick and choose, now it’s just: ‘Do as you’re told.’ ” And he added, “But you’re not an Englishman, are you? Aren’t you an Italian or something?”
“Whatever I am, I am good enough to fight,” said Gian-Luca, flushing darkly.
“Well, don’t lose your shirt!” advised his acquaintance. “When we’re all out in France you can get yourself transferred.”
“Can I?” inquired Gian-Luca eagerly.
“Yes, of course, it’s easy enough out there.”
Gian-Luca’s spirits began to revive, and he made a joke of the thing to Maddalena. “Of course it is all nonsense!” he told her laughing; “I shall get transferred quite easily, they say. I am young and strong, they have only to see me.” And then he surveyed himself gravely in the glass, passing his hands down his slim, wiry flanks, thumping his broad, deep chest.
Maddalena hid the joy in her heart—her heart that had been so terribly afraid—and because she was a woman who loved very greatly, she sent up a quick little prayer to the Madonna that Gian-Luca might never get transferred. For most of that night she prayed to the Madonna and now every morning and evening she would pray, for this seemed like a sign of God’s infinite mercy.
Gian-Luca went off to his training in high spirits, so sure did he feel of his transfer. As the camp was near London he got home fairly often, and Maddalena marveled at the new gayness of him, he seemed to have grown so much younger. He would stroll about smoking the traditional Gold Flake, making fun of his duties in the Army Service Corps.
“It is not precisely the Doric!” he told her, and then he laughed, remembering the food, “and yet it is rather like, too—,” he added, “and that is what makes it so funny. However, I shall not remain long at this job, there is other work waiting out there in France.”
He was thoughtful and gentle with her at this time, considering her plans in his absence. “You had better stay here where you are,” he advised. “You will have the separation allowance, but in any case there is plenty of money tucked away for you at the bank.”
“But that is for your future,” she protested, astonished. “That is our nest-egg for your restaurant.”
“The future will take care of itself,” he said glibly. “Be saving, of course, but meanwhile you must live; I do not want to think of your going without things—there is plenty of money at the bank.”
One day he strolled into the public library and there he found the Librarian. He had not seen him now for nearly a year.
“Hallo!” said Gian-Luca, then he stopped abruptly—the Librarian’s hair was quite white.
The Librarian said: “So you are in khaki? Have you made up your mind to go?”
“The Government made it up for me,” smiled Gian-Luca.
“Oh, of course,” said the Librarian. “Conscription—I forgot.”
He looked very small as he stood at his desk, the more so as he now stooped badly.
“What news of your sons?” Gian-Luca inquired.
“No news—” said the Librarian. “They can’t send me news now.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were killed six months ago within a week of each other.”
There ensued a painful interval of silence, then Gian-Luca stammered: “I am sorry.”
“Oh, yes—and I am sorry too,” said his friend. “After all, I did love them better than books—does that surprise you, Gian-Luca?” He did not seem to expect an answer, for he went on to talk about the war. He discussed it as though it were some curious volume whose contents had left him bewildered. “I do try, but I can’t understand it—” he said. “Why must human beings do such things? A lovely world—a wonderful world—and all broken up and trodden to pieces—yet when my two boys said they wished to enlist, it was I who encouraged them to go. It was I who felt a deep hatred of the Germans—a far deeper hatred than either of my sons—my sons went out from a sense of duty, but I would have gone to kill—and that’s funny too, in a man of my sort who has spent all his life among peaceful things like books.”
“But I feel as you do!” Gian-Luca said quickly. “Surely we must all feel as you do.”
“Yet now I don’t hate any more—” said the Librarian, “because they have killed both my sons, I can’t hate—that seems very queer to me—”
“It is queer,” thought Gian-Luca. “He is suffering from shock.” And as soon as he could he made his escape; that white hair had begun to depress him. “I must go,” he said suddenly, holding out his hand. “I am only on very short leave.”
“Well, God bless you—” muttered the little Librarian, and he turned again to his books.