III
Strange days; Gian-Luca himself thought them strange, filled as they were with new excitements; indeed, when he finally had to go to school it seemed rather flat by comparison. He was naughty at school, but not really very naughty, there being no Nonna there to see, and on the whole he liked it, there were lots of other children; not small, fat, silly children like Rosa’s ugly Berta, but large, thin, clever children like himself.
It had been arranged to send him to the Board School, which was undenominational and took all creeds alike—only Gian-Luca had no creed. Beyond Scripture lessons therefore, which left him rather cold, his mind was quite undisturbed by doctrine. Teresa shrugged her shoulders.
“Can it matter either way?”
“I am not quite sure—” said Fabio doubtfully.
“In that case I will judge, and I say it cannot matter.”
And as usual Teresa decided.
Fabio was rather tired, life was tiring him a little, and the business was growing every day. He had long since ceased to take an active part in his religion, that had been the duty of Teresa in the past; religious forms were made, he felt, for women. Teresa’s secession from the Church had grieved and shocked him, he had grown to depend on her prayers. He suspected that Teresa’s prayers had been both loud and fierce, the kind that would be heard for the sake of peace alone, if for no other reason. Fabio could not pray like that; perhaps he lacked conviction, he had always been a shy and doubtful man; it had solaced him, however, to know that his Teresa stood up to God and asked for what they wanted. At times, of course, Teresa prayed only for herself, as when she knelt beside the bed demanding God’s forgiveness. She had done continual penance, and so, via her, had Fabio; and although this had contributed to wearing down his manhood, at the same time it had brought him more in touch with God, by proxy; that is with Teresa’s God. Left to find God for himself, by reason of Teresa’s disaffection, he could only grope for something that was kind; something that was softer and more loving than Teresa, something that would understand his needs. Freed from her religious spells he no longer liked her God, though the fact that he disliked Him made him fearful. He felt angry with Teresa, who had thus disturbed his peace, who had suddenly left him in the lurch. So, partly in anger, partly in pity, and a little in superstition, Fabio had baptized Gian-Luca. It had been his final act of defiance against Teresa, there would never be another—not now.
Fabio had grown much older—it was Olga’s death that had aged him—this winter he had suffered from pains across his back. The pains had been lumbago, or so the doctor said, and when they caught him, Fabio had some ado to move, had just to stand quite still and call Teresa. For some reason the lumbago would make him think of God. God—lumbago, lumbago—God; that was how it came to Fabio.
“I do believe He is kind—” thought Fabio in self-pity, clinging to the counter in acute distress.
He was frightened when he thought of God, and when he got lumbago he was even more frightened of the pain across his back—that, no doubt, was why he coupled them together.
There had been a final argument about Gian-Luca’s school, when Fabio, lying prostrate with red flannel round his middle, had suggested that they might consult a priest.
“That I will not,” said Teresa. “You may if you wish, my Fabio, but the time is short, the child must go next week.”
“Corpo di Dio!” bellowed Fabio, who had tried to move in bed, and whose face was bedewed with agony. “I care not what you do—only bring my liniment! I care not where you send him, so you rub me!”