III
That evening Rosa came in to supper, bringing her Berta and Geppe. Berta was now nearly ten years old; her locks as stiff and as black as horsehair—they were tied up with pale pink ribbon. Berta had enormous, flashing brown eyes, and large round calves to her legs. She was wearing a number of silver bangles and a pair of minute coral earrings. Berta was already decidedly feminine—she looked at Gian-Luca, who was reading, and she frowned. Presently she went up and snatched at his book, then she darted away as though frightened.
Gian-Luca felt unfriendly. “Get out!” he muttered. “Get out and leave me alone!”
At that Berta ran and complained to her mother. “He has pinched me!” she whined mendaciously.
“What is the matter with Gian-Luca?” inquired Rosa. “I think he has a devil on his back! Why will he not show his book to Berta? When she asked him so prettily, too!”
Geppe, as always, was busy sucking something, and what he sucked oozed down on to his chin. He looked like his father—very red, very black—and he clung to his mother’s hand with the persistence and the vigor of an octopus. Rosa made as though to disengage her hand whereupon Geppe started to howl.
“He is timid,” said Rosa, smiling round the room, “and moreover he adores his Mammina.” She lifted her son to a chair at the table, then seated herself beside him. Having tied a large napkin under his chin—“You must eat, tesoro!” she commanded.
The supper consisted of a cake of polenta, pastasciutta, a salad, some gruyère cheese, and a stout fiaschone of Chianti. Berta was greedy and kept asking for more—Geppe was greedy but he took without asking.
“Com’è carino,” laughed Rosa, beaming at him. “Com’è carino, il mio maschiotto!”
Geppe choked himself and in consequence was sick, so when Rosa had carefully wiped his chin, she gave him a drink of Chianti and water, by way of settling his stomach. They all went on eating; Fabio chewed his salad with the sound of a mule munching beans. At the head of the table sat Teresa with her knitting; from time to time she would put down her fork in order to knit off a row.
“Mario is suffering from his joint,” announced Rosa. “It is very swollen and red.”
“He should rub it with soap,” Fabio muttered, with his mouth full. “They say that soap hardens the skin.”
“The chemist gave us iodine and a plaster, but I think that the plaster draws.”
“Soap!” repeated Fabio. “I believe in soap! Myself I have got tender feet.”
“No doubt you are right. I will surely tell Mario—poor fellow, his new shoes pinch. It is difficult to find any shoes to fit him, unless we make slits for the swelling.” Rosa sighed, “He cannot move quickly enough, and that is bad for a waiter; a waiter should always get about quickly, especially when clients are hungry!”
“It is good that they are hungry,” said Teresa, looking up. “We gain money by way of their stomachs.”
“That is so,” laughed Fabio, cutting himself some cheese. “That is how we are able to fill our own stomachs.”
“A boy at Geppe’s school has got pidocchi in his head,” chirped Berta, licking her fingers. “I think that Geppe will get them too, and if he gets pidocchi, perhaps I may catch them—I do not wish to catch them, they tickle.”
“Be not so silly, tesoro,” smiled Rosa. “I am sure that you will not get pidocchi. Mamma will comb your hair every day; that will make it beautifully shiny.”
“Scema!” spluttered Geppe. “I have not got pidocchi, and if I get them I will give them to you. I will rub my head against yours!”
“Then I will scratch you,” said Berta firmly, and proceeded to put the threat into action.
There ensued a deafening shriek from Geppe, and a mild-voiced protest from Rosa.
“The good Saint Berta will not love you if you scratch,” she reminded her elder offspring.
“Give me some Chianti,” said Berta, quite unmoved. “I am thirsty; give me some Chianti!”
Fabio filled her glass with red wine and water, which she drank in a series of gulps.
“It is excellent Chianti,” murmured Fabio thoughtfully, “the best I have tasted in years.”
“The price of pasta has gone up,” remarked Teresa; “I blame the Italian Government for that.”
“If it rises much more we are ruined,” sighed Fabio, who, being replete, could afford to be gloomy.
“Mario’s Padrone is buying French pasta, because of the rise,” Rosa told them disapprovingly; “but I myself do not think that is right. After all, the Padrone is Italian!”
“One must live as one can,” Teresa retorted, “and the English will eat it just the same.”
“That is so,” agreed Rosa. “The English are stupid; my father thinks them very stupid.”
The meal finished, they wiped their mouths on their napkins and Fabio fetched a cigar.
“Even tobacco has risen,” he grumbled, burning his fingers with a match.
“Everything is always rising,” frowned Teresa, “but Fabio and I will rise with it. For those who have got the will to succeed there is nearly always a way. Our business grows, we have not enough room; soon we must hire a new shop.”
“That is your fine business head,” Rosa told her. “I sometimes think that my Mario’s is less fine, but then he is always so patient and kind, and moreover he suffers with his bunion.”
“Nerone should buy him a business of his own,” grunted Fabio. “I will speak with him about it.”
“That I fear he will never do,” sighed Rosa. “However, we are very well off as we are—the children have plenty to eat …”