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Authors: Alison Love
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picked up his accordion and ran nimbly down the stairs.
—
La Rondine, the restaurant where Antonio sang twice a week, was managed by a thick-necked bull of a man called Giuseppe, nicknamed Peppino, who came from Naples. He was a communist. He claimed to have fled Italy ten years before because of persecution by the
squadristi,
the fascist paramilitary gangs, although Antonio suspected that there was a more ignoble motive for his flight, a vendetta of some kind. Peppino was notorious for getting into fights. More than once Antonio had had to restrain him from throwing a punch, especially when the conversation turned to politics.
Tonight the restaurant was quiet. By ten o’clock only a pair of tables was occupied, one by a love-struck couple, the other by a group of Englishmen, scruffy but well-spoken, who were discussing the invasion of Austria in jagged excitable voices. Antonio knew that neither set of diners would welcome his warbling “Isle of Capri” in their ears.
“Perhaps I will go home,” he said to Peppino, who was standing at the bar beneath a luridly tinted photograph of the Blue Grotto. “I do not suppose there will be any more customers this evening.”
“Stay and have a drink.” Peppino spoke mournfully, expecting a refusal. He lived in a state of perpetual homesickness. Unlike the Trombettas, he could not return to Italy for a summer’s visit, and since so many of his countrymen supported Mussolini he got no pleasure from consorting with them. Even the Italian social clubs, the waiters’ cooperative, the Dante Alighieri society, were barred to him. They all held their meetings at the Casa d’Italia now, and he would not step across the threshold of that accursed building.
Peppino’s marmoset eyes touched Antonio. Besides, he did not want to go home yet. He took the grappa that Peppino gave him and swallowed it.
Peppino looked surprised. “That is not like you, my friend. What has happened? Are you grieving or celebrating?”
“You are not a married man, are you, Peppino?”
“That is the problem, is it?” Peppino reached for the bottle once more. “In that case, drink long, drink deep.”
Antonio felt the grappa shimmer through his veins. Through its haze he remembered Danila on their wedding day, fragile and shining as a piece of Venetian glass. Then he thought of how she did not like to make love in the baby’s presence, squirming in his arms, hushing him to silence. Was that how their life together would be from now on?
Behind the bar Peppino was polishing glasses with a linen cloth. For a man of his great size he had unexpectedly deft fingers. “Your wife is from Lazio too, is she?”
Antonio nodded. “She is a kind girl, a beautiful girl, I love her very much, but—I do not know—since our son was born she has changed. It is as though she thinks of herself as a mother first, and then as my wife.”
“That is what happens,” said Peppino sagely. “That is what women are like. I have heard the same story many times. You should take a mistress, my friend. English women like you. I have observed it. If I were not such a sweet-tempered man I should be jealous.” He gave Antonio a wolfish smile, revealing his large pointed canines. “I would not mind finding an English woman for myself. A plump grateful one, with a nest egg to keep us both comfortable. I’d be happy to marry her. It would be no bad thing, in my opinion, to become a British citizen.”
“What?” said Antonio. “You?”
“Why not? I cannot return to Italy. And if Mussolini continues licking Hitler’s fascist arse we’ll soon see the mood in Britain change. We Italians will no longer be harmless, friendly folk: we will be the enemy.”
“But we belong here. My family has been in London for more than seventy years.”
Peppino shrugged and drank his grappa with gloomy pleasure. “It will count for nothing, believe me. In dangerous times people favor their own kind.”
The amorous young man
—
La Rondine, the restaurant where Antonio sang twice a week, was managed by a thick-necked bull of a man called Giuseppe, nicknamed Peppino, who came from Naples. He was a communist. He claimed to have fled Italy ten years before because of persecution by the
squadristi,
the fascist paramilitary gangs, although Antonio suspected that there was a more ignoble motive for his flight, a vendetta of some kind. Peppino was notorious for getting into fights. More than once Antonio had had to restrain him from throwing a punch, especially when the conversation turned to politics.
Tonight the restaurant was quiet. By ten o’clock only a pair of tables was occupied, one by a love-struck couple, the other by a group of Englishmen, scruffy but well-spoken, who were discussing the invasion of Austria in jagged excitable voices. Antonio knew that neither set of diners would welcome his warbling “Isle of Capri” in their ears.
“Perhaps I will go home,” he said to Peppino, who was standing at the bar beneath a luridly tinted photograph of the Blue Grotto. “I do not suppose there will be any more customers this evening.”
“Stay and have a drink.” Peppino spoke mournfully, expecting a refusal. He lived in a state of perpetual homesickness. Unlike the Trombettas, he could not return to Italy for a summer’s visit, and since so many of his countrymen supported Mussolini he got no pleasure from consorting with them. Even the Italian social clubs, the waiters’ cooperative, the Dante Alighieri society, were barred to him. They all held their meetings at the Casa d’Italia now, and he would not step across the threshold of that accursed building.
Peppino’s marmoset eyes touched Antonio. Besides, he did not want to go home yet. He took the grappa that Peppino gave him and swallowed it.
Peppino looked surprised. “That is not like you, my friend. What has happened? Are you grieving or celebrating?”
“You are not a married man, are you, Peppino?”
“That is the problem, is it?” Peppino reached for the bottle once more. “In that case, drink long, drink deep.”
Antonio felt the grappa shimmer through his veins. Through its haze he remembered Danila on their wedding day, fragile and shining as a piece of Venetian glass. Then he thought of how she did not like to make love in the baby’s presence, squirming in his arms, hushing him to silence. Was that how their life together would be from now on?
Behind the bar Peppino was polishing glasses with a linen cloth. For a man of his great size he had unexpectedly deft fingers. “Your wife is from Lazio too, is she?”
Antonio nodded. “She is a kind girl, a beautiful girl, I love her very much, but—I do not know—since our son was born she has changed. It is as though she thinks of herself as a mother first, and then as my wife.”
“That is what happens,” said Peppino sagely. “That is what women are like. I have heard the same story many times. You should take a mistress, my friend. English women like you. I have observed it. If I were not such a sweet-tempered man I should be jealous.” He gave Antonio a wolfish smile, revealing his large pointed canines. “I would not mind finding an English woman for myself. A plump grateful one, with a nest egg to keep us both comfortable. I’d be happy to marry her. It would be no bad thing, in my opinion, to become a British citizen.”
“What?” said Antonio. “You?”
“Why not? I cannot return to Italy. And if Mussolini continues licking Hitler’s fascist arse we’ll soon see the mood in Britain change. We Italians will no longer be harmless, friendly folk: we will be the enemy.”
“But we belong here. My family has been in London for more than seventy years.”
Peppino shrugged and drank his grappa with gloomy pleasure. “It will count for nothing, believe me. In dangerous times people favor their own kind.”
The amorous young man
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