The Call of the Blood - Page 181/317

"Where's the wine?" he called to Gaspare. "Wine, cameriere, wine!"

"You must not drink wine with the pasta, signorino!" cried Gaspare. "Only

afterwards, with the vitello."

"Have you ordered vitello? Capital! But I've finished my pasta and I'm

thirsty. Well, what do you want to buy at the auction, Gaspare, and you,

Amedeo, and you Salvatore?"

He plunged into the talk and made Salvatore show his keen desires,

encouraging and playing with his avarice, now holding it off for a

moment, then coaxing it as one coaxes an animal, stroking it, tempting it

to a forward movement. The wine went round now, for the vitello was on

the table, and the talk grew more noisy, the laughter louder. Outside,

too, the movement and the tumult of the fair were increasing. Cries of

men selling their wares rose up, the hard melodies of a piano-organ, and

a strange and ecclesiastical chant sung by three voices that, repeated

again and again, at last attracted Maurice's attention.

"What's that?" he asked of Gaspare. "Are those priests chanting?"

"Priests! No, signore. Those are the Romani."

"Romans here! What are they doing?"

"They have a cart decorated with flags, signorino, and they are selling

lemon-water and ices. All the people say that they are Romans and that is

how they sing in Rome."

The long and lugubrious chant of the ice-venders rose up again, strident

and melancholy as a song chanted over a corpse.

"It's funny to sing like that to sell ices," Maurice said. "It sounds

like men at a funeral."

"Oh, they are very good ices, signorino. The Romans make splendid ices."

Turkey followed the vitello.

Maurice's guests were now completely at ease and perfectly happy. The

consciousness that all this was going to be paid for, that they would not

have to put their hands in their pockets for a soldo, warmed their hearts

as the wine warmed their bodies. Amedeo's long, white face was becoming

radiant, and even Salvatore softened towards the Inglese. A sort of

respect, almost furtive, came to him for the wealth that could carelessly

entertain this crowd of people, that could buy clocks, chairs, donkeys at

pleasure, and scarcely know that soldi were gone, scarcely miss them. As

he attacked his share of the turkey vigorously, picking up the bones with

his fingers and tearing the flesh away with his white teeth, he tried to

realize what such wealth must mean to the possessor of it, an effort

continually made by the sharp-witted, very poor man. And this wealth--for

the moment some of it was at his command! To ask to-day would be to have.

Instinctively he knew that, and felt like one with money in the bank. If

only it might be so to-morrow and for many days! He began to regret the

limit, almost to forget the sound of the laughter of the Catania

fishermen upon the steps of the church of Sant' Onofrio. His pride was

going to sleep, and his avarice was opening its eyes wider.