But Aunt Tatàna—ah, she loved him! She washed and brushed and dressed him; she taught him prayers and the precepts of King Solomon. She took him to church, and gave him nice things to eat, and let him sleep with her. Little by little Anania gave her his affection. In a short time he was another boy. He grew fat and gave himself airs; he had forgotten his rough Fonni costume, and wore a nice little suit of dark fustian. He acquired the Nuoro accent, and was knowing and sharp like Bustianeddu.
Yet his little heart remained unchanged. It could not change. Dreams of flight, of adventure, of wondrous accidents, were blended in his childish soul with nostalgic yearning for his native place, for the people and the things he knew, for the liberty he had enjoyed, for the unkind mother who had become to him an object of pity and of shame. Though he was better off, the little wild creature suffered under the dislocation of all his habits. He wanted he knew not what. He thought he wanted his mother—because everyone had a mother! because to have lost his mother was not so much grief as humiliation. He understood that his mother could not be with the olive-miller, because he had another wife; well, then, he would rather be left with his mother. He belonged to her; perhaps also he instinctively felt her the weaker and became her champion.
As time passed, all these thoughts, these instincts grew fainter, but they did not disappear from his little soul; so also her physical image was transformed in his memory, never obliterated.
One day he learned something unexpected about Bustianeddu, whose friendship he had so far endured rather than courted.
"My mother's not dead," said this boy, almost boastingly, "she's away on the continent like yours. She ran away one time when my father was in prison. When I'm grown up, I'll go and find her. I swear it. I've an uncle on the continent too. He's a schoolmaster. He wrote that he'd seen my mother in a street and was going to beat her, but the people held him off. It was my uncle gave me this red cap."
This story was quite comforting to Anania, and drew him into intimacy with Bustianeddu. For years they were companions, at the olive-mill, in the streets, beside Aunt Tatàna's fire. Bustianeddu was much the age of Zuanne, Anania's lost brother. At bottom he was warmhearted and generous. He said he attended school; but often the schoolmaster asked the boy's father for his invisible pupil. The father was a small dealer in skins and fleeces; when these inquiries reached him, he tied his son up with a rope of undressed leather, locked him in, and bade him learn his lessons. Like older criminals, Bustianeddu came out of prison more reckless and cunning than before. But his father was often away from home; and then the boy, weighted with responsibility, became very serious. He swept the house, washed the linen, cooked the dinner. Anania was delighted to help him. In return Bustianeddu gave him advice and taught him many things good and evil. They were often at the olive-mill where "Big Anania" (so called to distinguish him from his son) worked for his master the rich Signor Daniele Carboni. Big Anania called Signor Carboni "Master," because he had served him for years—as olive-miller, field-labourer, gardener, vine-dresser, according to season; he was, however, very independent, and his work though well paid was not without its risks.
On one side of the olive-mill was the courtyard through which Anania had entered that first night; on the other a garden which sloped down to the high road. It was a beautiful garden, partly orchard, partly wild, with rocky boulders among which straggled bushes of white thorn, Indian figs, almond trees, and peaches. There was one oak tree with rugged stem, harbouring nests of great locusts, caterpillars, and all sorts of birds. The garden belonged to Signor Carboni, and was the envy of all the boys in the neighbourhood. The old gardener, Uncle Pera Sa Gattu (the cat), carried a cudgel to keep them out. From this garden the strong, beautiful Nuoro girls could be seen going to the fountain, amphoras on their heads, like the women of the Bible. Uncle Pera ogled them while he sowed his peas and beans, putting three peas in each hole, and shouting to scare the sparrows.
Anania and Bustianeddu watched him from the mill window, anxious themselves to get into the sunny orchard, and waiting till the gardener should take himself off. Uncle Pera, a dried-up little man, clean-shaven, his face the colour of brick-dust, was too fond of his vegetables to desert them often. Not till nightfall did he go up to the mill to warm himself and to gossip.
This was a good olive year and the press was at work night and day. Two ettolitri of olives produced about two litri of oil. Near the door stood a tin for oil to feed the lamps of this or that Madonna; pious persons poured into it a few drops from each load of olives. All round the press the floor was crowded with barrels and tubs, with sacks of black, shining olives, with heaps of steaming refuse. The whole place was dark, hot, dirty. The cauldron was always boiling, the wheel turned by the big bay horse was always in motion, always distilling oil. The smell of the husks, though too strong, was not exactly disagreeable. The furnace sent out a fine heat, and round it in the long chilly evenings were gathered all the coldest persons of the neighbourhood. Beside the miller and his staff, five or six people came regularly. Efès Cau, once a man of means, now reduced by drink to extreme poverty, slept almost nightly at the mill, contaminating the corner where he lay, to the great annoyance of cleaner persons.
Anania and Bustianeddu sat in a corner on a heap of hot husks, amused by the talk of their elders, delighted by the absurdities of the drunken Efès.