“How old is this little fellow?”
“Thirteen.”
I glanced at him and saw by his smile of expansive
friendliness that he was pleased to be the subject of our conversation.
“What do you call him?”
“Totò.”
I took my knife off the breakfast table and imitating Giovanni, as well as I could, handed it to the big waiter saying:
“For Don Totò when he shall be eighteen years old.”
This was perhaps wrong, it was certainly risky to play with edged tools in this way in a country where one ought not to give a handkerchief as a ricordo lest one should be supposed to be intending to pass the tears it contains. But I assumed he had seen the play and, although the quotation was not exact, expected him to recognise it, instead of which he was furious with me:
“You are not to do that. Totò is a very good boy and I shall not accept the knife.”