The pasta was followed by bacon and figs—an unexpectedly delicious combination; the bacon is uncooked and cut very thin, the figs are fresh and ripe, but it would not do in England because, although one could probably find the bacon in Soho, our figs never attain to Sicilian ripeness. Carmelo then surpassed himself with a pollo alla cacciatora, after which we had a mixed fry of all sorts of fish. Peaches out of the garden and cheese followed. Also we drank Peppino’s own wine made from the grapes he had planted with his own hands and trodden with his own feet, and there was coffee with the cigarettes.
I said: “I did not know Carmelo was a cook, I thought he was a coachman.”
“Also is he a cook. Also the nurse of Ricuzzu. Also a waiter. Very good boy Carmelo. We took him when Letterio went away.”
“And Brancaccia is not afraid to have him as Ricuzzu’s nurse?”
“Afraid? No. Why?”
“Because he has been in prison for stabbing his friend.”
“Oh yes, in prison. But his friend was a bad man, was taking away Carmelo’s girl.”
“Did the friend marry Carmelo’s girl?”
“Yes, and Carmelo got another girl. Plenty girls very fond of Carmelo. Look here, the girls always are liking the boy that has been in prison.”
“Yes; well, of course, one can understand that. By the by, what was that about the girl who went to confess?”