CHAPTER XVII
Gaudenzia, Joy of Living
Ten o'clock seemed years away. To hurry the time, Giorgio went to the public bath and gave himself a good scrubbing. He worked hard on the labyrinthian creases in his ears. Perhaps Uncle Marco had examined them for a reason.
At supper back at the Ramallis' home he ate his macaroni in a trance, almost forgetting to say "Buon appetito" beforehand. There was chocolate and strawberry ice cream for dessert, served in special honor of his departure. Absentmindedly, he mashed and melted the two colors together, toying rather than tasting.
"Is something wrong with the ice cream?" Signora Ramalli asked in concern.
For answer Giorgio quickly shoved a spoonful into his mouth. How could he explain his excitement when perhaps it would amount to nothing at all?
After supper Anna wheedled him into a game of dominoes, but his eye was on the clock more than on the counters. When at last it was time to go, he grabbed his jacket and tore down the stairs and out into the street. He ran swiftly at first; then as the lane twisted and steepened, he had to slow to a walk. Someone had forgotten to take a parrot inside. The cage hung on a balcony and its occupant screamed and scolded Giorgio as if he were to blame.
On ordinary evenings he would have talked back, but tonight nothing could delay him. He did not even peer into the cobbler's shop for memory's sake, nor into the public laundry. Nor did he stop to look through the gates to the great houses.
Tonight he flew by his landmarks as he climbed the Via Fontebranda, crossed the busy Via di Città and came out at last into the fairyland of Il Campo. He caught his breath at the contrast from the morning market. The jumbled confusion of flapping blankets and spreads and the splashing colors of fruits and vegetables, and the hawkers screaming—all this was gone. The Piazza was a shell of emptiness. High up in the palace windows the winking lights seemed faraway planets, but in the circle of shops below they burned steady and close together like a necklace of fire opals.
The night was softly warm. A score of small round tables had been set out in front of the café near the Fonte Gaia. Most of them were occupied. Giorgio thought he recognized some of the people from Uncle Marco's audience. He stood facing across the vast square to the canyon of the street where the Chief lived. It was black as a mousehole. Like a cat, Giorgio watched it, never taking his eyes away. It was magic how the Chief came, as if the very looking had pulled him out of the darkness. At first he was only a tall block of white. Then gradually the block developed two legs, and with lithe grace they were advancing across the square, directly toward Giorgio.