“I repeat it, but he has embarrassed me extremely in regard to the Princess, who becomes ill at the sight of him. This is the third time he has invaded her terrace.”
“How about that boy from Messina you promised to employ?” asked Vera. “He is quite well again; it’s time he went to work. I can’t have him idling about my kitchen any longer.”
Ignazio would not have come up to the terrace had he known Vera was there. He nervously nibbled the yellow fibre he had brought to tie up the passion-flower vine.
“Excellency, no! I said I would try to find him employment. I have done so. Capperi! I have asked an infinite number of persons—always the same answer. In Rome there is not work enough for the Romans, nor bread to spare. The Sicilians must go back to Sicily, or,” he waved his hand vaguely towards Ostia, “over there.” Over there meant to America.
“Where were you born, Ignazio?” I interrupted. “You do not speak like a Romano di Roma.” His glance was a reproach; I had betrayed him.
“It is true, I am from Siena—but there is a difference between an Umbrian and a Sicilian!”
“It is always the same story!” I said. “I have asked every plumber in Rome to employ Francesco Calabresi. They will give money, bread, clothes; to a man they refuse him work.”
“Self preservation! Oh, how worldly-wise the old race is! The man’s right though; there is not work enough to go round; one must consider one’s own interests or we should all go bankrupt. That’s what ‘mind your business’ means! If you don’t look out for yourself, some one else must.”
J. came up on the terrace at that moment; Vera waved her little hand gaily to him.
“What news from Messina?”