The Caviar Lady Page 7

  There’s something different from the other years and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Then the day after the errand boy gets here it comes to me: there are no other boats ready to go out. All the other boats are dry docked, waiting to be mended, waterproofed, cleaned. Some have just been left lying in front of the houses. There are no nets hanging out, ready for the start of the season. And it’s not because it’s early on. Fishermen are far-sighted folk, they know the season can start at any time and that you always have to be ready. No, what it is, is that there are no fishermen.

  “I don’t know, we’ll have to see what we can do,” the Turk says to the errand boy who has travelled up with great pomp and ceremony in first class. Not even the lady herself ever travelled in first class. He’s fatter than ever, red-faced, with new glasses, a watch chain on show and a dark suit of good cloth. He has a ring on his left hand, a gold wedding band.

  Mother whispers to me: “Well, look at that! I thought all our gold was supposed to go to the war effort.”

  “It is,” I say.

  “Did you get married?” she asks, never one to mind her own business.

  “Yes,” he answers.

  “Well, congratulations!”

  “But what about the gold for the war effort?” I ask.

  “What are you talking about Nellino?”

  “No, no, it’s nothing,” Uncle intervenes, inviting the errand boy up into our flat. He gives my arm a hard squeeze as he goes past.

  Now along comes a skinny boy who might be around my age, with freckles, loads of obvious looking freckles, not like mine that you can hardly see any more. He gets out of third class. “Morning.”

  “Good morning,” we all chorus.

  “Aldo, my assistant,” says the errand boy.

  “I’ve brought him along so he can learn the trade.”

  So he can learn to sweat like a pig and make a zig zag mess of the fish, I think to myself. With his gold wedding ring the errand boy is different. Like Dr. Girardi with the Isotta Fraschini. I look at him, and see the Fascist Party badge in pride of place on his lapel. Uncle gets there before me:

  “Have you joined the party?”

  “Naturally. Our country needs us, and Mussolini, let me tell you, is the man who will lead us to victory.”

  Uncle says nothing.

  “Just as well the season’s started, because I’m over-run with orders,” the errand boy tells the Turk.

  “One freeze would soon put a stop to it,” the Turk answers.

  “Well, let’s hope not, because I’ve orders coming in from all over the world. My caviar is in great demand.”

  “In wartime?” asks Mother.

  “My dear lady, my customers don’t care two hoots about the war. I even have Americans writing to me for my caviar.”

  “But aren’t the Americans our enemies?” I ask.

  “Well, those who want the caviar aren’t exactly American,” the errand boy shoots back. “They’re cosmopolitans.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you worry about it. It’s not like we’re selling arms to those scoundrels, just fish eggs,” says the errand boy, pulling in his stomach and puffing out his chest.

  I keep thinking that his collar button is going to pop off, but they must have sewn it on double tight.

  “There won’t be a lot of caviar this year,” says the Turk.

  “Why not? The season has got off to a great start. And early too.”

  “Yes I know, but there’s no one to fish this year...”

  “Ah! So when there’s work to be done everyone makes themselves scarce, eh?” says the errand boy, clearly vexed.

  “What else have they got to do?”

  “Go to war,” answers the Turk.

  “Almost all of the younger fishermen and the sons of the older ones have been sent to the front.”

  “For crying out loud!” says the errand boy, who obviously hasn’t taken that into consideration. “Well, the ones that are here will just have to work harder, organise shifts.”

  “And who’s going to look after the boats and keep the nets in good nick?”

  “I don’t know, but I need you to organise the fishing, because everyone wants our caviar, a great Italian product that is the envy of the world.”

  And as he says this he holds out a five hundred lire banknote to the Turk.

  “To cover expenses.”

  Mother’s eyes widen and she says: “The Lady will be happy there’s such a demand for it.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” the errand boy exclaims, startled.

  “She’s left the trade, I thought she would have told you,” and he looks over at Bechi who shoots him a dirty look back.

  “No, we didn’t hear anything,” says Mother.

  But Uncle looks uninterested. You knew, didn’t you Uncle, I think to myself, but decide to keep it under my hat. Man to man.

  “I’m the owner of the shop now.”

  “Well, congratulations again,” says Mother. “That’s a move up for you.”

  The Turk doesn’t seem to be listening either. So he knew too, I can see that now. I don’t know how, I just do. It’s like growing up all of a sudden. I can see that there’s some kind of arrangement, something else going on, between Uncle and the Turk. I realise that although they’re very different, they’re in this together. It’s the kind of friendship that goes beyond who you are, what you do. Like me and Nicola.

  “There’s the train,” says Uncle. “We’d better get a move on.”

  The errand boy bids us goodbye and off he goes with the first case of caviar of the 1942 season, and Aldo, the errand boy’s assistant, as he will be known from that day on. I accompany them to the platform. When I get back to the flat I can hear Uncle, the Turk and Mother having a heated discussion.

  “A great Italian product that is the envy of the world...” The Turk imitates the errand boy’s grating voice.

  “It’s anything but envy,” he says, in a serious tone. “There’s probably a shortage of caviar now that Russia’s at war and no one has time to fish. What with German soldiers and our own on their hands, they certainly won’t have time to think about fish eggs...”

  “And all those ‘poor cosmopolitans’ dying of hunger.” Uncle mimics the errand boy again.

  “It must be big business if he’s going round handing out five hundred lire bills without even worrying who’s watching,” says Mother, who seems to have put her thinking cap on instead of making funny faces and asking stupid questions as usual. I stay stock still in the stairwell, flat against the wall behind the door. I even hold my breath so I can hear them better.

  What the Turk’s saying about Russia has really impressed me. I’ve always thought he was just a fisherman. A great fisherman, but nothing more. But to hear him speak like that you can tell he knows the ways of the world, things I never would have thought of. I console myself with the thought that I am just a boy. Uncle is speaking now, saying that if it is true that everyone wants our caviar it is an opportunity we cannot pass up, because it’s been a hard winter for the families down on the riverside, and next year won’t be any better.

  “You’re right: if there was a bit more money to go round there are a lot of things people could do with buying.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t get much for their money at Remo’s. It’s daylight robbery!”

  “I know. But without the black market we wouldn’t have a hope of getting anything.”

  “Well, it’s a pity Remo doesn’t sell extra workers,” says the Turk.

  Uncle speaks up: “Maybe we could ask the priest.”

  “Don Antonio? Expecting a miracle now, are we?”

  “What about Baffoni?”

  “Great idea! He can send us some Fascist Youth and we can open a nursery...”

  “There’s no two ways about it. Without hands on deck there’ll be no fishing this year...” It’s true what they say, the gods send nuts to those who have no teeth. I reckon that a good season would
see us a bit better off too. Maybe there would even be enough for a present or two for me. On the riverside only children and old people are left. And the women, of course. As that very thought comes to me I hear Mother saying: “The women will have to fish.”

  “No, they’re just not strong enough.”

  “What do you mean they’re not strong enough? Those women work all day long, cleaning their houses, looking after their vegetable patches, tending to their children, gathering wood, doing all that washing.”

  I can tell the Turk is mulling this over, because he’s not saying anything.

  “But they’ll still have to do the housekeeping and look after their children.”

  “If they go out fishing their children will be looked after,” replies Mother. “The little ones can be looked after by their older brothers and sisters, it’s the only thing not in short supply on the riverside - brothers and sisters of all ages.”

  “True, but they’ll have to learn to fish.”

  “You can teach them,” says Mother.

  “But I have to fish...”

  “All the boats will give you a percentage,” says Uncle.

  “And what about the upkeep of the boats...”

  “They’ll make up for that too.”

  The Turk remains puzzled: “We’ll have to go round all the houses explaining it.”

  “No, all we need to do is tell Don Antonio.”

  “Who won’t agree.”

  “Who will agree if we explain it all to him,” says Mother, with a smile that disarms the Turk.

  I mean, I can’t see her, but I know her smiles and how they just melt away the tension. Well done Mother, I think to myself. And I go into the flat because all squashed up behind the door in the cold is not exactly a good place to be.

  “Ah there you are, where did you get to?”

  “I was looking at the shunter.”

  “But it’s not doing anything, there’s no coal.”

  “That’s why I was there, to get a good look at it.”

  Uncle looks me over, unconvinced, I know he’s smelled a rat.

  “You’re to go and get Don Antonio,” says Mother.

  “What am I to say?”

  “Ask him to please come to the station.”

  “What for?”

  “No reason, but it’s urgent.”

  “Why don’t you go to the church then? You’ll get there faster,” I say to Mother.

  “At this time of day? On foot? It’ll only take you a minute on your bicycle, and if the priest takes his bicycle he’ll be here in no time.”

  He’s hardly going to come running after that day with the tench, I think.

  So I say: “Why don’t you come with me Mother?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, on the crossbar.”

  “Alright then.”

  So I go into the village with Mother balancing on the crossbar of my bicycle. Since she’s had the idea of the women fishing she’s like a different person. Joan of Arc, I would say.

  Mother convinces Don Antonio, who goes to speak with the Turk to work out the details. The Turk not only spells it all out to him, but even tells him he has five hundred lire for expenses.

  “The fool,” says Nicola when he’s telling me about it.

  “What did the priest say?” I ask.

  “That my father should not get any strange ideas about women whose husbands are away at war, that the fishing is to help families in need and that part of it has to be donated to the church.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise!”

  “Then my father said that we need to arrange a meeting at Nena’s as soon as possible. Don Antonio burst out laughing and said that the Turk had strange ideas about the women on the riverside if he thought any of them would set foot in the tavern. And he warned him about having a meeting with that many people, because there might be trouble, times being what they are.”

  I am starting to understand that these are strange times we’re living in. I’ve been thinking for a while now that the final victory is not going to be that imminent after all.

  Nicola continues: “So my father asks Don Antonio how they could organise it and he says to come to church on Sunday morning, and he’ll make sure that all the women, or almost all of them, are there, after mass. My father wanted the men there too, but Don Antonio told him that that was his problem. He said that if my father could get them to come to the tavern he could surely get them to come to church. He even got in a parting shot, about most of the men already going to church. Apart from my father that is.”

  XXI

  It wasn’t easy to begin with because women together cackle more than a flock of geese. And the idea of going fishing wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Some of them even crossed themselves, saying it was men’s work. Then Mother went into action, with her calm smile. First of all she explained it in words that everyone understood. Then she answered their questions, and told them that Don Antonio was all for it. In the end, down on the riverside, she even got involved in organising them. Because it’s one thing to take decisions, another to get the work done. I have to say that Mother turned out to be really good at it. She managed to get Donna Italia and the Rural Housewives involved too. She didn’t explain that this year the caviar is more important than other years, that it’s worth more, and that was something she didn’t really spell out to the women on the riverside either. She just told them that in wartime everyone has to do their bit and the Po is full of fish. Donna Italia said she agreed and would even write to the Federal Secretary to recommend Mother for a commendation.

  The riverside women know that fishing is their bread and butter. But they also know that sturgeon fishing is a lottery. It’s like gambling in a casino, as everyone round here now says after the Turk told us what the word meant. But betting together means a bigger chance of hitting the jackpot.

  So while some are mending the nets and cleaning up the boats that looked like they were just going to rot away for the rest of the war, the Turk prepares two wooden rods to dredge the riverbed. It’s never been done so carefully, dragging two great boulders tied to ropes up and down the river. First one side, then the other. Broadening out a few metres every time. All sorts of mess come up from the riverbed, and where there are bigger tree trunks and sunken wrecks they put out buoys with flags, attached to big stones, to signal that there is something that could damage the nets.

  The question of the music is taken very seriously after the Turk talks to Don Antonio. The men at war could have imagined anything but this happening in their absence: forty sturgeon boats waiting in line for their turn and passing along like a dance, one day upstream of the bridge, the next day downstream. And often in the middle boat stands Don Antonio himself, singing hymns but also opera arias, accompanied by a pedal harmonium. He is a sight to see: playing, inspired, in the middle of the deck, with Paride the sacristan in the stern trying to keep the boat balanced with one long oar. Don Antonio reminds me of Captain Ahab in Moby Dick that I have just finished reading. Only he, the priest, uses music and his voice to call up the sturgeons in the Po. The women in the launches with the nets follow the priest’s lead and the whole river echoes like one huge theatre. The men, the fishermen, those who have always been here, who are left here, the old men, find themselves in the midst of it all and can do no more than shake their heads. There’s never been anything like this before. But it’s working. Everyone’s fishing and it’s the biggest turnout that the riverside has ever known. Every so often someone asks Don Antonio to sing one of the popular songs or a patriotic anthem, a party anthem, but he replies quite seriously saying that sturgeons are not fish for two-bit marches and café orchestras. Sturgeons deserve important music, holy music, written by greats for greats. Tavern ditties and parade songs were fine for catching roach.

  On the banks all the children, those who are not in school, watch the boats waltz up and down the river.

  “You could write an opera about this,” says Mother, in awe of t
he perfect organisation of the fisher-women who have me running to telegraph the errand boy once or even twice a week. Then they need to sell the meat too, and more often than not that gets sent to Milan. Remo often buys it too, now he’s got well-off families to supply on the black market. Donna Italia gets her share, so the Fascists, at least the local ones, are taken care of.

  XXII

  It doesn’t go down at all well with Uncle that the errand boy and Aldo have started to come to the station in a brand-new Lancia Ardea. It has to be said that there are fewer and fewer trains to and from Ferrara these days and it looks like things will get worse because there’s no coal for the locomotives or fuel for the Littorina railcars.

  “In theory petrol for cars is rationed too,” comments Uncle when he sees the Lancia Ardea.

  But the errand boy gets away with it by keeping his party badge on show, and probably greasing the right people’s palms. I have to study because I’ve got my exams this year. But even a distracted student can tell that it really gets Uncle’s goat to hear the sound of that car. Uncle loves his station and his trains, I can see that now. The errand boy is always complaining to the Turk that there’s not enough caviar.

  “There aren’t any more sturgeons in the Po,” the Turk replies. “And we have to be careful not to kill all the females or there won’t be any next year...”

  “Don’t worry about the future, worry about the present,” says the errand boy.

  “I’m behind on my orders. Everyone wants it, and they want it from us.”

  “Yes but you’re getting all we’ve got.”

  “You could always do seconds,” the Turk says one day, when he’s had enough.

  “What do you mean?”

  “On the Caspian Sea they have different types of caviar.”

  “Really?”

  “The highest quality of all is what they call Beluga.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, like ours...”

  “Then there are the less valuable types, Sevruga and Osetra...”

  “Yes, I know all this too, but we don’t have those kinds of sturgeon.”