The Caviar Lady Page 8

  “But we do have other kinds.”

  All of a sudden the errand boy looks interested.

  “What do you mean, other kinds?”

  “You, and the Lady before you, have never been interested in the fish, just the roe. I know the Lady wanted Beluga sturgeon or common sturgeon, which are bigger but more difficult to catch...”

  “Get to the point man…”

  “In the Po we get a lot of Cobice sturgeon that are much smaller - maximum twenty, twenty-five kilos. The eggs are smaller and darker and therefore less valuable.”

  “Maybe they’re not even that good,” the errand boy cuts him off.

  “They are excellent,” the Turk replies earnestly.

  “And how would you know?”

  The Turk pulls his mother of pearl teaspoon out of his pocket.

  “You, you, you...” stutters the errand boy.

  “Let’s just say I have a cosmopolitan past,” the Turk smiles.

  The errand boy is rooted to the spot. He rallies, tries to look nonchalant and says:

  “So that’s why the Lady placed such trust in you. Because you’re not just a fisherman.”

  “True. I am not a fisherman.”

  “Just what are you then?”

  “A gardener,” says the Turk, laughing, showing teeth that are as white as ivory, as white as the mother of pearl spoon.

  I observe the scene and I feel proud to be Nicola’s friend, and proud that the Turk is his father.

  “We’ll call it Venetian caviar,” the errand boy enthuses.

  “Why? We’re not in Venice.”

  “I know, I know, but it sounds good.”

  “Call it Ferrara caviar.”

  “No, I’ll call it Italian caviar.”

  “I don’t know if you’ll sell much to the Americans.”

  “Quiet, for heaven’s sake, the boy is listening.”

  “You can trust Nellino.”

  The errand boy looks at me. He catches his breath and says: “We might not manage to sell it to the Americans, but with the aristocrats in Spain, Switzerland and Germany, and the Fascist big wigs, I think it might just work.”

  “You can call it what you like.”

  “When can I try it?”

  “As soon as we catch some Cobice I’ll let you know. But if we start catching these smaller fish you might need to come up from Ferrara every day.”

  “I’d come twice a day if I had to.”

  One look behind those glasses and you can see he’s counting money in his head thinking about the Cobice sturgeons, the caviar of Venice, Ferrara, Italy or whatever he’s going to call it. He’s probably also thinking that if he comes every day he’ll save money on telegrams. Or maybe not, maybe I’m just too hard on people. In the space of a few months I’ve completely changed: I used to believe in everything – Mother, the homeland, the empire – and now I don’t trust anyone. I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but it’s happened alright.

  I hear Uncle opening a bottle of Lambrusco, which is only for special occasions, and proposing a toast to the new caviar. I get a glass too, along with the errand boy, Aldo, the Turk, Uncle and Mother. As soon as the Lancia Ardea is out of sight, Mother says to the Turk:

  “We should set up our own caviar factory. Here, in the village. So the women who fish could keep working, once the war is finished.”

  “But we don’t have caviar all year round.”

  “I know. But it could be like the sugar plant: four months of work would be enough to see you through the rest of the year. Especially seeing as they are different seasons: the women could do four months in the sugar plant and the other four in the caviar factory.”

  “Caviar is for the gentry,” the Turk reminds her. “You can’t make it in just any old factory.”

  “I know, but if the errand boy manages it...”

  “He might not exactly be charming, but he worked with the Lady for years. He knows the trade and we don’t.”

  “Not even you?” asks Uncle who must have overdone it with the Lambrusco, seeing as he uses the familiar “tu” form of address with the Turk.

  “Not even I know how to make caviar, at least not like the rich folks want it.”

  “Then we’ll send someone to learn how to do it.”

  “We could take on that boy, Aldo...”

  “One step at a time,” the Turk is serious.

  “This is no ordinary year, and it will help everyone pull through these hard times, and let people buy stuff on the black market. But we can’t expect the other years to be like this.”

  “Why not?” asks Uncle.

  “Because sooner or later the fish will run out.”

  “Nonsense! There have always been sturgeon in the Po, and there always will be.”

  “That’s not the way it works. If only a few females lay eggs this year, it means that in a few years’ time there will be fewer fish, and so on and until there are none at all.”

  “What a pessimist!” says Mother. “I’m sure we’ll be able to change your mind.”

  “The fish are here to serve progress!” shouts Uncle, glass in hand. “Long live caviar! Long live progress!”

  The Turk shakes his head, but says no more. He can see that Mother and Uncle like the idea of the factory and don’t want to give up on this new dream. I like the idea of the factory too. And progress. Also because at the end of the season Uncle tells me to work hard for the third grade exams, and warns me that I’ll have to study even harder next year.

  XXIII

  The final victory continues to be delayed. It still gets announced from time to time, but I don’t really believe in it any more. Nicola sometimes comes round in the late afternoon, bringing clumps of poplar mushrooms for Mother. She invites him to dinner, but he excuses himself and says he has to go. So I come down from my cubbyhole, the space Uncle has set up for me to study in, in a dormer window in the station gable, and run to see Nicola.

  “Still good at finding mushrooms, eh?”

  “Yes, but it’s no fun any more, now you’re not here...”

  “You know I’m at school in Ferrara.”

  “You were last year too.”

  “Yeah, but this year they’re making us work twice as hard, so I end up spending half the day on the train, half at school, and the other half studying.”

  Nicola looks at me puzzled: “Just how many halves have you got in a day?”

  “One more than other people,” I reply, laughing.

  “I heard you got glasses,” Nicola says.

  “Who told you?”

  “Not telling.”

  “It was Bechi, wasn’t it?”

  “Nah, no way...”

  “Come on, I know it was her...”

  “You’re the one who came down to the riverside on Sunday morning looking all brainy with your glasses on...”

  “No, it wasn’t that. I promised I’d read her some poems...”

  “You think Bechi can’t read?”

  “You’re jealous!”

  “She kissed me, you know.”

  “Who, Bechi? No way.”

  “It’s true you know. She kissed me right here.”

  And he points to his mouth, all defiant.

  “Liar!”

  “What about you then? Coming to my house in secret, with glasses on...”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? Anyway she never kissed you.”

  “Oh yes she did.”

  “If she had, your father would’ve beaten the living daylights out of you.”

  “I’m hardly going to tell him.”

  “She’ll tell him.”

  “No she won’t. She likes it.”

  “I’ll tell him them.”

  “Hah! You lot are all the same. Going to school to learn how to snitch on people.”

  Now Nicola’s really asked for it, and I land a right hook on his nose. This time I’m going to break it. But the scoundrel has seen me coming and dodges to the side leaving me outstret
ched, almost falling on the tracks.

  “See what an idiot you are? You’d fall under a train, for the sake of a girl.”

  “There aren’t any trains.”

  “Anyway I’d do it for Bechi, not just any girl.”

  “What are you two up to out there?” Mother appears at the window.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ve got to go now. In the evening I give Don Antonio a hand” says Nicola.

  “The priest?”

  “Yes, I help him out and he’s teaching me to sing.”

  “Since when have you liked music?”

  “It’s work, not pleasure.”

  “You want to be a singer?” I look at him, incredulous.

  “No, no. It’s for the fishing.”

  Of course. I was completely forgetting the whole thing about music for fishing. After just two months of school, everything out here by the river seems like another world. You can see right away that we’re not as close as we used to be. Nicola is wearing trousers of his father’s that swamp him, and a sweater that is all matted from being out on the river. That alone says he’s from the riverside. On top of that, a dingy colored jacket and a beret. He’s never looked more like the Turk’s son. Okay, so I wear Uncle’s jacket and trousers to school, but at least Mother has taken them up for me. And today I’ve got a very smart white sweater Mother knitted for me, and a neck scarf. And I’ve started smoking, everybody knows anyway. Uncle even gives me a good cigarette every now and again.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Bye then. If I manage I’ll come down on Sunday, maybe we can go fishing.”

  “There are pike so big they’re eating the mallards.”

  “We should make them eat Germans, not the poor ducks,” Uncle comes towards us, smoking, with a smile.

  “How’s your father?” he asks Nicola.

  “Fine, thank you. We’re all grand.”

  “Tell him I was asking after him.”

  “I will do.”

  “What are you saying Uncle? Talking ill of our allies?”

  “Piffle! Fine allies they are Nello! Do you know the Germans are using the railway without even asking now?”

  “But there aren’t any Germans here. I mean there aren’t many.”

  “Enough of them to behave like they own the place. See this?”

  And he shows me a sheet of paper, but it’s in German so I can’t understand what’s written on it. It has the insignia of the Reich, that much I can see.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I do. And it says that their trains have priority. On my railway. If a German convoy comes along I have to stop my train and make all the passengers wait - everyone going to work, you going to school. All because of this damned war.”

  “You want to watch what you’re saying.” Remo’s voice comes from the shed beside the freight office.

  “Just idle talk, Remo...”

  “We were talking about what our enemies are saying,” I butt in.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t hear a thing. But just be careful, because other people might. And you know the Germans are our allies. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” replies Uncle.

  “By the by, did you know that in Germany they make the most delicious butter? Wait here a minute.”

  Remo hops across the tracks, and disappears behind his house, or rather behind the signal box, where he keeps his icebox, and comes out with a paper package that you can just tell contains something delicious.

  “This is German butter. A gift for your sister,” he says, handing the package to Uncle.

  “As soon as this war is over you’ll see things will turn out just fine for all of us. Evening Pompeo, evening Nellino, and regards to your mother.”

  XXIV

  The war is not going well. Even the news reels from the front are starting to admit that it won’t be over tomorrow. Or the day after. In the village the Fascists are still organising their Saturday youth rallies and broadcasting the Duce’s speeches on the radio. But everyone is tired.

  “If there have to be wars, they should be short,” Uncle pronounces.

  In Ferrara too, where I now spend more time than at home because of school, things are not much cheerier. Also because it’s winter and there’s very little wood or coal and even though our school is for the future executives of the country and the regime, we are hardly ever allowed to have the stove on. It was Mr. Baratti, the Greek and Latin teacher, who said the thing about future executives, at the beginning of the school year. It took me a while to understand it wasn’t anything to do with executing people. Executives are some kind of leaders.

  Mr. Baratti often speaks in Greek and Latin. And his Italian is different too. Different from the Italian we speak at home, and hear on the radio or in the cinema. He is always quoting one writer or another - Manzoni, Dante, Leopardi, Foscolo, Virgil, Julius Caesar, Cicero, Xenophon, Menander... My father’s name was Menandro.

  One day something bad happens. At the beginning of the year a new boy joined our class. He was from Milan and his name was Umberto Salvi. Milan was bombed at the end of October, no one knows how, given all our powerful ground to air defence forces and the formidable Italian bombers, and the even faster, more formidable bombers of our German allies. Basically no one knows how they managed it, but British planes bombed Milan. Just a few bombs, they said on the radio, cruelly dropped on unarmed civilians. We will not back down.

  But Salvi’s parents obviously got the wind up and sent him to his uncle and aunt in Ferrara. That was how he wound up in fourth grade at the beginning of November. He’s not the most likeable of boys. He hardly ever speaks, and when he does he’s a real smart alec. He keeps himself to himself, and he’s not the only one. I tried making friends with him but you could see he wasn’t interested. Then it turns out he has something to hide.

  One day after school he is approached by three men. He tries to get away, but they stop him and bundle him into a black car, I think a Fiat, a model I’ve never seen before. In the village it’s not like we get many cars, not like in Ferrara anyway. None of us can understand what’s going on. We start talking about it but then I have to run to the station to catch the train. I tell Uncle about it and he looks me in the eye and says:

  “These are dark times. Be careful of the company you keep in the city.”

  “But if I can’t even see my school friends who’s left?” I object.

  “Just you be careful. And don’t tell your Mother.”

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t want to go frightening her for nothing, do we?”

  The next day, fortunately, the mystery is solved. A Militia officer in uniform, a man in plain clothes I have never seen before, and the headmaster, all come into the classroom.

  “Doesn’t Mr. Martani think he’s the cat’s whiskers now? My father says he’s only headmaster cause of his black shirt,” whispers Cavicchi, who’s from Ferrara and always knows everything about everybody.

  It’s Mr. Baratti’s lesson. The Militia officer gives us a short talk on race and what the laws have to say on the matter. He tells us that it is the duty of every good Italian and every young Fascist to report to their teachers and superiors anything that might seem against the law, any suspicious person or behaviour. It can all contribute to the final victory.

  The man in plain clothes asks us how well we knew our classmate Salvi. Then the headmaster says we’ve nothing to worry about, that Salvi is Jewish and did not respect the laws that forbid Jews from attending Italian schools. And he did this in the typical underhand fashion that Jews have: under a false identity. Lucky for us the political police, ever ready and alert, represented by the comrade in plain clothes, expose Jewish infiltrators. They arrested Salvi, whose real name is actually Rimini. We all laughed when we heard what Salvi’s real name was. If you have the same name as a city you can hardly be a normal person, being Jewish is the least that can happen, I think to myself.

  “No one else here has a
nything to fear,” the headmaster concludes, looking at Mr. Baratti. “We have ascertained the ethnic origin and race of every student. And in any case this is one of the most respected schools in the Kingdom. We cannot shirk our duties to our country. Especially now that our finest young men are fighting on the front line to give us the chance to study. Isn’t that so, Mr. Baratti?”

  Baratti is looking at his feet. The formidable Baratti himself, who only has to lift his chin to cause a deathly silence to fall in any classroom. Baratti raises his eyes to the headmaster and mutters:

  “He was just a boy, and a promising one at that.”

  “But he broke the law: he’s Jewish. And there’s nothing to stop him studying at home.”

  At that, Baratti regains his air of authority, looks the headmaster right in the eye and says:

  “Tìs d’estì gnésios, tìs d’estì nòthos, pròs tòn theòn genòmenos anthròpos?”

  “There’s no need to quote Aristophanes at me now Mr. Baratti.”

  “It’s Menander,” Baratti corrects him.

  The policeman in the coat raises his right arm:

  “Saluto al Duce!”

  “A noi!” we all chorus back with our arms up.

  Mr. Baratti only puts his arm halfway up. Everyone files out, Baratti too, the hour is over. Albertini, who knows shorthand, has written down the phrase and passes it round. That evening I read it to Uncle who translates it right off, before I can even get my dictionary out:

  “Who is a nobleman and who is a bastard, if in the name of the gods he is born a man?”

  I don’t say anything because I’m starting to understand. And Uncle doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t feel much like talking these days.

  The next day we have a supply teacher, Mrs. Boldini.

  “Mr. Baratti has been taken ill,” says the headmaster. “He will not be returning to school this year.”

  Or the year after. The radio, not our usual station, but Radio Londra, says that the Germans have surrendered at Stalingrad.

  “It’s a hard winter, and the fishing season won’t be starting any time soon,” comments the Turk who is listening to the news on the radio with us.

  XXV