Sea and Sardinia — Chapter 5, s.2
* * * * * A young woman appeared, hearing voices.
Her head was swathed in a shawl, one side of which was brought across, right over the mouth, so that only her two eyes and her nose showed.
The q-b thought she must have toothache--but she laughed and said no. As a matter of fact that is the way a head-dress is worn in Sardinia, even by both sexes.
It is something like the folding of the Arab's burnoose.
The point seems to be that the mouth and chin are thickly covered, also the ears and brow, leaving only the nose and eyes exposed.
They say it keeps off the malaria.
The men swathe shawls round their heads in the same way.
It seems to me they want to keep their heads warm, dark and hidden: they feel secure inside.
She wore the workaday costume: a full, dark-brown skirt, the full white bodice, and a little waistcoat or corset.
This little waistcoat in her case had become no more than a shaped belt, sending up graceful, stiffened points under the breasts, like long leaves standing up.
It was pretty--but all dirty.
She too was pretty, but with an impudent, not quite pleasant manner.
She fiddled with the wet napkins, asked us various questions, and addressed herself rather jerkily to the old man, who answered hardly at all--Then she departed again.
The women are self-conscious in a rather smirky way, bouncy.
When she was gone I asked the old man if she was his daughter.
He said very brusquely, in his soft mutter, No. She came from a village some miles away.
He did not belong to the inn.
He was, as far as I understood, the postman.
But I may have been mistaken about the word.
But he seemed laconic, unwilling to speak about the inn and its keepers.
There seemed to be something queer.
And again he asked where we were going.
He told me there were now two motor-buses: a new one which ran over the mountains to Nuoro.
Much better go to Nuoro than to Abbasanta.
Nuoro was evidently the town towards which these villages looked, as a sort of capital.
* * * * * The kid-roasting proceeded very slowly, the meat never being very near the fire.
From time to time the roaster arranged the cavern of red-hot roots.
Then he threw on more roots.
It was very hot.
And he turned the long spit, and still I held the candle.
Other people came strolling in, to look at us.
But they hovered behind us in the dark, so I could not make out at all clearly.
They strolled in the gloom of the dungeon-like room, and watched us.
One came forward--a fat, fat young soldier in uniform.
I made place for him on the bench--but he put out his hand and disclaimed the attention.
Then he went away again.
The old man propped up the roast, and then he too disappeared for a time.
The thin candle guttered, the fire was no longer flamy but red.
The roaster reappeared with a new, shorter spear, thinner, and a great lump of raw hog-fat spitted on it.
This he thrust into the red fire.
It sizzled and smoked and spit fat, and I wondered.
He told me he wanted it to catch fire.
It refused.
He groped in the hearth for the bits of twigs with which the fire had been started.
These twig-stumps he stuck in the fat, like an orange stuck with cloves, then he held it in the fire again.
Now at last it caught, and it was a flaming torch running downwards with a thin shower of flaming fat.
And now he was satisfied.
He held the fat-torch with its yellow flares over the browning kid, which he turned horizontal for the occasion.
All over the roast fell the flaming drops, till the meat was all shiny and browny.
He put it to the fire again, holding the diminishing fat, still burning bluish, over it all the time in the upper air.
* * * * * While this was in process a man entered with a loud _Good evening_.
We replied Good-evening--and evidently he caught a strange note.
He came and bent down and peered under my hat-brim, then under the q-b's hat-brim, we still wore hats and overcoats, as did everybody.
Then he stood up suddenly and touched his cap and said _Scusi_--excuse me.
I
said _Niente_, which one always says, and he addressed a few jovial words to the crouching roaster: who again would hardly answer him.
The omnibus was arrived from Oristano, I made out--with few passengers.
This man brought with him a new breezy atmosphere, which the roaster did not like.
However, I made place on the low bench, and the attention this time was accepted.
Sitting down at the extreme end, he came into the light, and I saw a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in dark brown velvet, with a blond little moustache and twinkling blue eyes and a tipsy look.
I thought he might be some local tradesman or farmer.
He asked a few questions, in a boisterous familiar fashion, then went out again.
He appeared with a small iron spit, a slim rod, in one hand, and in the other hand two joints of kid and a handful of sausages.
He stuck his joints on his rod.
But our roaster still held the interminable flat kid before the now red, flameless fire.
The fat-torch was burnt out, the cinder pushed in the fire.
A moment's spurt of flame, then red, intense redness again, and our kid before it like a big, dark hand.
"Eh," said the newcomer, whom I will call the girovago, "it's done.
The kid's done.
It's done."
The roaster slowly shook his head, but did not answer.
He sat like time and eternity at the hearth-end, his face flame-flushed, his dark eyes still fire-abstract, still sacredly intent on the roast.
"Na-na-na!"
said the girovago.
"Let another body see the fire."
And with his pieces of meat awkwardly skewered on his iron stick he tried to poke under the authorised kid and get at the fire.
In his soft mutter, the old man bade him wait for the fire till the fire was ready for him.
But the girovago poked impudently and good humouredly, and said testily that the authorised kid was done.
"Yes, surely it is done," said I, for it was already a quarter to eight.
The old roasting priest muttered, and took out his knife from his pocket.
He pressed the blade slowly, slowly deep into the meat: as far as a knife will go in a piece of kid.
He seemed to be feeling the meat inwardly.
And he said it was not done.
He shook his head, and remained there like time and eternity at the end of the rod.
The girovago said _Sangue di Dio_, but couldn't roast his meat!
And he tried to poke his skewer near the coals.
So doing his pieces fell off into the ashes, and the invisible onlookers behind raised a shout of laughter.
However, he raked it out and wiped it with his hand and said No matter, nothing lost.
Then he turned to me and asked the usual whence and whither questions.
These answered, he said wasn't I German.
I said No, I was English.
He looked at me many times, shrewdly, as if he wanted to make out something.
Then he asked, where were we domiciled--and I said Sicily.
And then, very pertinently, why had we come to Sardinia.
I said for pleasure, and to see the island.
"Ah, per divertimento!"
he repeated, half-musingly, not believing me in the least.
Various men had now come into the room, though they all remained indistinct in the background.
The girovago talked and jested abroad in the company, and the half-visible men laughed in a rather hostile manner.
At last the old roaster decided the kid was done.
He lifted it from the fire and scrutinised it thoroughly, holding the candle to it, as if it were some wonderful epistle from the flames.
To be sure it looked marvellous, and smelled so good: brown, and crisp, and hot, and savoury, not burnt in any place whatever.
It was eight o'clock.
"It's done!
It's done!
Go away with it!
Go," said the girovago, pushing the old roaster with his hand.
And at last the old man consented to depart, holding the kid like a banner.
"It looks so _good_!"
cried the q-b. "And I am so hungry."
"Ha-ha!
It makes one hungry to see good meat, Signora.
Now it is my turn.
Heh--Gino--" the girovago flourished his arm.
And a handsome, unwashed man with a black moustache came forward rather sheepishly.
He was dressed in soldier's clothes, neutral grey, and was a big, robust, handsome fellow with dark eyes and Mediterranean sheepishness.
"Here, take it thou," said the girovago, pressing the long spit into his hand.
"It is thy business, cook the supper, thou art the woman.
--But I'll keep the sausages and do them."
The so-called woman sat at the end of the hearth, where the old roaster had sat, and with his brown, nervous hand piled the remaining coals together.
The fire was no longer flamy: and it was sinking.
The dark-browed man arranged it so that he could cook the meat.
He held the spit negligently over the red mass.
A joint fell off.
The men laughed.
"It's lost nothing," said the dark-browed man, as the girovago had said before, and he skewered it on again and thrust it to the fire.
But meanwhile he was looking up from under his dark lashes at the girovago and at us.
The girovago talked continually.
He turned to me, holding the handful of sausages.
"This makes the tasty bit," he said.
"Oh yes--good salsiccia," said I. "You are eating the kid?
You are eating at the inn?"
he said.
I replied that I was.
"No," he said.
"You stay and eat with me.
You eat with me.
The sausage is good, the kid will soon be done, the fire is grateful."
I laughed, not quite understanding him.
He was certainly a bit tipsy.
"Signora," he said, turning to the q-b. She did not like him, he was impudent, and she shut a deaf ear to him as far as she could.
"Signora," he said, "do you understand me what I say?"
She replied that she did.
"Signora," he said, "I sell things to the women.
I sell them things."
"What do you sell?"
she asked in astonishment.
"Saints," he said.
"Saints!"
she cried in more astonishment.
"Yes, saints," he said with tipsy gravity.
She turned in confusion to the company in the background.
The fat soldier came forward, he was the chief of the carabinieri.
"Also combs and bits of soap and little mirrors," he explained sarcastically.
"Saints!"
said the girovago once more.
"And also _ragazzini_--also youngsters--Wherever I go there is a little one comes running calling Babbo!
Babbo!
Daddy!
Daddy!
Wherever I go--youngsters.
And I'm the babbo."
All this was received with a kind of silent sneer from the invisible assembly in the background.
The candle was burning low, the fire was sinking too.
In vain the dark-browed man tried to build it up.
The q-b became impatient for the food.
She got up wrathfully and stumbled into the dark passage, exclaiming--"Don't we eat yet?"
"Eh--Patience!
Patience, Signora.
It takes time in this house," said the man in the background.
The dark-browed man looked up at the girovago and said: "Are you going to cook the sausages with your fingers?"
He too was trying to be assertive and jesting, but he was the kind of person no one takes any notice of.
The girovago rattled on in dialect, poking fun at us and at our being there in this inn.
I did not quite follow.
"Signora!"
said the girovago.
"Do you understand Sardinian?"
"I understand Italian--and some Sardinian," she replied rather hotly.
"And I know that you are trying to laugh at us--to make fun of us."
He laughed fatly and comfortably.
"Ah Signora," he said.
"We have a language that you wouldn't understand--not one word.
Nobody here would understand it but me and him--" he pointed to the black-browed one.
"Everybody would want an interpreter--everybody."
But he did not say interpreter--he said _intreprete_, with the accent on the penultimate, as if it were some sort of priest.
"A what?"
said I. He repeated with tipsy unction, and I saw what he meant.
"Why?"
said I. "Is it a dialect?
What is your dialect?"
"My dialect," he said, "is Sassari.
I come from Sassari.
If I spoke my dialect they would understand something.
But if I speak this language they would want an interpreter."
"What language is it then?"
He leaned up to me, laughing.
"It is the language we use when the women are buying things and we don't want them to know what we say: me and him--" "Oh," said I. "I know.
We have that language in England.
It is called thieves Latin--_Latino dei furbi_."
The men at the back suddenly laughed, glad to turn the joke against the forward girovago.
He looked down his nose at me.
But seeing I was laughing without malice, he leaned to me and said softly, secretly: "What is your affair then?
What affair is it, yours?"
"How?
What?"
I exclaimed, not understanding.
"_Che genere di affari?
_ What sort of business?"
"How--_affari_?"
said I, still not grasping.
"What do you _sell_?"
he said, flatly and rather spitefully.
"What goods?"
"I don't sell anything," replied I, laughing to think he took us for some sort of strolling quacks or commercial travellers.
"Cloth--or something," he said cajolingly, slyly, as if to worm my secret out of me.
"But nothing at all.
Nothing at all," said I. "We have come to Sardinia to see the peasant costumes--" I thought that might sound satisfactory.
"Ah, the costumes!"
he said, evidently thinking I was a deep one.
And he turned bandying words with his dark-browed mate, who was still poking the meat at the embers and crouching on the hearth.
The room was almost quite dark.
The mate answered him back, and tried to seem witty too.
But the girovago was the commanding personality!
rather too much so: too impudent for the q-b, though rather after my own secret heart.
The mate was one of those handsome, passive, stupid men.
"Him!"
said the girovago, turning suddenly to me and pointing at the mate.
"He's my wife."
"Your wife!"
said I. "Yes.
He's my wife, because we're always together."
There had become a sudden dead silence in the background.
In spite of it the mate looked up under his black lashes and said, with a half smile: "Don't talk, or I shall give thee a good _bacio_ to-night."
There was an instant's fatal pause, then the girovago continued: "Tomorrow is festa of Sant 'Antonio at Tonara.
Tomorrow we are going to Tonara.
Where are you going?"
"To Abbasanta," said I. "Ah Abbasanta!
You should come to Tonara.
At Tonara there is a brisk trade--and there are costumes.
You should come to Tonara.
Come with him and me to Tonara tomorrow, and we will do business together."
I laughed, but did not answer.
"Come," said he.
"You will like Tonara!
Ah, Tonara is a fine place.
There is an inn: you can eat well, sleep well.
I tell you, because to you ten francs don't matter.
Isn't that so?
Ten francs don't matter to you.
Well, then come to Tonara.
What?
What do you say?"
I shook my head and laughed, but did not answer.
To tell the truth I should have liked to go to Tonara with him and his mate and do the brisk trade: if only I knew what trade it would be.
"You are sleeping upstairs?"
he said to me.
I nodded.
"This is my bed," he said, taking one of the home-made rush mats from against the wall.
I did not take him seriously at any point.
"Do they make those in Sorgono?"
I said.
"Yes, in Sorgono--they are the beds, you see!
And you roll up this end a bit--so!
and that is the pillow."
He laid his cheek sideways.
"Not really," said I. He came and sat down again next to me, and my attention wandered.
The q-b was raging for her dinner.
It must be quite half-past eight.
The kid, the perfect kid would be cold and ruined.
Both fire and candle were burning low.
Someone had been out for a new candle, but there was evidently no means of replenishing the fire.
The mate still crouched on the hearth, the dull red fire-glow on his handsome face, patiently trying to roast the kid and poking it against the embers.
He had heavy, strong limbs in his khaki clothes, but his hand that held the spit was brown and tender and sensitive, a real Mediterranean hand.
The girovago, blond, round-faced, mature and aggressive with all his liveliness, was more like a northerner.
In the background were four or five other men, of whom I had distinguished none but a stout soldier, probably chief carabiniere.
* * * * * Just as the q-b was working up to the rage I had at last calmed down from, appeared the shawl-swathed girl announcing "Pronto!"
"Pronto!
Pronto!"
said everybody.
"High time, too," said the q-b, springing from the low bench before the fire.
"Where do we eat?
Is there another room?"
"There is another room, Signora," said the carabiniere.
So we trooped out of the fire-warmed dungeon, leaving the girovago and his mate and two other men, muleteers from the road, behind us.
I could see that it irked my girovago to be left behind.
He was by far the strongest personality in the place, and he had the keenest intelligence.
So he hated having to fall into the background, when he had been dragging all the lime-light on to himself all the evening.
To me, too, he was something of a kindred soul that night.
But there we are: fate, in the guise of that mysterious division between a respectable life and a scamp's life divided us.
There was a gulf between me and him, between my way and his.
He was a kindred spirit--but with a hopeless difference.
There was something a bit sordid about him--and he knew it.
That is why he was always tipsy.
Yet I like the lone wolf souls best--better than the sheep.
If only they didn't feel mongrel inside themselves.
Presumably a scamp is bound to be mongrel.
It is a pity the untamable, lone-wolf souls should always become pariahs, almost of choice: mere scamps.
Top and bottom of it is, I regretted my girovago, though I knew it was no good thinking of him.
His way was _not_ my way.
Yet I regretted him, I did.
