Tales of Italy/Midday

The sun melts in the blue midday sky, pouring its hot rainbow-hued rays on to sea and earth. The drowsy sea exhales an opalescent mist, the blue water gleams like steel, and a strong scent of brine is wafted ashore.

The waves plash lazily against the grey boulders, spill over their backs and on to the whispering pebbles; they are small waves, as transparent as glass and untouched by foam.

A purple haze enwraps the mountains, the grey olive leaves are like old silver in the sunlight, the dark velvety green of the gardens terracing the hills is lit up by the golden glow of lemons and oranges, the scarlet pomegranate blossoms smile their vivid smile, and there are flowers, flowers everywhere.

The sun truly loves this earth.

Two fishermen are on the rocky shore. One is an old man in a straw hat, with a round face and a grey stubble on his cheeks and chin, eyes half hidden in fat, a red nose and hands bronzed by the sun. Holding his slender fishing-rod far out over the water, he sits on a rock, his hairy legs dangling and the green waves leap up and lick his feet and heavy bright drops of water fall off his into the sea.

Behind the old man, leaning his elbow on a boulder, stands a dark-eyes, swarthy-skinned young man, tall and slender, with a red cap on his head, a white jersey stretched over his powerful chest, and blue trousers tucked up to the knees. He twirls his moustache and stares thoughtfully out to sea to where the black strips of fishing boats are bobbing gently on the water, and in the far distance a motionless white sail, like a fluffy cloud melting in the heat, is faintly visible.

"Is she rich, the signora?" the old man asks in a hoarse voice, pulling in his line.

"I believe so," the young man replies softly. "She wore a brooch with a big blue stone, ear-rings and a great many rings and a watch. American, I think."

"And is she beautiful?"

"Oh yes! Very slender, it is true, but eyes like flowers and a tiny open mouth…"

"That is the mouth of an honest woman and one who loves but once in her life."

"That is what I think."

The old man swung up his rod, looked at the empty hook through narrow eyes, grunted and remarked with a chuckle:

"Fish are no more foolish than we."

"Who goes fishing at midday?" said the young man, dropping on to his haunches.

"I do," said the old man and he baited his hook. Throwing the line far out into the sea, he said:

"You rowed till morning, you say?"

"Yes, the sun was already rising when we came ashore," replied the young man with a deep sigh.

"Twenty lire?"

"Yes."

"She could have given more."

"What did you two talk about?"

The young man's head drooped sadly.

"She knows no more than ten words of Italian, and so we were silent…"

"True love," said the old man, turning to him and showing his white teeth in a broad smile, "strikes the heart like lightning and is as silent as lightning, too, surely you know that?"

Picking up a big stone, the young man was about to throw it out into the sea, but changed his mind and threw it over his shoulder instead.

"Sometimes," he said, "you wonder why people need so many different languages."

"They say that one day it will not be so," remarked the old man after a pause.

A white steamer, like the shadow of a cloud, slid noiselessly in the milky haze at the far edge of the sea's expanse.

"Bound for Sicily," said the old man, nodding in its direction.

He produced a long, rough, black cigar from somewhere, broke it in two and handed the young man a half over his shoulder.

"What were you thinking of when you sat with her in that boat?"

"A man always thinks of happiness…"

"That is why he is always a fool," observed the old man.

They lighted up. The blue spirals of smoke curled over the stones in the still air which was saturated with the satisfying smell of the fecund earth and the gentle water.

"I sang to her and she smiled to me…"

"And what then?"

"Well, you know I am not much of a singer."

"No."

"So I rested the oars and gazed at her."

"You did?"

I gazed at her and thought to myself—here am I, young and strong, and you are bored. Love me and let me live a good life.

"Is she bored?"

"Who will travel to a strange land if he is not poor and if he is happy?"

"Bravo!"

"I vow to you by the Virgin Mary," I thought to myself, "that I will be good to you and that everyone will be happy around us…"

"Ecco!" exclaimed the old man, and he threw back his big head and laughed heartily.

"I shall be true to you always…"

"Hm…"

"Or, I thought, we will live together for a while and I shall love you as much as you wish, and then you will give me money to buy a boat and tackle and a plot of land and I shall return to my own country and remember you with gratitude all my life."

"That is not foolish…"

"Then toward morning, I thought that perhaps I did not want anything. I did not want money, I only wanted her, at least for that one night."

"That is simpler."

"For only one night!"

"Ecco!" said the old man.

"It seems to me, Uncle Petro, that a little happiness is always more honest…"

The old man said nothing. He pursed his big lips and stared out at the green water, while the young man began to sing on a soft sad note:

"O sole mio…"

"Yes, yes," the old man said suddenly, shaking his head. "A little happiness is more honest, but much happiness is better still. Poor men are handsomer, the rich are more powerful. And thus it is in all things!"

The waves continued their ceaseless murmur. Blue wisps of smoke floated over the heads of the men like haloes. The young man rose to his feet, humming a tune with the cigar in a corner of his mouth. He stood with his shoulder leaning against a grey boulder, his arms folded over his chest, gazing out to sea with a dreamy look in his eyes.

And the old man sat motionless, his head lowered. He seemed to be dozing.

The purple shadows in the mountains thickened and grew softer.

"O sole mio!" sang the young man.