Free The Innocent by Magdalen Nabb Page B

them because they seem to be so sensible and careful. This lad—what did you say his name was?’
    ‘Issino—well, that’s what we call him because his real name’s Issaye, or something like that, and it’s a bit difficult for us Italians. I’m not saying it right now, I don’t think.’
    ‘Issino … he seemed—I don’t know. He wasn’t keen to talk.’
    ‘Issino? No! Santini! The marshal’s asking about our Issino, says he’s not keen to talk.’
    Santini put down the bread he was dipping into his sauce and laughed. ‘Get him to tell you the one about St Peter and the prostitute, but you’ll have to finish it yourself.’
    ‘Sonia! Chicken for the marshal and a green salad. Green salad all right? Green salad and another quarter of red! Issino’s learning Italian and he wants to be able to tell jokes. He reckons that’s the test. You should see him. He struggles and struggles through the whole thing with everybody prompting him with the verbs and then, when he gets to the punchline—the only line he knows by heart—he cracks up laughing and can’t get it out.’
    ‘He eats here, then?’ The marshal glanced over the low hedge at the workshop but nothing was visible beyond the displayed shoes and the partially drawn linen curtain behind.
    ‘Once a week. But the other days he comes over for a coffee and a chat, and what he calls his Italian lesson. He hasn’t a bean. I think he eats something at his bench the other days.’
    ‘Peruzzi doen’t pay him much, then?’
    ‘Pay him? He doesn’t pay him. He’s teaching him. That’s how it works these days, Marshal. Foreigners come here to learn from our artisans and pay them for the privilege. Take on an Italian kid of fifteen who has to be taught everything and produces nothing for years and you’re into paying a wage plus huge contributions. Nobody can afford it. It’s a policy that’s all wrong and if the Left can’t get itself together and realise the damage—’
    ‘This apprentice,’ interrupted the marshal firmly,
    accepting his chicken from Sonia and reaching for the bread. ‘He must have money or how could he afford to be here at all? He must have rent to pay and if he doesn’t eat much, he still eats.’
    ‘That’s not the way it is. Listen. He used to work in a shoe factory, somewhere near Tokyo, don’t ask me to pronounce the name. He told us they have a raffle every year for the workers and the prize is a trip to Europe. You must have seen Japanese people, poor-looking, coming out of Gucci loaded with bags? They’re factory workers shopping for their friends who didn’t win the trip. Stuff here costs a tenth of what it costs in Tokyo. Anyway, that’s how Issino first came here and he decided that he wanted to come back so he saved every penny and here he is. He’ll stick it out, too, not like Akiko. We were all surprised that Akiko left but Peruzzi was beside himself. Best apprentice he’s ever had, walked out, just like that. You probably heard about it—no? Well, anyway, whichever way you look at it, it’s all skill that’s going out of the country. Our grandchildren will have to go to Japan to find a pair of Florentine shoes and to China for a bottle of Chianti—no, no, you can’t sit with us. The marshal and I are having a talk.’
    The printer and the packer had arrived together.
    ‘What’s for dinner?’
    ‘Pollo alla cacciatore.’
    They settled down at Santini’s table and shouted for Sonia.
    ‘Excuse me a minute.’ Lapo got up reluctantly. The four outside tables were occupied now and people were piling inside as all the workshops closed. ‘I’ll have to let Sonia go back inside. Let these other two places go, but keep mine. I’ll be back so we can talk a bit more. I always like talking to you. Eat up, now.’
    The marshal thought that Lapo liked talking to anybody and wondered at the patience of his hardworking wife and daughter. But the day was hot and sunny, the company lively and the chicken very