Besides, there was the military service looming close at
hand; and then, a widowed mother at home - the inevitable mother - with a
couple of little sisters; how shall a man desert his family? He was born
on a farm on the Murge, the watershed between this country and the
Adriatic. Thinking of the Murge, that shapeless and dismal range of
limestone hills whose name suggests its sad monotony, I began to
understand the origin of his pagan wistfulness.
"Happy foreigners!" - such was his constant refrain - "happy foreigners,
who can always do exactly what they like! Tell me something about other
countries," he said.
"Something true?"
"Anything - anything!"
To cheer him up, I replied with improbable tales of Indian life, of
rajahs and diamonds, of panthers whose eyes shine like moonbeams in the
dark jungle, of elephants huge as battleships, of sportive monkeys who
tie knots in each others' tails and build themselves huts among the
trees, where they brew iced lemonade, which they offer in friendliest
fashion to the thirsty wayfarer, together with other light
refreshment - -
"Cigarettes as well?"
"No. They are not allowed to cultivate tobacco."
"Ah, that monopolio, the curse of humanity!"
He was almost smiling when, at 2.30 a.m., there resounded a furious
knocking at the door, and the rest of the band appeared from their
unknown quarters in the liveliest of spirits. Altogether, a memorable
night.
