16

It’s called “Egle’s.” It’s an old pie-house, or that’s what he’s heard people call it. The walls are covered in white tiles and behind a zinc-topped counter Signora Egle bustles about a small wood-fired oven serving cakes and pies. Spino sits at one of the little marble tables and a grey-aproned waitress with the haggard look of a cloistered nun comes with a cloth to wipe up the crumbs the last customer left. He orders a chickpea pie and then, as instructed, lays a copy of the Gazzetta Ufficiale on the table in full view. He begins to check out the other customers and speculate as to who they are. At the table next to his are two middle-aged blonde women chattering in low voices, occasionally exploding in shrill laughter. They look well-heeled and are wearing gauche, expensive clothes. They could be two retired whores who’ve invested their earnings well and now run a shop, or some business related to their previous profession, but dignified now by this façade of respectability. Sitting in a corner is a young lout bundled up in a thick jacket and engrossed in a magazine from the cover of which a fat orange-clad guru wags a warning finger at the plate of pie in front of him. Then there’s a spry-looking old man, hair dyed a black that takes on a reddish tint about the temples, as cheap dyes often do. He has a gaudy tie and brown-and-white shoes with patterns of tiny holes. Wheeler-dealer, pimp, widower in the grip of a mad desire for adventure? Could be anything. Finally there’s a lanky man leaning against the counter. He’s chatting to Signora Egle and smiling, showing off an enormous gap in his upper teeth. He has a horsey profile and greased-back hair, a jacket that doesn’t manage to cover his bony wrists, jeans. Signora Egle seems determined not to concede something the lanky character is insisting on. Then, with an expression of surrender, she moves to one end of the counter and puts a record on a decrepit phonograph that looked as if it were purely decorative. The record is a 78 and rumbles; there are a couple of bursts from a band and then a falsetto voice starts up, distorted by the scratches the disc carries in its grooves. Incredibly, it’s Il tango delle capinere, sung by Rabagliati. The lanky character sends a nod of complicity in the direction of the waitress and she, unresisting but sullen, lets herself be led in a long-stepping tango that immediately captures the attention of the clientele. The girl leans a cheek on the chest of her beau, which is as far as her height allows her to reach, but she’s having all kinds of trouble keeping up with his powerful strides as he leads her aggressively about the room. They finish with a supple casqué and everybody claps. Even Spino joins in, then opens his paper, pushing his plate away, and pretends to be absorbed in the Gazzetta Ufficiale.

Meanwhile the boy with the guru on his magazine gets up dreamily and pays his bill. Going out he doesn’t deign to give anyone in the room a single glance, as if he had too much on his mind. The two big blonde women are repairing their make-up and two cigarettes with traces of lipstick on the filters burn in their ashtray. They leave chuckling, but no one shows any special interest in Spino, nor in the paper he’s reading. He raises his eyes from the paper and his gaze meets that of the spry old man. There follows a long and intense exchange of glances and Spino feels a light coating of sweat on the palms of his hands. He folds his paper and puts his pack of cigarettes on top, waiting for the first move. Perhaps he should do something, he thinks, but he’s not sure what. Meanwhile the girl has finished clearing the tables and has started spreading damp sawdust on the floor, sweeping it along the tiles with a broom taller than herself. Signora Egle is going through the day’s takings behind the counter. The room is quiet now, the air thick with breath, with cigarettes, with burnt wood. Then the spry little old man smiles: it’s a trite, mechanical smile, accompanied by the slightest jerk of the head and then another gesture that tells all. Spino sees the misunderstanding he’s been encouraging, immediately turns red with embarrassment, then senses, rising within him, a blind anger and intolerance towards this place, towards his own stupidity. He makes a sign to the girl and asks for his bill. She approaches wearily, drying her hands on her apron. She adds up his bill on a paper napkin; her hands are red and swollen with a coating of sawdust sticking to their backs, they might be two chops sprinkled with breadcrumbs. Then, giving him an insolent look, she mutters in a toneless voice: “You’re losing your hair. Reading after eating makes you lose your hair.” Spino looks at her astonished, as though not believing his ears. It can’t be her, he thinks, it can’t be. And he almost has to hold himself back from attacking this little monster who goes on giving him her arrogant stare. But she, still in that detached, professional tone, is telling him about a herbalist who sells things for hair, on Vico Spazzavento.