Even their parents drank very little of the wine. A sip or two was plenty, and then they each made the same face and drank no more.
I didn’t mind that a bit; there would be more to put back in the vat when they left. What I did mind was that, to get out of the hot sun, all dozen-plus of them had crowded into my tiny shop. It did not have room for such a mob. Three of the little ones had hopped over the counter to share my less congested side, and all three of Dr. Chi-Leong’s sons were sitting on the counter itself.
The old woman, who had been more or less continuously photographing me, said something peremptory to Dr. Chi-Leong. He nodded deferentially and addressed me again. “You are American, is that not true? And of course, if I may say so without giving offense, Indentured? If that is the case please answer me this question, so that my mother’s interest may be satisfied: Is your income from the Giubileo sufficient for your needs?”
No tourist had ever asked me that before, and I was caught without a good answer. “Yes” for the sake of my pride? “No” in the hope of a larger tip? “Mind your own business” as the most appropriate?
I was saved the trouble. An immense black shadow was passing over the Via dell’Abbondanza.
The youngest daughter-in-law, the one who hadn’t been given room in the wineshop and so had been partly out in the sunshine, glanced up, shading her eyes. Then she cried something in that singsong language that I had no hope of understanding. In a moment the shop emptied out of Singaporeans, because they were all photographing the sky.
Dr. Chi-Leong glanced back at me, pointing upward. “That airship is named the Chang Jang ,” he said proudly. “It is given that name after a major river system in the country of our ancestors, which is the country of China. It is this ship which has brought us here from Berlin and Moscow and other tourist places of that sort.”
By leaning over the counter and craning my neck, I could see what they were looking at. The Chang Jang was one of those giant lighter-than-air cruise zeppelins that turned up in the air of every interesting cruise destination, Pompeii definitely included. The colors this one flew from its tail said that it was a ship of the Cathay Pacifica line. It surely was a monster. I’m not talking here about something like the little air-yachts that rich people sometimes flew, or the blimps that do inter-city transportation. I’m talking large. Zeps in general were usually two kilometers long or so. This one, hanging less than a kilometer above the city wall, was even bigger. It filled the sky from horizon to horizon.
The old lady spoke, Dr. Chi-Leong said something in agreement, and the family began to move away. The doctor pulled out a roll of euros—actually ink-printed-on-paper euros, I mean—and scattered a selection of them to cover their bill. “We wish you a good-bye, Mr. Bradley Sheridan,” he said over his shoulder. “I hope that we shall meet again.”
“Sure, fine, thanks,” I called after them. I even meant it. The tips had been impressively good and they’d left at least a liter and a half of wine undrunk in their cups to replenish my vats.
When I finally got away from the wine vats it didn’t take me long to find Gerda. She was in the refectory, waiting for me. Looking healthy and well rested, too, as she sat by herself at a corner table, picking at some fruit salad the kitchen staff had made up for her. She gave me a welcoming hug, just as though we’d been old pals. Or even in fact old going-to-bed-together pals. “Things all right with you, Brad?” she asked. “Care for some pineapple?”
I took a piece of the pineapple and sat down before I answered her question. “Fine,” I said. “And you?”
“Well,” she said, thinking it over, “I guess you’d say I’m really well, Brad, only hungry. Want to eat here? Or shall we go out and get a pizza?”
There it was, another
I didn’t mind that a bit; there would be more to put back in the vat when they left. What I did mind was that, to get out of the hot sun, all dozen-plus of them had crowded into my tiny shop. It did not have room for such a mob. Three of the little ones had hopped over the counter to share my less congested side, and all three of Dr. Chi-Leong’s sons were sitting on the counter itself.
The old woman, who had been more or less continuously photographing me, said something peremptory to Dr. Chi-Leong. He nodded deferentially and addressed me again. “You are American, is that not true? And of course, if I may say so without giving offense, Indentured? If that is the case please answer me this question, so that my mother’s interest may be satisfied: Is your income from the Giubileo sufficient for your needs?”
No tourist had ever asked me that before, and I was caught without a good answer. “Yes” for the sake of my pride? “No” in the hope of a larger tip? “Mind your own business” as the most appropriate?
I was saved the trouble. An immense black shadow was passing over the Via dell’Abbondanza.
The youngest daughter-in-law, the one who hadn’t been given room in the wineshop and so had been partly out in the sunshine, glanced up, shading her eyes. Then she cried something in that singsong language that I had no hope of understanding. In a moment the shop emptied out of Singaporeans, because they were all photographing the sky.
Dr. Chi-Leong glanced back at me, pointing upward. “That airship is named the Chang Jang ,” he said proudly. “It is given that name after a major river system in the country of our ancestors, which is the country of China. It is this ship which has brought us here from Berlin and Moscow and other tourist places of that sort.”
By leaning over the counter and craning my neck, I could see what they were looking at. The Chang Jang was one of those giant lighter-than-air cruise zeppelins that turned up in the air of every interesting cruise destination, Pompeii definitely included. The colors this one flew from its tail said that it was a ship of the Cathay Pacifica line. It surely was a monster. I’m not talking here about something like the little air-yachts that rich people sometimes flew, or the blimps that do inter-city transportation. I’m talking large. Zeps in general were usually two kilometers long or so. This one, hanging less than a kilometer above the city wall, was even bigger. It filled the sky from horizon to horizon.
The old lady spoke, Dr. Chi-Leong said something in agreement, and the family began to move away. The doctor pulled out a roll of euros—actually ink-printed-on-paper euros, I mean—and scattered a selection of them to cover their bill. “We wish you a good-bye, Mr. Bradley Sheridan,” he said over his shoulder. “I hope that we shall meet again.”
“Sure, fine, thanks,” I called after them. I even meant it. The tips had been impressively good and they’d left at least a liter and a half of wine undrunk in their cups to replenish my vats.
When I finally got away from the wine vats it didn’t take me long to find Gerda. She was in the refectory, waiting for me. Looking healthy and well rested, too, as she sat by herself at a corner table, picking at some fruit salad the kitchen staff had made up for her. She gave me a welcoming hug, just as though we’d been old pals. Or even in fact old going-to-bed-together pals. “Things all right with you, Brad?” she asked. “Care for some pineapple?”
I took a piece of the pineapple and sat down before I answered her question. “Fine,” I said. “And you?”
“Well,” she said, thinking it over, “I guess you’d say I’m really well, Brad, only hungry. Want to eat here? Or shall we go out and get a pizza?”
There it was, another
Similar Books
