IN SICILY
Kill
a man, and he will
be
something more than a man. Similarly a
man who
is
sick or starving
is
more than a man: and more human
is
the human race of the starving.
I turned to my mother: "What do you think of them?"
"Of whom?" my mother said.
"Of the sick people to whom you give injections."
"I think they won't
be
able to pay me perhaps," said my mother.
"All right," said
I.
"You go every day to them
all
the same,
give them injections, and hope they will be able to pay you in return
in one way or another. But what d'you think of them? What d'you
think
they are?"
"I don't hope," said my mother. "I know that one pays me
and another can't. I don't hope."
"Nevertheless you go to
all
of them,'' said
I.
"But what d'you
think of them?"
"Oh!" my mother exclaimed.
"If
I go for the sake of one, I can
go for the sake of another. It doesn't cost me anything."
"But what d'you think of them? What d'you think they are?"
I said.
My mother stopped when we were in the middle of the street,
and gave me a faintly squinting look. She smiled too, and said:
"What odd questions you ask me! What must I think they are?
They are poor people with a touch of consumption or a touch of
malaria.... "
I shook my head. I asked strange questions. My mother could
see that: but she did not give me strange replies. And that
is
what
I wanted, strange replies.
·
"Have you ever seen a Chinese?" I asked.
"Certainly," my mother said. "I've seen two or three.... They
come
this
way selling necklaces."
"Good," said
I.
"When you have a Chinese before you, and
you look at him and see he's got no coat on though it's cold, and
his
suit's tattered and his shoes tom, what do you think of him?"
"Oh, nothing special," my mother replied. "I see many others
here in our village who haven't got coats when it's cold and have
tattered suits and torn shoes. . . . "
"Good," 'Said
I.
"But he's a Chinese, who doesn't know our
language, can't speak to anyone and doesn't even laugh ever. He
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