Marco’s pale face went fiery red. He answered with a violence which surprised the Montanas, “I hate their guts, Signor Montana!”
He seemed so upset that Rosa pulled his arm down and patted it soothingly.
“Marco has personal family reasons, Father,” she said.
“Which I’d prefer not to go into,” Marco said.
“We – well, I’ll not press you for them,” Antonio said, and continued to pull his lip. “But, you see, our family must marry someone with at least some talent for magic. Have you any ability there, Signor Andretti?”
Marco Andretti seemed to relax at this. He smiled, and gently took Rosa’s hands off his sleeve. Then he sang. Elizabeth had been right about his voice. It was a golden tenor. Uncle Lorenzo was heard to rumble that he could not think what a voice like that was doing outside the Milan Opera.
“A golden tree there grows, a tree
Whose golden branches bud with green…”
sang Marco. As he sang, the tree came into being, rooted in the carpet between Rosa and Antonio, first as a faint gold shadow, then as a rattling metal shape, dazzling gold in the shafts of sunlight from the windows. The Montanas nodded their appreciation. The trunk and each branch, even the smallest twig, was indeed pure gold.
But Marco sang on, and as he sang, the gold twigs put out buds, pale and fist-shaped at first, then bright and pointed. Instants later, the tree was in leaf. It was moving and rattling constantly to Marco’s singing. It put out pink and white flowers in clusters, which budded, expanded and dropped, as quickly as flames in a firework. The room was full of scent, then of petals fluttering like confetti. Marco still sang, and the tree still moved. Before the last petal had fallen, pointed green fruit was swelling where the flowers had been. The fruit grew brownish and swelled, and swelled and turned bulging and yellow, until the tree drooped under the weight of a heavy crop of big yellow pears.
“…With golden fruit for everyone,”
Marco concluded. He put up a hand, picked one of the pears and held it, rather diffidently, out to Antonio.
There were murmurs of appreciation from the rest of the family. Antonio took the pear and sniffed it. And he smiled, to Marco’s evident relief. “Good fruit,” he said. “That was very elegantly done, Signor Andretti. But there is one more thing I must ask you. Would you agree to change your name to Montana? That is our custom, you see.”
“Yes, Rosa told me,” said Marco. “And – and this is a difficulty. My brother needs me in his firm, and he too wants to keep his family name. Would it be all right if I’m known as Montana when I’m here, and as – as Andretti when I’m at home with my brother?”
“You mean you and Rosa wouldn’t live here?” Antonio asked, astonished.
“Not all the time. No,” said Marco. From the way he said it, it was clear he was not going to change his mind.
This was serious. Antonio looked at Old Niccolo. And there were grave faces all round at the thought of the family being broken up.
“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” said Elizabeth.
“Well – my great-uncle did it,” Old Niccolo said. “But it was not a success. His wife ran off to Sicily with a greasy little warlock.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to!” Rosa said.
The family wavered, with the tree gently rattling in their midst. Everyone loved Rosa. Marco was clearly nice. Nobody wanted to break their hearts. But this idea of living away from the Casa—!
Aunt Francesca heaved herself forward, saying, “I side with Elizabeth. Our Rosa has found herself a nice boy with more talent and a better voice than I’ve seen outside our family for years. Let them get married.”
Antonio looked dreadfully worried at this, but he did not pull his lip. He seemed to be relaxing, ready to agree, when Rinaldo set the tree rattling furiously by pushing his way underneath it.
“Just a moment. Aren’t we all being a bit trustful? Who is this fellow, after all? Why haven’t we come across him and his talents before?”
Paolo hung his head and watched Rinaldo under his hair. This was Rinaldo in the mood he least admired. Rinaldo loud and aggressive, with an unpleasant twist to his mouth. Rinaldo was still a little pale from the cut on his head, but this went rather well with the black clothes and the red brigand’s scarf. Rinaldo knew it did. He flung up his head with an air, and contemptuously brushed off a petal that had fallen on his black sleeve. And he looked at Marco, challenging him to answer.
The way Marco looked back showed that he was quite ready to stand up to Rinaldo. “I’ve been at college in Rome until recently,” he said. “If that’s what you mean.”
Rinaldo swung round to face the family. “So he says,” he said. “He’s done a pretty trick for us, and said all the right things – but so would anyone in his place.” He swung round on Marco. It was so dramatic that Tonino winced and even Paolo felt a little unhappy. “I don’t trust you,” said Rinaldo. “I’ve seen your face before somewhere.”
“At the Old Bridge,” said Marco.
“No, not there. It was somewhere else,” said Rinaldo.
And this must be true, Tonino realised. Marco did have a familiar look. And Tonino could not have seen him at the Old Bridge, because Tonino had never been there.
“Do you want me to fetch my brother, or my priest, to vouch for me?” asked Marco.
“No,” said Rinaldo rudely. “I want the truth.”
Marco took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be unfriendly,” he said. The arm Rosa was not holding bent, and so did the fist on the end of it. Rinaldo gave it a look as if he welcomed it, and swaggered a step nearer.
“Please!” Rosa said uselessly.
Benvenuto moved in Tonino’s arms. Into Tonino’s head came a picture of a large stripy tomcat swaggering on the Casa roof – Benvenuto’s roof. Tonino nearly laughed. Benvenuto’s muscular back legs pushed him backwards into Paolo as Benvenuto took off. Benvenuto landed between Rinaldo and Marco. There was a gentle “Ah!” from the rest of the family. They knew Benvenuto would settle it.
Benvenuto deliberately ignored Rinaldo. Arching himself tall, with his tail straight up like a cypress tree, he minced to Marco’s legs and rubbed himself round them. Marco undoubled his fist and bent to hold his hand out to Benvenuto. “Hallo,” he said. “What’s your name?” He paused, for Benvenuto to tell him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Benvenuto,” he said.
The “Ah!” from the family was loud and long this time. It was followed by cries of, “Get out of it, Rinaldo! Don’t make a fool of yourself! Leave Marco alone!”
Though Rinaldo was nothing like as easily crushed as Domenico, even he could not stand up to the whole family. When he looked at Old Niccolo and saw Old Niccolo waving him angrily aside, he gave up and shoved his way out of the room.
“Rosa and Marco,” said Antonio, “I give my provisional consent to your marriage.”
Upon that, everyone hugged everyone else, shook hands with Marco and kissed Rosa. Very flushed and happy, Marco plucked pear after pear from the golden tree and gave them to everyone, even the newest baby. They were delicious pears, ripe to perfection. They melted in mouths and dribbled down chins.
“I don’t want to be a spoilsport,” Aunt Maria said, slurping juice in Paolo’s ear, “but a tree in the Saloon is going to be a nuisance.”
But Marco had thought of that. As soon as the last pear was picked, the tree began to