The Dividing Stream by Francis King

which he assumed that he himself did not do because he lacked the courage, and this contemptuous exclamation at once made him wince. Like most younger brothers, he very much wanted Giorgio’s good opinion.
    ‘‘If it were an ordinary girl,’’ he tried to explain, ‘‘it would be different. But you know she isn’t all there. Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s doing.’’
    Twisting the tongs in the flame of the stove, Giorgio laughed: ‘‘She knows what she’s doing all right. You can take that from me. And she likes it!’’
    ‘‘Then perhaps that makes it worse. Perhaps she loves you.’’
    ‘‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’’ said Giorgio coolly. He looked round for a piece of paper on which to test the tongs and stooped to the floor. He whistled. ‘‘What’s this?’’ The wad he had picked up was Enzo’s three thousand lire.
    ‘‘They’re mine. They must have fallen out of my shirt when I was undressing.’’
    ‘‘Where did you get them?’’
    ‘‘I was given them.’’
    ‘‘Oh, yes?’’ Giorgio still held the three notes in one hand, while with the other he grasped the curling-tongs. ‘‘ You were given them,’’ he mocked. ‘‘And by whom?’’
    The inquisition continued, as the older boy avenged himself on the younger for the disapproval which had somehow blunted the edge of his night’s adventure. When he had learnt all the facts, he looked out of the window and, seeing his father, slouched in a chair with his pipe, while his mother still sewed, called down: ‘‘Hi, there! Enzo’s come home with three thousand lire. He was trying to keep it dark, the little miser.’’
    ‘‘What! Where’d he get it?’’ came back the thick, slurred voice of their father. ‘‘What? … That’s all very fine, but he lives here for nothing, does no work, hasn’t done any for two years. The rent’s overdue, he knows that.’’
    Enzo had all along guessed this would happen if he showed them the money and now, cursing himself for his carelessness, he determined not to give in. His father shouted up, he shouted down; Giorgio intruded his cool, sharp comments. His mother pleaded—the money was Enzo’s, had been given him for the doctor, and should be used for that purpose. Rubbish, exclaimed Signor Rocchigiani. There was nothing wrong with the boy—except idleness. He could play football, couldn’t he? Well, couldn’t he? The once quiet Borgo echoed with their recriminations, heads appeared at windows, a woman’s voice shouted to them to shut up and Signor Rocchigiani shouted to her to do something obscene in return; until, after many minutes, Enzo saw the three notes fluttering slowly down from his brother’s smooth, beautifully manicured fingers into his father’s grasp. ‘‘ No, Luigi,’’ his mother once again protested: but the notes were thrust into the purse sewn inside Signor Rocchigiani’s greasy belt.
    ‘‘Thank you,’’ Enzo said bitterly to his brother.
    ‘‘It wasn’t my fault. He told me to chuck the money to him.’’
    ‘‘You didn’t have to do what he told you.’’
    ‘‘That’s fine, coming from you. You’re always telling me I should have more respect for Mum and Dad.’’ But being naturally good-hearted, in so far as selfishness, vanity and weakness allowed him to be, Giorgio now felt guilty. ‘‘ I’m sorry, Enzo,’’ he said. His brother had stretched himself out on the bed where they both slept together, and Giorgio went and sat beside him, putting out a hand to ruffle the younger boy’s hair.
    ‘‘Oh, have it your own way, then,’’ Giorgio said. He picked up the tongs which had cooled during the argument and once again twisted them in the flame.
    A girl’s voice was fluting plaintively: ‘‘Mummy! Mummy! What was all the noise about? We can’t sleep’’; and their mother could be heard answering: ‘‘It’s nothing, dear. Go back to bed. Back to bed.’’ Giorgio was singing to himself as, standing