But Mack the Knife spilt out on to the pavement, upsetting the barber shop owner next door, the sign ran in the rain, and soon Salvatore brought the stool back to the bar. The pigeons in the yard grew fat on unbought food. Never mind, said my mother. It takes time. Now he cooks for the sailors, who want egg and chips or bacon in starchy white rolls, and the cafe is busy.
Sailors bring in girls, and girls attract trade.
Salvatore fries everything in the flat black pan on the stove, his thinning hair stuck to his head with steam. The combed strands come unglued throughout the day, falling one by one in lank array over his left ear. He pretends to be a widower so that the night girls will pity him. In fact he is married to Carlotta, who is respectable, and will not enter The Port of Call, our cafe. Salvatore loves my mother and my father and my sisters.