Elmer Taflinger
July 1925
Florence, Italy

"Encore birra, encore birra, una sandweech jambone e" -- I spluttered as I searched for the word "pickle" in Italian vainly. "You know," I gesticulated, with the dumbness of an American who doesn't know the language. I bewildered the Italian waiter still further by saying over and over again "Pickle, pickle, pickle," with different inflections and a continued rising tone of voice until finally I was shouting "Pickle, pickle, you know, so long, so big around," and then pretending to eat something so long and so round. "Pickle," I finished up lamely. His expression was interested, most helpful, a quizzical frown furrowed the skin of his forehead. He cocked his head to one side, leaned a receptive ear my way and acted interested but as dumb as Chevvy when I told him to bring my Paul which lay behind him but got more interested in my forefinger that pointed. "Polottra Inglaise," I pointed to the short waiter as I questioned.

"Fatulez subito," he commanded, and Mutt joined us. My arms were windmilling by the time I conveyed to him my wishes. He seemed to be as much interested in my pantomimic contortions as the other. I expected him to burst into applause when I finished but I knew he didn't understand what I wanted.

I shouted "Heinz!"

"Non compisto, signor," he said.

"Signor, Heinz! Heinz! Pickle, pickle! Papier e crayon," I couldn't think of the blamed words in French, German.

Quickly they rushed me the paper. I'd have given anything to have had a magician's stock of tricks and to pull a white rabbit for the attention they gave me deserved such reward. Mutt and Jeff retured. They brought me the birra, the sandweech jambone, but thought possibly the pickle was English for paper as they went to sleep again.

I sipped the beer that it might not spoil and picked up the pencil. The whiteness of the paper was tempting. I sketched a few lines. I was only going to make a rough sketch but somehow the beer, the spirit, the atmosphere of Florence, the influence of the men whose works stood before me inspired and I put forth mighty efforts as the beer lessened in the glass and my flying pencil developed the image I desired on the paper. I didn't know whether to foreshorten it, show it from underneath, from the top. I contemplated a cross-section. I could taste the pickle in my mouth but all I could see in my pictorial brain was the profile pickle of a Heinz label. I carried it enough to tell my story with a few simple strokes. Why not make it a work of art, I thought. I'll have a fresh glass of beer to go with the sandwich when the pickle arrives so I started in shading, remembered every princple of drawing as I highlighted and shaded each wart on the sides of the pickle. Crescent-like it curved. I loved its supple beauty as tenderly I cross-hatched in the darks with their consequent reflected lights and this little marring at the end was where the tender flower grew, and here is the stem that was severed cutting off forevermore from the parent-vine, the juicy tender fruit who was to live for me as its life was preserved in the acid of vinegar. I grew to love that pickle I intended to eat as I drew its portrait on the table and finished my glass of beer. The Italians, even the lowest, are artistic people, such efforts would be wasted in France or in America but not in Italy, home of Michelangelo.

"Ecco! Finis! Comeriera," I banged on the tabletop, my labors finished. The tall one came, his long white apron flopping in the breeze his hurried stride had caused.

"Signor commandez."

I gestured, open-handed to the result of my labors, as I gazed far off, lost in the mists of time. The waiter was Michelangelo inspecting the work of my hand. Modesty forbade me to look at his face as his eyes took in the lines of my drawing. I wonder if he'll kiss me on both cheeks for such a noble work of art, I thought. He touched me on the shoulder. I looked up at his face. His face was furrowed before. It was furrowed more now. He pointed with his finger to my drawing with a questioning look. "Si, si," I said.

Slowly he turned, carrying the paper with him. His partner commanded and joined him. The two of them gazed at the paper. Tenderly they held it. They respect the slightest art, I thought. I don't wonder at their amazement. They broke forth in an animated conversation, one finger pointed, then the other as they talked. Then they turned, one called and the pudgy proprietaire himself came out and three pairs of eyes looked at what I had wrought and the conversation went faster. More furious their arms moved. Once the paper fluttered to the floor. They were quick to rescue it. Pardon me, I thought, for creating such consternation in Florence. That's only a simple work of art. You should see what I really can do. I longed for words to tell them. There was an old man, a patron, who slept every day just inside the doors of the establishment. He was roused from his slumbers, gazed in awe at turn. The sandweech was tempting. It's all right to admire my art but hurry with the pickle. I pounded the table, I drew their attention. The quartette turned. They pointed to the paper.

"Si, si. Pickle, pickle, pickle!" I said. And I opened my mouth and clicked my teeth as I bit, fed an imaginary pickle to my jaws. You can admire my art afterwards, I thought. Feed me now. Tripping along, swinging his books came a little boy about eight years old, the bright olive-skinned son of the proprietor and he joined the group. His face took on a look of interest, of marvel, as he gazed in turn. He came to my table.

"Signor, I speak Engleesh, I studya heem verra good in schoola."

"Bravo! Picklo Italienne."

"Poppa, proprietterre," he searched for the word. I supplied in Italian the word for drawing,"desinarre," and added the compliment he meant to express. "Bene, molto bene. Io solo pittora Americane. I am an artist of America."

"You wanta eata desinare?"

Hell, they thought I was making a drawing for their benefit. They didn't understand I wanted to eat the pickle.

"Eat! Eat!"

"Si! Si!"

"You can have the drawing but give me a pickle!"

He departed. The four retured to the interior of the restaurant. I waited. I saw them consulting, inspecting something in the dimness and then the long waiter, tucking up his apron and hurrying for an Italian, came out and went down the street. He returned in a few minutes, went in, at last to my relief, I saw him coming forth, his four fellows standing in the doorway as he advanced. The fat proprietor, the Mutt waiter, the old habitue, and the bright-eyed boy watched as he served me a plate. On one side was my drawing and matching it superbly, what had caused their distress, their dismay, lay their interpretation of my drawing in the shape of a small banana with a myriad of fly-specks, such a manner had they interpreted my careful rendering of the warts.

I gave up the battle for pickle that day. That drawing still stays in my head. Any time I think I've done something marvellous I examine it with closer eyes as I think of that drawing in Florence.