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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781564783066 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Deep Vellum Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2002 |
| Series: | American Literature |
| Edition description: | 1ST |
| Pages: | 295 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.54(w) x 8.52(h) x 0.82(d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Joseph Papaleo (1925-2004) was an Italian American novelist, and academic. He grew up in The Bronx. He graduated from Sarah Lawrence College, from Columbia University with an M.A., and from the University of Florence with a Ph.D.
Dalkey Archive Press
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
The Kidnap
In those improving years after the Depression, when Mrs. Bonomo next door prepared meals every day for a family of twenty-two, and when all the families in the Bronx neighborhood ate Sunday dinner outside under their grape arbors, it was well-known along Lorin Place that Mr. Mauro's raincoat business was doing well. If anyone coveted his good fortune, it was Gualtieri, whose house was on the corner. Gualtieri was called "Mussolini" because though he ranted, he did little else but break up the stickball games that the boys played when the mornings were warm.
On just such a warm morning, Reni Mauro found a letter in the mail on the porch, addressed to MAURO. She read it in the sunlight and then walked quickly to the kitchen.
"Ma, listen," she said. Her mother tried to release her thoughts from the nostalgia of Naples and the pots which were already bubbling with the evening meal. "This letter that just came, Ma. Maybe it's a joke, but listen: 'Have five hundred dollars in a bag in two weeks. Go to the corner of Arthur Street at eight o'clock at night. Don't call the police. Otherwise we will kidnap your children.'"
"Let me see," Mrs. Mauro said. She picked up the crudely written letter, but she could not read the English. "Your father's sister," she said. "I know it in my blood."
"What are we going to do?"
"Shut the door."
Reni went to obey her mother and returned a little pale, having begun creating a reality.
All day they listened wearily from the kitchen for dangerous sounds down the hall. At three o'clock they both waited on the porch for little Johnny to come home from school. He became very angry when they immediately ordered him to stay in the backyard and play.
"What did I do?" he asked with a nasal whine, the common accent of the neighborhood.
"Listen to me!" his mother shouted, touching off a little panic inside her.
"She can't explain," Reni said. "You didn't do anything. But do what she says."
"If I did something, I wouldn't mind," Johnny protested to his sister, an ally of reason in these situations.
"Listen to me!" his mother screamed. "I am your mother. Don't leave the backyard."
"This ain't no Italy," Johnny said, beginning to articulate his ten-year-old rebellion in the fashion of his older brothers.
Reni watched him from a kitchen window as her mother nervously brought the supper preparations to completion.
"A lot we could do if anything happened," she said.
Mrs. Mauro shook her head and held her hair with her hands to keep inner control.
Five minutes after the six o'clock El arrived at the neighborhood station, Mr. Mauro reached the porch.
"It's so good to breathe here," he told his daughter who was waiting on the porch. "What a difference from downtown."
He stood on the stoop and inhaled deeply, soothing his curved mustache with his fingers. The gray and red wooden house fronts of the block absorbed the last rays of spring evening.
"Look, Bonomo has painted his fence. I like to see color. You know, Reni, we need more color to the house."
"Pa, I have something to show you."
As soon as Mr. Mauro finished the letter he came inside. "Wait until Johnny is in bed," he said.
Al came home last, because he worked all the way downtown, near Wall Street. Mr. Mauro insisted that they eat in the backyard under the grapes, because it was warm. A few of the other families were out to receive the last warmth of the day, and the Neapolitan and Sicilian shouts carried over the fences until it was dark, time for Johnny to go to sleep.
* * *
When Mrs. Mauro came downstairs to say that Johnny was asleep, Reni put the small glasses and the tangerine liqueur her mother had made on the table, because there would be guests.
As they sat down solemnly, Al said, "I'd like to get them in my bare hands. I'd crush them."
"Oh, stop," his mother said in fear.
"Don't start that," Reni said to her brother. "You'll scare Mama to death."
Mr. Mauro twitched. He rubbed his black mustache like a judge and looked down the long table. "Pasquale and Victor will be coming any minute. I also gave Fonzi a ring."
"Fonzi," his wife repeated, shocked. "Why Fonzi? Maybe even Fonzi did it? I don't trust that hog."
"Nobody trusts him. But he knows everything that goes on. And for a price he tells it."
"Who's Fonzi?" Al asked his sister as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
"Don't you know him? He married Assunta, Aunt Katherine's oldest daughter. He never works. And he's fat as a horse. Some people say he's a crook. You didn't go to Assunta's wedding? Boy, wait and you see him."
As they waited, Reni went to the mirror where she passed on her complexion. What the city had done to fade the olive color even here in the green and tree-filled Bronx, she now covered with rouge.
"You know, I'm getting scared," she said to her image. She stepped to the window that looked out upon the backyard, but from the lighted kitchen it was completely black outside.
"Come away," her mother suddenly called.
Reni turned to look at her mother. The signs connoting an emergency were clear: the strands of usually well-combed hair, now becoming dry and difficult to manage, stuck out uncombed, while the always-moving hands kept rosary beads spinning in endless harmony with her lips.
"This is your sister's work," Mrs. Mauro said to her husband. "I know it in my blood."
Her husband did not contradict her. "If it is, it is that evil eye she married. Marino the devil. He would do a thing like this."
"You mean Aunt Katherine?" Al was amused. "She's a toothless nut. But would she send a ransom note?"
"Marino, her husband, is from la Mafia," his father explained. "They all do the blackmail. Down in Manhattan."
"Holy Mackerel," Al said. "Crazy Aunt Katherine." There was a hint of admiration in his surprise.
The doorbell rang and Mrs. Mauro jumped up. "I go, I go."
* * *
It was Uncle Pasquale and Victor. Mrs. Mauro kissed her eldest son after he had reported on the health of his children. Then, as Victor walked to the kitchen, she turned to her brother: "Oh Pasquale," she whispered hurriedly, "it's terrible. Help us. His cousin's at work. I know. Help us."
Pasquale handed her a paper bag as he nodded. "It's from Concetta. The lace she promised you."
"She made this with her hands! What a saint she is. Such lovely work."
She paused to examine the contents of the bag as her tall brother looked down at her. The joy of the lace, mixed with the fear of the letter, animated her face with an unusual quiver as the mixed emotions expressed themselves in turn.
Mr. Mauro welcomed Victor to the kitchen: "Come in, come in. How's my little grandson?"
"He's fine, he's fine, Pop. We just now put him to bed. Helen sends her best regards."
"Thank you," his father answered gratefully, happy that ritual had not been forgotten.
"Did you hear about it?" Al asked Vic. "Let's you and me get those bastards. Remember how we beat up the Hawks boys? And that was three of them."
"Sure, sure," Vic said, patting Al's blond pompadour. "We'll get them, Al."
Al took a deep breath and smiled victoriously at Reni, who awaited Uncle Pasquale. Vic rested his arm on Al's shoulders, offering the gesture of security that had been Al's since he had first joined Vic in the backyard play place. Al smiled at him.
When Pasquale sat down and accepted a glass of his sister's liqueur, Mr. Mauro began the story. Reni brought the letter from inside, where it had been hidden in the desk.
Vic stared at Uncle Pasquale's large hands as Pasquale studied the note. Mrs. Mauro finally moved Pasquale's homburg to the telephone table so that no drops of liqueur might stain it.
"Well, what do you think?" Mr. Mauro asked. Being a lawyer, Pasquale would speak with the authority they needed.
"This is a joke or a fake. Or maybe the work of somebody who knows very little about blackmail. The date of the payment is not even mentioned. Look."
The letter was reexamined by Mr. Mauro and handed to Vic.
Reni and her mother acted as handmaidens, urging the men to take coffee or cookies, more liqueur, or fresh fruit. Only Al accepted liqueur, and his mother cautioned him about excess.
"I'd just like to meet those guys," Al said after Vic had given him the letter.
"Fonzi will get us the information," Pasquale said. "If it's the real thing, it's somebody who knows you well."
"It could be any of Papa's cousins," Reni said indelicately. "You know how they are."
Her father looked hurt, but he did not answer. His wife stared at him accusingly.
* * *
At nine thirty the bell rang, and it was Fonzi. He slid down the hall as though his soles were thick in syrup. He was short, but enormously fat. When he talked, it was impossible to notice anything but his stomach. He bowed slightly as he entered the kitchen.
"Hello, Uncle Lou, hello, Aunt Rose, hello, Cousin Vic, Al, Reni. Hello, Uncle Pasquale. How's little Johnny, Aunt Rose? Sleeping sound I bet? How are you feeling, Uncle Lou?"
His familiarity annoyed them all. As Mr. Mauro told him about the letter, his lips made a slight smile. His reddened, watery eyes never looked at anyone in the room. They seemed fixed on the crucifix hanging on the opposite wall.
"Yes," he said when his uncle had finished, "it could be Katherine. But who can tell, who can tell?"
"Make a visit to Manhattan," Pasquale said.
"Sure, Uncle, I could do that. That's a good idea." He turned to Mr. Mauro. "But Uncle Lou, you know how I am. Look at my pants. Full of holes. I don't even have money for carfare. You never know what you need in things like this, or where you have to go to get the right news."
"Don't worry about that," Mr. Mauro answered.
"Gee, thanks, Uncle Lou. You have a little to help Fonzi, don't you? Fonzi has a big stomach, don't you think?" He turned to Al, and patted his stomach.
Reni blushed and Al was frightened by Fonzi's vulgar assurance. When no one acknowledged Fonzi's joke, he shut his dripping eyes and continued: "What a big stomach Fonzi has, eh? Nice and round. Got to keep it fed. Aunt Rose, you have a piece of bread for Fonzi?"
Mrs. Mauro went to the back porch where she kept the bread and the wine. When she placed the bottle and the loaf at the end of the table, Fonzi asked for some cheese.
"Here's provolone," she said, handing him a thick slice and stepping back.
"Thank you, Aunt Rose. Got to fill it up, ain't that right? Ain't that right, Al? I can't go far without eating."
After he had finished two glasses of wine, he wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Mrs. Mauro rushed for a napkin.
"It's all right, Aunt Rose. Don't get no napkins for Fonzi," he said, laughing.
As he ate, he saw that he was the center of attention, but he did not know why. "It could be Aunt Katherine," he said to their inquiring faces. He offered the cheese, but no one accepted.
"You don't know Marino, do you, Uncle Lou?"
"I met him at your wedding?"
"You was at my wedding," Fonzi said proudly. "But that's a long time ago. Time flies, they say. Well, Marino is a mean man. You should ask Assunta, his own daughter. She could tell you. And I could tell you, too. How he never gave us a thing, except he paid for the wedding. How he threatened me, to beat me up."
"Is he with la Mafia?" Pasquale asked.
"Some say that, Uncle, some say that. Once, they say, he got in trouble on the docks." Fonzi licked the oil on his fingernails that had oozed from the cheese, to Al's horror. Al turned to his mother, who stood holding her rosary instead of looking severe.
"They say," Fonzi continued, "Marino went away a while. You know, up the river, they say." Fonzi smiled at his secret. "Marino was making extortion."
Mrs. Mauro sat down and looked around quickly, as though someone had entered the house. The sight of her brother puffing his Tuscan cigar relieved her.
"Well, do what you can," Pasquale said. "And come to my office tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Uncle Pasquale," Fonzi said, and stood up obediently. "What time tomorrow?"
"Eleven o'clock."
"Uncle, why don't you see the cops?" Fonzi asked. "You know them good at the precinct." Fonzi started to leave, and Al and Vic pushed their chairs in to let him pass.
"No cops," Pasquale said. "We'll try to settle it quietly. Cops will make trouble."
"Sure, Uncle." Fonzi smiled. "You know what's best. That's the best thing, isn't it, Uncle Lou? Settle it quiet. Nice and quiet. Isn't that right?"
* * *
Mr. Mauro stared at Fonzi's averted eyes, and then back to his spherical stomach. "Yes, I don't want to make noise. The cops bring your name in the papers. Then the people start talking and everybody thinks you have gold in the cellar."
"You're smart, Uncle Lou. Sure. Well, good night." Fonzi offered his hand. He saw Mr. Mauro wipe his own hand after he had shaken. "Ooh, I'm sorry, Uncle Lou. I got some provolone on you."
"That's all right, that's all right," Mr. Mauro said in an angry tone, holding his right hand behind his back.
"Good night, Uncle Pasquale. Good night, Aunt Rose, Cousin Vic, Al. Good night, Cousin Reni." Fonzi extended the ritual because he knew they wanted him to go.
"Best regards to Assunta and the babies."
"Oh, thank you, Aunt Rose," Fonzi said. "She'll be glad I came over. You don't have any clothes little Johnny doesn't use any more?"
"I'll look," said Mrs. Mauro, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Fonzi labored down the hall.
"What's the matter with the feet?" Mrs. Mauro said as she followed him slowly.
"Aunt Rose," he confided, suddenly mild and grateful, "it's my knees. They're all swollen. The doctor thinks it's water on the knee. Sometimes I can't walk, even. I'll be helpless."
He saw her eyes wet again. "Aunt Rose, don't worry," he said in this different tone. "I'll take care nothing happens to the baby. Remember, I have two kids of my own, one Johnny's age."
He left Mrs. Mauro in shock. "I'll send the clothes," she said as he shut the door.
In the kitchen Pasquale was making a summation: "There's no doubt Fonzi knows about it. Tomorrow I'll see O'Brien, the chief of detectives. We'll have to get some marked money. And you, Reni, go to school and tell them not to let Johnny go home with anybody who calls for him. Only members of the family."
"Yes, I'll go tomorrow morning."
"Maybe you'd better walk to school with him for the next two weeks. Until it's over."
"Yes, I will."
"Shouldn't we have a gun?" Al asked.
Vic patted his shoulder. "You're all the protection they need around here." Al expressed his gratitude with a smile, and showed a fist like a club. Vic nodded.
"Uncle," Vic asked, "do you think there's any danger for my family?"
"No, this is small-time work. It's somebody who wants a little money. What could they have dreamed you make, Luigi?"
"As soon as you make a little money," Mr. Mauro answered, "all the faces turn green. And that Katherine, with her two rotten teeth, envies the whole world."
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow."
Pasquale left with Vic, and the house was locked, each door and window checked by Mr. and Mrs. Mauro after Al and Reni had secured them.
Only little Johnny slept with calm that night. After the midnight bells of the parish church rang, Mrs. Mauro left her bed to see if Johnny was still asleep.
"Rosa, what is it?" her husband asked.
"I can't sleep. I look for Johnny. Tonight I feel the house is open. Luigi, call the witch and pay her. Give her the money or something will happen."
"Don't worry. Pasquale will take care of it. He has many important friends."
* * *
Sunday afternoon they met again. Reni took Johnny to a movie right after lunch, and Al went along to protect them.
Vic and his family had come for dinner. At four his wife had taken the baby back for his nap. Pasquale arrived at five, and they sat around the cleared table in the kitchen.
"Fonzi should be here soon," Pasquale said. "He went to the old neighborhood today when everybody is around."
"Did you see O'Brien?" Mr. Mauro asked.
"Yes. O'Brien will come with us when we go to meet them. We'll take the marked bills."
"I have the money," Mr. Mauro said, taking out an envelope.
"This is the five hundred, Luigi. We are not going to take all the money." Pasquale smiled. "We just take a few bills and some newspaper cut up. But leave the envelope here so that Fonzi can see it. If it's Katherine, he'll report this."
"Good," said Mr. Mauro, warming up to the intrigue.
"Do you want me to come?" Vic asked his uncle.
"Yes, Vic. You will drive the car. We need somebody in the family to be recognized. Does Katherine know you?"
"They know him," said Mr. Mauro. "And they know I bought a Buick."
His wife clutched her hair as she listened to this plan of dark streets. She could not see any figure but Death's, unless all the money were given immediately, and without question, to the larger forces of evil.
"Give them the money," she said, as an antistrophe to their words. "Do you want your life or the money?"
"All right, Rosa, I am ready to get it all over with," her husband said. "I'll give it."
"You don't have to worry," Pasquale said with irritation. "We will handle this thing, Rosa. It's just a bunch of cheap cafoni."
"Cheap cafoni act without reason."
"Leave it to us," her brother finally said, and Mrs. Mauro was quiet. As the men continued to plan, she labored to bear her possible losses, assisting her spinning rosary, hissing Our Fathers and Hail Marys.
Fonzi arrived from the streets where they had all lived when they first came from Italy, the neighborhood held in mild disdain by the prosperous families who had moved up to the Bronx to buy the mock-Bavarian frame houses that the earlier Germans were leaving for the cleaner air of suburban Mount Vernon.
In front of coffee stores, and in the various apartments he visited during a normal Sunday social excursion, Fonzi had searched for information.
"Oh, how tired I am," he said, and sat down. "Aunt Rose, you got a little water or something?"
She went to the back porch for the wine. "Fonzi, could you eat some macaroni left from lunch?"
"Your macaronis are the best in the Bronx."
* * *
The others waited while Fonzi ate the macaroni, and then a little extra veal his aunt found, and finally some provolone, with a little wine to wash it down. Fonzi seemed to enjoy performing at eating. He twirled his spaghetti with artful style, but no one laughed.
"How's the old neighborhood?" Vic asked.
"Getting crowded," said Fonzi in a low voice. "A lot of niggers moving in. You know what I mean, a low element."
The men nodded, but watching Fonzi's vein-stained face, they were suspicious even of what was supposed to be a simple sociological fact.
"Did you see Katherine?" Mr. Mauro asked.
"She sends her regards," Fonzi said, licking his fingernails.
"You told her you were coming here, you ciúccio!" When Pasquale shouted, it was frightening. His sister jumped up. Fonzi sat back in alarm.
"No, no, Uncle. She sent regards because, you know, we both live up here in the Bronx. She thought, you know, maybe we might run into each other sometime."
"Is it her?" Mr. Mauro asked.
"I can't tell. She ain't innocent, you know what I mean. Something, she knows. But I can't tell nothing definite from what she said."
"Didn't you hear anything up and down Arthur Street?"
"Well, Cousin Vic, it's hard to say, you know what I mean. You hear a little here, a little there. You got to keep buying drinks. Then you got to figure it all out." Fonzi ate the bread and cheese crumbs hungrily, having difficulty catching them in his thick oily fingers.
"Well, what did you hear?" Pasquale asked.
"I heard a lot of things. All things happen down there. A thing like this happens every day. And what do people do? They settle it nice and quiet. Ain't that right, Uncle Lou?"
Mrs. Mauro looked at Fonzi's fat hands on her table as fearfully as when she chose a live lobster from the fish markets on Friday.
"Look," Pasquale said, taking the envelope from Mr. Mauro's lap. "Here's all the money already."
He threw it across the table. Mr. Mauro looked frightened. His wife bit her right index finger.
"Well, look at that," Fonzi said, as though reaching for food. "Twenties, eh? You're really a smart man, Uncle Lou. Nice and quiet you're doing this. Sure, you don't want to get mixed up with those rough people. They're bad people." He smiled at Mr. Mauro, who turned his face away.
"You'll tell Katherine the money's ready," Pasquale said.
"Oh, sure. Wait! What do you mean? How can I tell her anything like that? How do I know she did it? They didn't say nothing."
"You say it just so it can get around," Vic explained. "Somebody might pick it up down there, and they'll know. The letter never said what time or exactly where the payment should be."
"Oh, I see," Fonzi said. "Sure, I get it. Spread it around, eh? Oh Aunt Rose, you got a little fruit?"
Mrs. Mauro placed the cut-glass bowl before him, and he chose a tangerine.
"You can tell the spring is here," Fonzi said after he had tasted the fruit. "The tangerines are no good no more."
"Try an apple?"
"No, Aunt Rose. I got to go. I got to go home."
In the hall, after he had received the clothes Mrs. Mauro had promised, he confided to her that he had been on his feet all day and his legs ached. "I got to put my feet on a chair, to ease the blood."
* * *
Mrs. Mauro watched him waddle down the street, a rag-picker of evil, holding a paper bag with Johnny's used clothes.
"I feel sorry for him," she said when she returned to the kitchen. "He's a sick man. His legs give him pain."
"That pig has his finger in this," Pasquale said. "I think if I got O'Brien to pull him in, it would all be over."
"Oh, Dio!" Mrs. Mauro screamed. "No, no, Pasquale. He is sick. Please."
"And he has a family," her husband added. "Two children. Except for him they would not even have rags to wear."
"But Pa, he doesn't even work," Vic protested. "He stands in front of the candy store all day long. How the heck does he support anybody?"
"Assunta does laundry," his father explained sadly. "But he is the father and he is needed."
"But Luigi, this is the man who may have made the whole job."
"I know that, Pasqual', I know. But his wife is my niece. I can't send him to jail."
His wife nodded, clutching her beads again. She stopped as she noticed the dirty table, and went to the sink for a wet cloth.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Italian Stories by JOSEPH PAPALEO. Copyright © 2002 by Joseph Papaleo. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Table of Contents
| Prologue for an Ethnic Life | 3 | |
| Part 1 | Immigrant Epiphanies | |
| The Kidnap | 13 | |
| Mission | 29 | |
| Nonna | 38 | |
| Wedding Day for Ingebordo | 50 | |
| The Weeks of Charity | 59 | |
| Winds | 70 | |
| Graduation | 77 | |
| On the Mountain | 87 | |
| Resting Place | 99 | |
| Part 2 | Losing the Bronx | |
| Agon | 109 | |
| The Golden Fleece Returns via Le Havre | 118 | |
| Homes and Rooms | 128 | |
| The End | 138 | |
| You See What You Did | 145 | |
| The Shylock's Wedding | 175 | |
| Security: Passing the Torch | 188 | |
| Prison Notes of the Sixties | 197 | |
| The Word to Go | 208 | |
| Leaving Vermont | 218 | |
| Part 3 | Blendings and Losses | |
| The Last Sabbatical | 231 | |
| Hits of the Past | 240 | |
| Twenty-Nine Steps towards Re-adhesion | 250 | |
| Memories Reflected in Palm Springs | 258 | |
| Shrinks | 267 | |
| Sizes | 274 | |
| Friday Supper | 281 |