A Matter of Love in da Bronx (26 page)

--Deal? Wow! You bet! All fifty-two cards. All hearts to you. Then, when she saw Rose stand up to dismiss the subject to prevent any acknowledgement whatsoever, Gina rose with her, put her arms around her, squeezed tightly, kissed her full on the lips. I love you, Aunt. I'll always and for always think of you. I don't know how or where or when, but thank you for investing in me.

Shit, it was just nice to do something for someone without the motivation of guilt feelings.

AUNT LOVED HERSELF this night, especially so when the maitre d' led her to the best table in the restaurant, every eye in the dining room on her. At that moment, Vito, walking behind her, didn't exist. Gina had worked magic, plain and simple magic, with her hair. Gina had seen something even Rose didn't suspect, and was able to arrange her haircomb in a bouffant, cover girl style. Making up, Rose took extra care to do her eyes, staring long at her reflection in the mirror curious about the glow she felt. She scrutinized herself, concluding that she wasn't such a bad looker after all, though, perhaps her lips might be a little too full, her nose a touch too much. She was meticulous with everything she put on, from dusty rose fingernail polish to pantyhose, and kept Vito waiting longer than usual. She knew the dress was a smash that it was her, that it complimented her, that it came to meet her lines. Now, stepping carefully to the chair held for her, Rose felt tall, slender, pretty. As she sat, she made up her mind she would enjoy the evening for herself for the first time understanding it was a fair price for enduring the demands of her overbearing parents. She became very present, surging up from her depths the ability to command atmosphere about her, a vibrancy emanating that heightened the regent air. Adding to all of this was the fact that this was the nicest restaurant Vito had ever chosen for them. Dark red velvet, gilded decorations, oil paintings, small chandeliers, subdued lighting made it as posh as any in the Bronx. Rose became aware that almost all the tables were filled, unusual for the late hour, and realized the table must've been held empty waiting for them. The sudden and special attention made Rose feel giddy. It wasn't part of her normal world so the suddenness made her catch her breath. In that instant she understood the mania for wealth, not necessarily the comforts it provided, but the lordliness one acquired with it. It could be addictive, and once the habit acquired, as necessary as one's breath. Also, she fully understood what before she only accepted in passing dealing with the "perk me ups" that women sought--the facial, the manicure, the massage, the hair-do. Here, results weren't sought as much as the personal attention. To carry it one step further she made a note that the wealthier one was the more perks one could afford. Mmmmmmm! How nice.

--So? Whatcha think of the place?

--I like it. The nicest I've ever been in.

--Blow an egg!

--Where did you hear about it?

--What da ya mean?

--What made you pick this restaurant?

--Jes gottem as customers. I deliver all the bread, rolls, stuff like `at. Been after them a long time. They come around all right, all right. They know to buy from Vito.

--How did you do that? Get them to buy from you? You must be a good salesman.

Vito tilted his head back as he guffawed. --Salesman! Blow an egg! Salesman! Two goodboys paid a visit to the owner and sold him! Ha! Let you in on a secret! He thought they came from the real big boys, you know? One was my delivery truck driver, the other my baker. I tole 'em, you wanna keep workin, get the contract! Hey! Blow an egg, I'm gonna sew up the Bronx. Here, tell the guy what you wanna drink. Anything. You name it. ...Go ahead. Tell him!

--Oh! I know what I feel like tonight! I'll tell you and you tell him.

--Why f'christsakes? What's this you tell me, I'll tell him? You still get the same drink!

--You just don't understand, in here, I don't talk to no waiter. You do. You're supposed to deal with the snotty creatures, not your date.

--Hey! You do an egg job! You got style, class!

--I do not. I'm just trying to give you a pain in the ass.

--You say that when I take you to a place like this? You treat me like dirt, and I let you get away with it because I'm waiting for the day you beg me to let you kiss my ass.

--I've told you a million times, Vito, you can't buy me. I'd like a champagne cocktail, imported champagne, imported cognac.

Vito turned to the waiter. --You heard her, and bring me a scotch. His hand clamped into a knot, bloodless, taut. Come on, Rose! What am I askin, for you to turn ina a gorilla, or somethin? The whole world orders from the same menu life offers, but, what? You don't want what everybody else wants? You don't want a home a your own? A family, kids? Nice things? Look, I just dumped on forty years old and you're clock ain't stopped. I may be no prince, but next year I'll look better, and the year after that even better. Now that's if I'm around. You jes remember at.

--Vito, don't you try to rub my face in my world. You know why I go out with you. I'm right up front about that, and if you don't stop hounding me about getting married the fact that my parents make me go out with you won't be a good enough reason any more. I don't have to go out with you to hear I'm getting old and older. And if I tell you to get lost, what'll you do? Send two good boys out to sell me?

--Come on, Rose, don't hold it against me because you don't like what your old man makes you do. I'm not so bad, really, am I?

--No. You're not so bad, Vito. You're perfect for somebody else. So, maybe you're right, but there are other things.

--Like what?

--Like suppose we stay away from basics, like love...

--Eyyyy! Today? Love? What love? Love is a luxury!

--Making love without love isn't called making love. It's called very much something else.

--It all leads to the same result.

--You're so smart. You have all the answers. I wouldn't let someone who didn't love me feed me caviar on a gold spoon ten feet long. Why would I let him do something even more personal? There's a thrill that goes with the romance you wouldn't understand ever, Vito. You care only about yourself. Would it have killed you to say something about how I look? I went through a great deal of trouble tonight because I felt there was something special in the air, and you? You don't even notice. I could be wearing a bandana, and a leather apron.

--Hey! You look great! I always say that. You look great! Yeah! You really do look great. I notice you really have this...thing about you tonight.

--Yeah! Like I've been sucking on eggs, right?

--Right!

--Somebody who really cared about who they were with, not conceited--a conceited ass--somebody with class wouldn't have to be asked; they'd say I looked pretty right out of the chute. In fact, the way I feel about myself, they'd have said I looked alluring!

--Allurin! Allurin! Show me some jerk what would say that to any broad in the Bronx and I'll kiss his ass…and you know the rest. ...in Macy's, you know?

--Yeah? And if someone beside you said it, you could kiss me goodbye! Anyone who says I'm alluring has me for a slave for the rest of his life.

--Yeah? And he'll have a broken face the rest of his life. I'll see he has an uplifting experience at least every month! Nobody beats my time on my ticket. Jes like the bozzo in this place. He wouldn't come around an wouldn't come around and wouldn't come around until the boys come around. He come around. Haw! Then he spins like a top. An' for the insult he puts a couple dinners on the arm.

--Like tonight's?

--Yeah! It comes with the territory.

--You're a big spender, Vito. And you're not so smart. If the boys put the pressure on this fellow to buy your bread, and he finds out you're not who he thinks you are...! You're going to pay some heavy rent.

--So what? Ats business.

--Vito, I must confess something to you. I've never been drunk in my whole life, but this is one night is seems so damn right.

--Then it's the right night. Go to it!

--I would, if I wasn't with you.

--So? What's wrong with me? You don't trust me. Jes you remember, one day jes your company may not be good enough to get you a cuppa coffee. What the hell are you saving it for, can I ask?

--What you don't know won't hurt you.

--I'll kill the bastard!

--I think I have to go to fix my face.

--We jes got here! Oh! I get it! I apologize. Just sit. Stay.

--Sit? Stay? You make me feel like I'm in an obedience class. Remember, Vito. My folks may want you to marry me in the worst way, but you don't own me because of that. I don't owe you as much as the right time!

--I know. That's why I don't want you to get sore wit me. Jeez, Rose I jes think of what we could do together if we was married and worked together. I take care of the production end, you do all the business side, and we could run the biggest bakery in the Bronx. We could make a fortune! A fortune! I'm a worker, you know. Give me the smallest reason, I could hump out...you know what I mean...I could really put out the work. You never have to worry about at. You could have everything you want, all the luxuries...a washing machine, a vacuum cleaner, even a microwave. F'crysakes we could go out to eat like this every week! Jes tell me what you want. Please!

The way he says that. He wants it so bad, he sounds sincere, so sincere you can forget you're a grownup, not a kid anymore. There are no such things as hobgoblins, ghosts, or fairy godmothers. All those times I dreamed of being told I had three wishes, and what did I want? What did I want? What did I want? If getting what we want makes us happy, then not getting it should make us angry. Directed at whom? Life? And what's our revenge? No life. How my first wish changed as time went on. Was it to be beautiful first? Or was it to be found beautiful? And then there was wealth for all the comforts and heart's desire not ever to do without a single thing. All this for the third wish, for an idyllic life, with an idyllic man, in an idyllic setting... Until, I became human and thought of having more than I needed realizing to do so I'd also lose my innocence. The temptation was great. Too great. It only inspired great curiosity. I wondered what would happen. For my first wish, afraid of all the ironic twists told in all the tales of the three wishes that end in disaster, I thought to preclude any such thing cannily wishing that I could have all the wishes I wanted! I was too smart. I was immediately disqualified for fairyland. Am I being too smart now? Is my prince sitting across from me now, unrecognized? Perhaps he's right; perhaps my folks are right; maybe the world is right. Love is an interpretation. Of a feeling. For a short or long time. Superficial or very deep. And changeable, for certain, because two people madly in love could not make love exactly with the same feelings two times in a row. The flames get hotter, or cooler; and must be replaced with a more basic, deeper need: the responsibility of humanness; the inspiration of partnership; the compatibility of oneness. Denying love, it may deny us forever. Would it be such a terrible loss? If I did marry Vito? What kind of a life could it be? Exactly the kind one gets when resignation is the highest standard. An insipid soup, if I may, lacking heartiness! Perhaps its time to think of other things. A home of your own wouldn't be entirely accurate; it would be Vito's home--a place where I'd live. There would be material things, at least, more than I have now. Not companionship, his company only. And have his kids. They'd be half mine. They'd be the important thing in my life. Then I'd have the family doings: the dinners, parties, the holidays. I would be making the good times available for everyone else. Vacations--they would be nice, different places, resorts, or beaches, or plane trips someplace. Mrs. Vito Cidrugli. A new status. Somebody. A married woman. Running a household. New clothes. Maybe even a nice car to go out to the country. I could buy things. It's not like I'd be with him all day long, just all life long. Why not? You could be a Mrs. Baker. A Mrs. Yeastsmelling. A legitimate compromised. It would get you out of your father's house. Just suppose they had to move in with you and Mr. Romance? Why don't I feel the peace that comes with insanity? --Sure, Vito. The shrimp, pasta, the fillet, rare, and another champagne cocktail.

--You gotta have the gnocchi.

--I don't want the gnocchi.

--Whadaya mean? It's the specialty of the house! You gotta have the gnocchi!

--I don't want the gnocchi. They're always hard like bullets. You have the gnocchi.

--Promise you taste one--just one--and I'll drop it.

--Thank god! I promise! I promise!

 

--SAM! SBRIGARTI! You the sauce cook tonight! Primo is no come in. Here the menu for you to do.
Il padrone
say it look like full 'ouse and crowd that give you some few extra
momenti.
But,
sbrigarti
, hurry! hurry! And Sam?

--Yeah?

--When you gone stop fucking aroun' an come work here full time?

--Yeah...yeah... There was an attraction to the invitation. Almost all the work waiting to be done in the shop when Sol left was nearly completed. In a couple days he'd be washing the windows, and scrubbing the floor to keep busy. He was long overdue for a change, especially to cooking, which was so much cleaner than redoing upholstery. He knew now he did that with a passion just to keep busy, but he would be busy cooking with a passion, too. Besides, the money was better. It was an appealing consideration. Except for a major factor: Sol. He couldn't conceive of leaving Sol. Not on any account. Not that Sol was dependent on him. They owed each other not a thing. But, there was a particular bit of loyalty that cemented the two lives; it had a long memory; it was stubborn; it was born of honor, too. Sam took a deep breath, exhaling the same quality of resignation with which he awoke that morning knowing he would never quit Sol until Sol quit him. Only under those circumstances would they part in peace. Strange, it seemed to Sam, how in thinking about the amount of time he spent in the shop, how it felt as if he had used up a whole and entire lifetime which was ready to expire; and just as strongly it seemed that when he did quit the place he would begin again a whole and entire new life. He'd be a born-again something, but not an upholsterer. Perhaps, maybe, even, a pimp. Naw! He was too bashful. He couldn't do that. But he could cook, with that thought creasing a grin wide across his face putting every sad-faced, dreary bit of atmosphere out of his heart. He seemed to pay particular attention to the fact that the fluids in his body seemed filled with sparkling bubbles when he was able to internalize a truth he was once unable to admit, like he preferred to cook over anything else in the world. He was sorry if it would disappoint Sol. Whatever, he'd wait until Sol came back. He could never tell what would happen. Sol could decide to retire, in fact. Or, sell the shop. And, if he wanted to go on as before? For that very moment, a hurt in Sam's heart. Ambivalence did that, tear two things hard and slowly in opposite directions. So much for that, as he adjusted the white crown of a chef's hat on his head. Forgotten was all the rest of the world backwards, forwards, sideways; forgotten all thought, word, deed inscribed light, medium, heavy on his brain; forgotten all capacity short of excellence. All this merely to turn out consistently exquisite dishes, like his own
gnocchi al la carbonaro
. The gnocchi were little potato dumplings that had taken much experimentation before he was satisfied they were as good as they could ever be made. First, old potatoes, boiled, then cooled overnight in the frige. Eggs, flour, salt all combined with as little doings as possible, the less the mixture was worked, the lighter they came. His mother made gnocchi that could be used for Minnie balls. For the sauce, he used nothing less than prosciutto and olive oil. Adding to their specialness was the fact that they were made and cooked on order; and the pinch of nutmeg and the fresh majoram added in the last moments. He insisted the order be served the instant it was ready, and on a red-hot plate. Just the odor of the gnocchi going through the dining room incited orders, a fact that didn't escape the attention of the owner of the restaurant who usually made sure someone was served the gnocchi even as a complimentary gesture.