A Matter of Love in da Bronx (59 page)

The affair itself was as timebound as the stars. The entire wedding was cued to the minute to insure that nothing was left out, and that no one was kept waiting a moment longer than they wished. They could set an alarm by the itinerary--different each time--wake from a nap, see what they wished, and return to their snooze with confidence. The procession always started the same, a Vatican guardsman followed by a drummer exactly one and three-tenths-miles in front of the first platoon of horsemen. The royal guards, a band, another platoon of horsemen, and then two resplendent coaches the first carrying the bride, the second the groom, on the way to the ceremony; then, a glorious open coach for the hours-long tour of the city. All along the route, flowers were strewn, beverages served, and cheers and blessings returned. The ceremony itself: the vows, the Mass, the signings, the singings, the dronings, the ringings; all necessary, all beautiful, and all taken quite tolerantly. But even that couldn't be disguised in the cheer that went up when they were pronounced husband and wife, and the world heard the first notes of the wedding march, and the reappearance of the couple facefirst from wherever they took their vows: the Sistine Chapel, the veldt, the seashore, the mountains, the glacier, wherever they could proclaim their love and fidelty to one another.

There wasn't a green or dry eye in the whole blooming blue marble of a world.

It seemed that one moment in the entire two-hour ceremony captured and recaptured the hearts of the world. It was that singular moment when, despite the kings, queens, potentates, princes, lordly, famous, divine, wealthy, stately; the Pope and high religious mucky-muks; the splendor of the Cistine Chapel; the captivating magnetism of pomp and circumstance; the bride and the groom turned to one another and acknowledged their oneness with a look of divine solemnity and pleasure it made the world gasp in unison, and with their kiss send exquisite shivers from head to toe through their collective bodies. It was love the way the gods meant it to be. Amen.

How nice it was, everyone proclaimed, to be shown what the world was really all about.

There were more marriages throughout the world in the month following the wedding than there had been in the previous five years. In fact, the idea was so hot, near-strangers took the step. And who couldn't predict the soaring birthrate less than a year later?

And when the to-do was all over, whenever anyone thought about the wedding, a sparkle would come to their eyes, they'd shake their head a little with the wonderment of it all, and a smile would remain on their face for a long, long while. It was the one very discernable moment in which two people accomplished more than all the politicians, ambassadors, potentates, princes, presidents, governors, and guru-rus in all history when the world was not only truly at peace, but the peoples--well, not exactly loved--but thought kindly of one another.

The groom's name was Sam Scopia.

The bride's name was Mary Dolorosso.

And it all began in the 1950's in a real place called Da Bronx, New York.

 

And this is how it is today:

Sam owns and is head chef for the
O Solo Mio Italian Restaurant
in Athens, Georgia. When Sol left the shop to Sam, the first thing he did was sell it. With Mary, they swore they would get three-tankfuls of gas away from Da Bronx, and this is where the taxi coughed dead. There isn't a tenement with a fire escape, a trolley car, a subway train or pool room within 30 miles in any direction.

They say if you're ever near there, stop in, hear? I recommend the
gnocchi a la carbonnaro.

Mary and he have children. In honor of Sol they have no quota. Last count was fifteen and naming.

 

ATTEST:

s
Lou Harness

Lou Harness, Author

Da Bronx, 1953

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ACKNOWLEDGMENT

 

My profound gratitude to Charlie Wilkinson--

the only reader of this experimental manuscript

form--who did not once need to use a dictionary,

even caught a misspelling or two, and made

sagacious, perspicacious, and meaningful

editorial observations. I am forever indebted to

his gracious generosity that offered his brilliant,

lengthy, in-depth critique and analysis.

 

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PAUL ARGENTINI is a Random House bestselling author and prize-winning playwright. He and his bride, Vera, live in Florida. They have two grown daughters, Lisa and Mona.