Gangster (43 page)

    Was your father in the life? I asked him, gripping the heavy cup with both hands and drinking the hot espresso the way he had taught me, fast and in less than five gulps.

    My father and his father and, before him, his father, Frederico said with a shrug. It is the only life we have known. The ways of this island and the ways of the camorra are the ways of my family.

    Have you ever wished that wasn't true? I asked, reaching for a roll and a jam spread. That you weren't locked in to one way of life?

    When I was younger, about your age, I would stare out at the water's edge and follow the big ships as they passed by on their way to Germany, France, even America, he said, looking down the slope at the blue seawater of the harbor below. In those moments I would wonder what it would be like to be free enough to board such a ship and travel to lands I had only heard others talk about.

    Why didn't you go? I asked him. You know, once you were old enough not to need anybody else's okay?

    Such thoughts are the sole property of young boys, he said, pouring us both a second cup of coffee. They must not get in the way of what it is a man must do with his life. To turn my back on that would have been a betrayal to my family and to myself.

    How will I know if it's for me? I leaned in closer to him, my eyes searching out the calmness in his, hoping to find answers to my questions as much from his expressions as from his words. I don't know my family history. As far as I can tell, I'm the first to come into this life and I come to it with my hands empty.

    The moment will find you, Frederico said, resting a muscular hand on my knee. It will point you in the direction your life will take and then you will make your choice. It might be the right one or it might be the wrong one. That part you may never know, not even up to the day you rest your head down on your deathbed.

    I sat back in the wood recliner and gazed around at the peaceful surroundings. I've felt at home since my first day here, I told him. Not just at your house, but walking the streets, seeing the people, hearing them speak in another language. It all looks and sounds so familiar to me. It is almost as if I'd been here before.

    Frederico lifted his eyes up to the sun, his face and neck an interlocking mass of curves and lines. That alone should help ease the doubts in your head, he said, standing and reaching for a heavy, curved walking cane hanging offa vine. And maybe the talks we have each day will help take care of the rest.

    I put the cups and plates back on the tray and walked with Frederico through the vineyard, listening as he continued the lessons that were designed to prepare me for a life of crime.

     *     *     *

I THOUGHT I was hooked, I said to Mary, casting a glance over at Angelo. I forgot about everything else and started to think that maybe this was the way for me. Frederico made it sound so romantic, it was like I was reading from an old book filled with adventure stories. In those stories, they were always the good guys, forced into action because of some injustice. It was never talked about as a business. Only as a way of life.

    It was all done to paint you a picture they wanted you to see. Mary's voice was kind, a warm coat placed over each word. That was the only purpose of the trip.

    I often wonder if what happened that summer was an act of betrayal or a clear signal to me to find another way, I said to her. Or was it even a betrayal? It could have just been An-gelo, working behind the scenes, to make it all happen the way it did.

    I wish I had the answer, Mary said. That's one secret he shared with no one. Not even me.

     *     *     *

WE WERE IN a small windowless room with an overhead light hanging from the ceiling, standing around a large oak-legged pool table. A small circular table and two chairs were jammed into a corner. Nico bent over and slammed his cue stick against the three ball, sending it rolling into a side pocket. He walked over to the table, picked up a glass of Sambuca Romana and swallowed it in one gulp. That was a great shot, he said. Even if I do say so myself.

    You can say so all you want, I said with a shrug. Nobody else is going to make a big deal out of it.

    My dollar to your nickel, I make the next three shots, Nico said, picking up his cue stick. Are you up to it?

    It should be a thousand lira up against a hundred lira, I said. I haven't seen a nickel since I got off the plane in Rome.

    It's a bet, then, Nico said, leaning against the side of the pool table, lining up his next shot.

    I sat down behind him, my back resting against the cool wall, the flowered paper soft on the skin. I grabbed Nico's pack of Lord cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it. He lifted his eyes from the pool table. When did you pick that up? he asked.

    I took a long drag from the English cigarette. It's hard not to smoke around here. Everybody's got one in their hand and an open pack in their pocket. Should I have asked you first?

    You don't need my permission, Gabe, Nico said, rubbing chalk on the end of his stick. I'm here to keep an eye out and do whatever it is you might need. If either of us needs to ask for permission, it would be me.

    You're my friend, Nico, I said, putting out the cigarette in a small Martini and Rossi ashtray. That's the only way you should think of me.

    Don't misunderstand my words, Nico said. I love you like you were my little brother. But I also know my place and my role. That's to be your shadow and your guide, make sure you get back home in the same shape you were in when you got here. And that's the way it's going to stay, until the boss tells me otherwise.

    Okay if I ask a question? I said, looking up at his handsome face drawn serious by the direction our conversation had taken. You don't want to answer it, you don't have to.

    Ask away, Nico said.

    Let's say none of this works out, I said, walking around the pool table. After all the lessons and the years with Angelo, I decide the life's not for me and I turn my back to it. What if, then, Angelo calls you in and asks you to take me out? Would you do it?

    Nico took a deep breath and exhaled slowly and stared at the wooden floor. Yes, I would, he said.

    No matter how you felt about me? I said.

    All that matters is what the boss wants, Nico said. The boss rules until the boss dies.

    I reached behind me and grabbed Nico's cue stick and handed it to him. It's your shot, I said. You miss, you lose.

    He took the stick and nodded, bending over to line up the balls. I turned around, walked back to the corner, sat down and watched Nico run the table.

     *     *     *

I WAS STEPPING out of the water, a last wave washing over my back, when I saw her. She stood under the shade of a wide blue beach umbrella, drinking an Orangina and sharing a joke with a friend. She was wearing a two-piece bright yellow bikini, her tan as dark as old coal, long brown hair running straight down to her shoulder blades. She was sixteen, had clear, mountain eyes and a smile that could light up a stadium. She turned her head and looked my way. I had never seen anyone as beautiful in my life. I was still a few months shy of my seventeenth birthday and my manner with girls could still best be described as awkward. Compared to the advanced sexual activities of the young men of the island, I was as inexperienced as I was inept. I stood by the water's edge, wiped my face dry with my hands and stared back at the girl under the umbrella.

    She left her shaded spot and walked over toward me, her long legs gliding gently along the rich, hot sand. She stood across from me and put out a hand to shake. I am called Annarella, she said in slow halting English, her voice as sweet as the sounds of the chirping birds I woke up to each morning. How do you say? Anna? Is that correct?

    Yes, that's correct, I said, trying not to stammer over my Italian words. My name is Gabe. I'm an American.

    She nodded and smiled, my hand still gripping hers. I know, she said. You are staying with Don Frederico. I have seen you there many times.

    Do you live near there? I asked, freeing her hand. Up close her brown hair was streaked with golden strands, bronzed by their months under the hot sun.

    Not far, she said. You can walk from my house to his in less than cinque minutes. She spread out the fingers of her right hand and showed them to me.

    Five, I said. Cinque is five.

    Si, si, five, she said, biting gently on her lower lip. I forget sometimes. I do not have much occasion to speak English. Most of the tourists on the island are Germans.

    I haven't seen many tourists since I've been here, I said. Must be a slow year.

    Anna leaned her head to one side and laughed, sounding more like a young woman than a teenage girl. On Procida every year is a slow year, she said.

    I felt at ease in her company. She had Pudge's ability to turn a five-minute stranger into a five-hour friend. I was going to walk the beach, I said to her. Would you like to come? Your friend can come along, if she likes. I pointed over Anna's shoulder at the girl she had been talking to when I had stepped out of the water.

    Anna turned and shouted a good-bye to her friend and then looked back at me. Her name is Claudia, she said. She has to go back to her job at the bakery, prepare for the lunch business. But I will walk with you.

    We walked up and down the long white main beach of Procida most of that morning, the waves cooling our feet, talking and laughing, filling the soft breeze with the innocent chatter of youth. And it was during that long, slow walk that I began my first summer love.

    I saw Anna every day after that. We went to movies at the open-air theater, where I discovered she loved Clint Eastwood Westerns as much as I did. We went swimming after my morning lessons with Frederico and would race through the water out to the farthest anchored boat. I marveled at her speed, each lift of her arm and kick of her leg adding an extra length to an insurmountable lead. We would rest against the side of a small boat, Anna wiping the hair from her eyes, me looking for more air to pump into my dry lungs. I won't leave this island until I beat you in a race, I said to her one morning, my fingers gripping the side of a rowboat as if it were a lifeline.

    That means you will die here a happy old man, Anna said.

    I took her to her first dinner date, at a restaurant on the beach that served only seafood. She wore a white dress that night, short at the knee and sleeveless, dark shoes with a half-inch heel, and a blue button sweater her grandmother had knit for just such an occasion. Her hair hung off her shoulders like strands of soft thread. She wore no makeup and her face gleamed from the lights of two candles centered at our table.

    Is it okay for you to have wine? I asked, sitting across from her, the menu resting flat by my side.

    This is Italy, she said with a light-up-the-night smile. Wine and water is all we drink. I've had it with dinner since I was in diapers.

    Good, I said, sliding the wine list over to her end of the table. Then you'll know what to order.

    We went on day trips off the island, visiting the neighboring resorts of Capri and Ischia. We took long drives down the Amalfi coast, Nico a constant guide and companion. We stopped for a lunch of grilled sardines in a small cafe outside Salerno and spent a few pleasant hours mingling with German tourists walking the grounds of the lost city of Herculana. We were taken to the top of Monte Cassino, a monument of honor that Italians considered sacred ground. It was also the site of one of World War II's most brutal battles. Many people died where we are standing, Anna said, her olive-colored eyes moist. Many not much older than we are.

    They were soldiers and they were told to fight, I said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

    That's a silly reason to die, she said, walking with her head down, the sun beating off her tan neck.

    I haven't heard many good reasons for young men to die, I said to her. Not here and not in America.

    Anna stood in the middle of Monte Cassino and turned to look at me. When do you go back to your own country? she asked.

    The first week in September, I said.

    Will you ever come back? Anna had her head down, resting against my chest, her warm body feeling as much a part of mine as my own heart.

    I can't make any promises, I whispered, my hands caressing her silk hair. All I can do is try.

    Anna lifted her head and brought her lips to mine and we exchanged our first kiss, standing in the middle of what once had been ground where brave young men had died.

    Nico WAS SPREAD out on the bed, his hands folded behind his head, watching as I dressed for my first dinner with Anna's parents. You sure wearing black is the way to go? I asked, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.

    Most of the people on this island dress in black, Nico said. Every day of their lives.

    They're all widows, I said.

    He jumped from the bed, walked over to me and straightened out the collar of my shirt. Relax. It's only a dinner.

    It's dinner with Anna's parents and I want it to go right.

    Nico sat back down on the bed. I have to tell you, I didn't know what to expect when we got here. Didn't have a feel for how you'd take to the people and their ways. Being on this island is like being drop-kicked back a few centuries. Now, here it is, two weeks later, and you're practically a native. Then, on top of it, you go for a swim and you end up with the best-looking girl on the island on your arm. You have to admit, it beats working as a busboy in the Catskills.

    It's like being in the middle of a dream you never want to see end.

    Those are the ones you always remember.

    There's something I need you to do, I said. Before dinner.

    I already ordered flowers for her mother, if that's what you're going to ask, Nico said, slipping on a tan jacket.

    It's about Angelo, I said.