The Fortunate Pilgrim (6 page)

Signora Le Cinglata, in no way shamed but out of patience, said curtly, “Lorenzo, throw him down the stairs.”

The phrase was extravagant and meant only that the man should be persuaded to leave, as they all knew. Larry started to say something conciliatory, a friendly smile on his face. But the Sicilian, his honor affronted, stood up and roared in broken English, “You little shitta American cockasickle.
You
throw
me
down the stairs? I eat you up whole anda whole.”

The man’s broad, bearded face was lined with authoritative rage. Larry felt a quick surge of childish terror, as if it would be parricidal to strike this man. The Sicilian loomed, and Larry threw a straight right into that huge dark face. The Sicilian fell to the kitchen floor. Suddenly Larry’s fear was gone and he felt only pity and guilt for the man’s humiliation.

For the man could not use his hands and had not meant him real harm. He had come like a hugging bear to chastise a child, grotesque, human without being cruel. Larry helped him to a chair, gave him a glass of anisette to drink, murmured words of conciliation. The man struck the glass out of his hand and walked out of the flat.

THE NIGHT WORE
on. Men came in, others left. Some played Brisk with an old dirty deck of cards, a convenience of the establishment.

Larry sat in the corner, subdued by his adventure. Then his feelings changed. He felt pride. People would think of him with respect, as a man to be wary of, yet not mean or vicious. He was the hero in the cowboy pictures, like Ken Maynard, who never struck a man on the floor. He grew drowsy, blissful, and then Signora Le Cinglata was talking to him in her strange, flirting way, in Italian, and his blood leaped awake. The time had come.

Signora Le Cinglata excused herself, saying she must fetch another gallon of wine and another bottle of anisette. She went out of the kitchen, through the rooms of the long railroad flat, and to the farthest bedroom. She had a door there. Larry followed her, mumbling that he would help her carry the bottles, as if she would be surprised or angry at his youthful presumption. But when she heard him lock the door behind them, she bent over to take a huge purple-colored gallon jug from among the many standing against the wall. As she did so, Larry gathered up her dress and petticoats in both his hands. She turned in her enormous pink bloomers, her belly bare, and gave a laughing protest: “
Eh, giovanetto.
” The large cloth buttons of her dress slipped from their holes and she lay on her back on the bed, the long, sloping, big-nippled breasts hanging out, the loose bloomers pulled aside. In a few great blind savage strokes Larry finished and lay on the bed, lighting a cigarette. The signora, buttoned up and respectable, took the purple jug in one hand and the clear, slender bottle of anisette in the other and together they returned to the customers.

In the kitchen, Signora Le Cinglata poured wine and touched glasses with the same hands that had fondled him. She brought Larry a fresh glass of cherry soda, but finicky that she had not washed, he would not drink.

Larry got ready to leave. Signora Le Cinglata followed him to the door and whispered, “Stay, stay for the night.” He gave her his big smile and whispered back, “Hey, my mother would ask for stories.” He played this role, the helpless dutiful son, when it pleased him to escape.

He did not go home. He went around the corner and back to the stable. He made his bed on straw and a horse blanket, using his saddle for a pillow. The restless moving of the horses in their stalls was soothing to him; the horses could not disorient his dreams.

Lying so, he reviewed his future, as he did many nights, as all young men do. He felt a great power. He felt himself, knew himself, as one destined for success and glory. In the world he lived in he was the strongest of the boys his age, the handsomest, the most successful with girls. Even a grown woman was his slave. And tonight he had beaten a grown man. He was only seventeen, and in his youthful mind the world would remain static. He would not become weaker, or the world stronger.

He would be powerful. He would make his family rich. He dreamed of wealthy young American girls with automobiles and large houses who married him and loved his family. Tomorrow before work he would go up to Central Park on his horse and ride along the bridle paths.

He saw himself coming down Tenth Avenue, a rich girl on his arm and everyone looking at him with admiration. The girl would love his family. He was not snobbish. He never thought they could be looked down upon, his family, his mother and sister, his friends. For he considered them all extraordinary, since they were really part of him. He had a truly innocent mind, and, sleeping in the smelly stable, cowboylike on a prairie of stone, fresh from his conquests of man and woman, Larry Angeluzzi never doubted his happy destiny. He slept in peace.

IN THE ANGELUZZI
-Corbo family only the children—Vincent, Gino, and Sal, tangled together in the one bed—dreamed real dreams.

CHAPTER
3

I
N THE MORNING
Octavia rose as the last freshness of the night air burned away before the rising August sun. She washed in the kitchen sink, and, walking back through the corridor of rooms, saw that her stepfather was not in bed. But he slept little and was an early riser. The other empty bedroom proved she had been right; Larry had not come home at all. Sal and Gino were uncovered, their sexual parts showing through the BVD underwear. Octavia covered them with the rumpled bed sheet.

Dressing for work, she felt the familiar despair and hopelessness. She choked on the warm summer air, on the closeness of the sweet warm odor of sleeping bodies. The morning light too clearly showed the cheap battered furniture, the faded wallpaper, the linoleum with black patches where its colored skin had worn through.

At such times she felt doomed: she was afraid that one day she would wake on a warm summer morning as old as her mother, in a bed and home like this, her children living in squalor, unending days of laundry, cooking, dishwashing before her. Octavia suffered. She suffered because life was not elegant, human beings not completely separate. And it sprang from a few dark moments in a marriage bed. She shook her head angrily, yet fearfully, knowing how vulnerable she was, knowing that one day she
must
lie on that bed.

CURLY BLACK HAIR
combed, wearing a cheap blue and white frock, Octavia left the tenement and stepped onto the blue-slate sidewalk of Tenth Avenue. She walked the already burning pavement to her dressmaking shop on Seventh Avenue and 36th Street, going past the Le Cinglatas’ out of curiosity perhaps to see her brother.

Lucia Santa woke shortly afterward, and her first realization was that her husband had not come home. She rose instantly and checked the closet. His twenty-dollar shoes were there. He would be back.

She went through the other bedroom to the kitchen.
Bravo.
Lorenzo had not come home. Lucia Santa’s face was grim. She made coffee and her plans for the day. Vincenzo started to work in the bakery, good. Gino would have to help her with the janitor work, good. A punishment for his father, who shirked. She went to the hall and picked up the bottles of milk and the great loaf of Italian bread thick as her thigh, tall as a child. She sliced off heavy chunks and spread one with butter for herself. She let the children sleep.

It was another time of day she loved. The morning still fresh, the children about to waken and everyone else out of the house, herself strong for the duties of living.

“
QUE BELLA INSALATA
”
—what beautiful salad—the words rose up to the sleeping children at their moment of awakening. They all sprang out of bed, and Gino looked out the window. Below was the hawker, standing on the seat of his wagon as he held up to the sky and the watching windows a pearly green lettuce in each outstretched hand. “
Que bella insalata,
” he said again, not asking anyone to buy, only asking the world to look at beauty. Pride, not cajolement, in his voice, he repeated his cry each time his horse took a mincing step along the Avenue. In his wagon were boxes of onions dazzling white, great brown potatoes, bushels of apples, bouquets of scallions, leeks, and parsley sprigs. His voice rose rich with helpless admiration, disinterested, a call to lovers. “What beautiful salad.”

At breakfast Lucia Santa instructed her children. “Listen,” she said, “your father has gone away for a little time. Until he comes back you must help. Vincenzo works in the
panetteria.
So you, Gino, will help me wash the stairs of the building today. Get me the clean pails of water, and wring the mop, and sweep if you prove not to be stupid. Salvatore, you can dust the bannisters, and Lena also.” She smiled at the two little children.

Vincenzo hung his head, sullen. But Gino looked at her with cool, speculative defiance. “I’m busy today, Ma,” he said.

Lucia Santa bowed her head to him politely. “Ah,” she said, “you are busy every day. But I’m busy too.” She was amused.

Gino pressed his advantage. He became very earnest. “Ma, I gotta get ice from the railroad today, I promised Joey Bianco. I’ll give you free ice before selling.” Then, with a stroke of genius, he added, “And Zia Louche too.”

Lucia Santa regarded him with an affection that made Vinnie jealous. Then she said, “Good, but remember my icebox must be filled—mine first of all.”

Vincent flung down his slice of bread and she gave him a menacing look. Then she said to Gino, “But this afternoon be home and help, or you will feel the
Tackeril.
#8221; Her heart was not in it. He would not have much longer to play.

GINO CORBO, LIKE
any ten-year-old general, had made great plans, not all of which he had told his mother. Looking out the window of the front room, he saw the railroad yards across the street chock full of helpless freight cars. Beyond them the Hudson River sparkled blue. To his child’s vision the air was marvelously pure. He ran through the apartment and out the door, down the stairs and into the August sun.

It was burning hot, the pavement warm beneath his sneakered feet. His faded blue denims and laddered rayon polo shirt fluttered in the breeze, then stuck to his body. He looked around for his friend and partner, Joey Bianco.

Joey was twelve, but shorter than Gino. He was the richest boy on Tenth Avenue and had over two hundred dollars in the bank. In winter he sold coal, now in summer he sold ice, and both he stole from the railroad cars. He also sold paper shopping bags in Paddy’s Market, which stretched along the streets on Ninth Avenue.

Here he came, dragging his great wooden box of a wagon behind him. It was the best wagon on Tenth Avenue. It was the only six-wheeled wagon Gino had ever seen, and the box could hold a dollar’s worth of ice or pull three kids riding. The small, stout wheels had heavy rubber tires; a long tongue of wood steered the two front wheels, and there were four other wheels for the box of the wagon itself. Joey even had clothesline instead of ordinary rope for his steering reins.

They had a ceremonial cup of lemon ice together to start the day. The
Panettiere
himself served them, so delighted by their industry he put an extra pat on each cup.

Joey Bianco was happy when Gino came. Gino let him collect and count the money. And Gino went on top of the cars. Joey liked to go up on the cars, but hated to leave his wagon alone. Now Gino said to Joey, “Come on, get in and I’ll give you a ride.” Joey held the steering line, sitting proudly in the box, and Gino pushed the wagon across the Avenue, past the switchman’s shanty, onto the gravel between the tracks. When they were hidden from view by the towering freight cars scattered around the yard, they stopped. Joey spotted an open hatch and took the ice tongs from his wagon.

Gino said commandingly, “Gimme those tongs.” He ran to the freight car and climbed its iron ladder to the open hatch on top.

Standing on that car roof, high above the ground, he felt free. Far off he saw the window of his front room bedroom and the whole wall of tenements. There were stores and people and horses and wagons and trucks. Gino seemed to sail by on an ocean of freight cars—brown, black, yellow, with strange names like Union Pacific, Santa Fe, Pennsylvania. Some empty cattle cars scented the air. Turning, he saw the cliffs of the Jersey Palisades patched with green, and blue water below. Through the hundreds of immobile freight cars a few black round engines chugged quietly, their white smoke adding a fresh burning smell pleasant in the morning summer.

Joey shouted up to him, “Come on, Gino, throw down the ice before the Bull comes.”

Gino took the shiny steel tongs and grappled blocks of ice out of the hatch. It was piled to the top and easy to drag out in one heave. He pushed each block over the car edge, watched it fall to the gravel. Great silvery chips broke off and flew back up at him. Joey put his arms around each crystal block and hugged it into the wagon. In no time it was full. Gino climbed down and pushed, while Joey pulled from the front and steered.

Gino had meant to fill up his mother’s icebox, but the
Panettiere
caught them as they came across the Avenue and bought the whole first load for a dollar. Then they went back for another. This time the grocer intercepted them and bought the whole load for a dollar, plus soda and sandwich.

Drunk with wealth, they decided to let their mothers wait, the family iceboxes remain empty. The third load went to the people living on the first floor. It was nearly noon. On the fourth load they ran into trouble.

The railroad cop had spotted them earlier, as they moved deeper and deeper into the yard, opening up fresh ice cars so they would not have to take ice from a depleted source. They foraged like an animal that kills three or four victims and takes a bite from the best part of each. So the cop waited and then walked toward them from the Tenth Avenue side, cutting off their retreat.

Joey saw him first and hollered up to Gino, “
Butzo,
it’s Charlie Chaplin.” Gino watched from his perch as the bandy-legged Bull grabbed Joey by the shirt and cuffed his face lightly.

Still holding Joey fast, the Bull called up to Gino, “O.K., kid, get down here or I come up and break your ass.”

Gino looked down, his face grave, as if he were really considering the offer, but scheming. The sun was very hot and warmed his blood, giving the world a special, fearless light. Gino quivered with excitement, but he felt no fear. He knew he was safe. The Bull would kick Joey out of the yard and break the wagon. But Gino had read a story about mother birds, and from it he made a plan as he looked down at the Bull: he would save Joey and the wagon.

Deliberately, he leaned his dark angular almost-man’s face over the car and hollered down, “Ha, ha. Charlie Chaplin can’t catch flies.” Then he ducked away and started down the ladder on the freight car’s other side. But took just a few steps and waited.

The Bull said ferociously to Joey, “You stay here.” Then ducked under the car to intercept Gino. He was just in time to see Gino scramble back up the ladder. The Bull crawled back to guard Joey.

Gino jumped up and down on top of the box car, chanting, “Charlie Chaplin can’t catch candy.”

The Bull made his face mean, his voice menacing. “Kid,” he said, “I’m warning you. Get down off that car, or when I get you I kick the shit outa you.”

That seemed to sober Gino and he stared down gravely. He thumbed his nose at the Bull and ran slowly, awkwardly, along the top of the freight car, jumped, teetered to the next car. On the ground the Bull kept pace easily, glancing back with a threatening face so that Joey would not try to escape with his wagon. The string of cars was only ten or eleven long.

Gino jumped a few cars, then pretended to climb down the other side. The Bull ducked underneath. He could not keep track of Joey if he did this, but he didn’t care. He had made up his mind the kid on top of the cars was going to get his ass broke.

Beckoning with his small hopping form, Gino ran along the car tops deeper into the yard, and then waited for the Bull to catch up, staring down at him. Then, raising his head, he could see Joey running and pulling the wagon toward freedom across the Avenue.

“Kid, you better come down,” the Bull said. “You make me chase you and you’ll get this.” He waved his club. He thought of drawing his gun as a bluff, but Italian laborers on one of the yard gangs might see him and he would be a marked man. He ducked back underneath the railroad car just in time to see Joey and the wagon cross safely over the Avenue. He became so angry that he shouted up to Gino, “You little black guinea bastard, you don’t come down and I’ll break your hump.”

Gratified, he saw the threat working; the kid was walking back along the car tops to stand directly over him. But then that dark, grave child’s face leaned out above him. He heard the little boy shout in sudden angry contempt that assumed equality of strength, “Fuck you, Charlie Chaplin.” A great dazzling white rock of ice went whizzing past the Bull’s head and the boy teetered clumsily along the car tops deeper into the maze of the yard.

The Bull, really angry now, but confident, ran hard to keep pace alongside, his head tilted upward comically. The kid was trapping himself. He was angry not at the curse, but at being called Charlie Chaplin. He was vain, and his bowed legs made him sensitive.

Suddenly Gino disappeared. The Bull ducked quickly under the freight car to catch him coming down the ladder on the opposite side. He tripped on the rails and lost a precious second. When he got to the other side, he saw no sign of his prey. He backed up to enlarge his field of vision.

He saw Gino almost literally flying along the top of the box cars, soaring from one to the other with no teetering awkwardness, up toward Tenth Avenue, and then disappearing over the side of the car away from the Bull. The Bull sprinted but was only in time to see the boy cross Tenth Avenue to the safe shade of the tenement wall, where, without a backward glance, Gino stopped to rest and get a lemon ice. There was no sign of the other kid.