The Prince (33 page)

Saro wheeled the casket, mounted on a trolley, from the makeup room to the mortuary chapel. He threw open the double doors and entered with the coffin, setting it in the center of the room, which had already been decked out with flowers. Shortly afterward, the family and the priest arrived, welcomed by Enzo Carruba.

The girl's mother and father burst into tears at seeing her so beautiful: she seemed to be still living and breathing. The other members of the family were also moved at the sight of the poor girl. The groom-to-be chose not to attend the ceremony since he had no ties to her, no sentimental bond or familiarity. It had been the parish priest who had decided on their union.

The officiating clergyman gave a brief sermon that did not console the family, and after a half hour of tears and wailing, it was all over. The relatives left the chapel to prepare for the funeral ceremony, orchestrated as only the Italians know how. Enzo Carruba was pleased with himself because everyone complimented him on how he had planned the service and how he had done up the ill-fated girl. The tip was appreciable, and it vanished quickly inside the pocket of the little man's jacket: that money was not taxable by the racket, unless someone was an informer.

When the family had gone, Saro was left alone with the deceased. He went to the cabinet in the back of the room to get a screwdriver to fasten down the lid of the casket, then proceeded to close it, after glancing one last time at the unlucky bride.

Suddenly he heard someone running down the corridor. He turned and saw a disheveled, panting man with a bushy mustache burst into the chapel, clearly in a panic.

“You have to help me! Stoker's men are after me. Hide me!” Saro judged from his accent that he must be Neapolitan.

“My
padrino
will reward you!” the man implored desperately, referring to his godfather. “Save me!”

Moments later, two Irishmen burst through the front door of the funeral home just as the girl's relatives were leaving. Enzo Carruba, though frightened, tried to block their way.

“Signori—gentlemen—please; there's a funeral.”

The first of the two Irishmen, who seemed to be in charge—strong as a bull, with short red hair—stopped him with his left hand, while his right hand, hidden in his pants pocket, gripped a semiautomatic pistol. “Who are you?”

“I'm Enzo Carruba,” the undertaker replied, hoping his name would be familiar to him. But evidently Carruba had never buried any of that freckled individual's relatives, because the Irishman gave him a violent shove, knocking him to the ground.

“Don't be a hero, and you'll save us all a lot of trouble. Is there a back door to this place?” Freckles asked.

The little man shook his bald head. A grin lit up the Irishman's face as he beckoned his buddy to follow him, thinking that he had his prey trapped.

The two began kicking open the doors to the small rooms used for preparing the corpses, but it was as if their quarry had dissolved into thin air. Then they noticed the double doors of the chapel and heard noise coming from inside. Freckles motioned the other man to be on guard. Aiming their pistols, they tiptoed toward the chapel. Freckles shouted an order, and the two thugs hurled themselves inside, ready to shoot.

Saro spun around, raising his hands. In one of them he was gripping his ever-present razor.

“Stop! Don't move!” Freckles shouted, approaching with caution, while the other man searched the corners of the room looking for their prey. “Drop that razor and move away from there,” he ordered. Saro stepped aside and dropped the razor, truly frightened.

“Don't hurt me; I'm only doing my job,” he said, trying to appease the overexcited gunman.

Freckles went up to the coffin and, not taking his eyes off Saro, glanced at the purple drape that hung to the floor, hiding the wheels of the trolley. At that point the second man came over and stood on the opposite side of the coffin. Now both were ready to fire. Freckles grabbed the edge of the drape and quickly raised it, aiming the gun under the coffin. But there was no one there. The Irishman continued to look around for a possible hiding place. Except for the chairs, a small cabinet and the casket, the room held no other furnishings.

Freckles stared at the coffin and the body covered by the lacy white veil. He lifted the veil briefly with the barrel of the pistol to peek at the corpse's face, and seeing the red lipstick, he let the veil drop back in place. He turned to his friend, completely ignoring Saro from that point on, as if he'd never existed.

“Let's go look in the other rooms,” he ordered his crony, and the two went back out to the corridor.

Saro hurriedly reclosed the coffin lid and secured it with the screws. After a few minutes six pallbearers arrived, followed by Enzo Carruba.

“Have they gone?” he asked Saro, who picked up his razor from the floor. They heard loud thuds as more doors were being kicked in.

“Hear that?” said Saro. “Quick, hurry up, load the casket on the wagon.”

The six young men lifted the coffin, balanced it on their shoulders, and headed toward the front door where the hearse awaited them, adorned with a profusion of black plumes and ornate spiral posts bearing skulls, hourglasses, and every other icon meant to recall the transience of our existence.

The two coal-black stallions had grand ceremonial harnesses decorated with brass studs and blinders adorned with two silver skulls and long plumes. They began champing at the bit when they heard people murmuring; the driver had a hard time restraining them, reining in and pushing the hand brake all the way.

Some women were weeping, others prayed, children were yelling and slapping one another on the head. The dead girl's mother was on the brink of collapse.

Saro accompanied the casket to the wagon and then climbed up onto the seat beside the driver.

The six young men deposited the casket on the floor of the wagon with extreme care, a final earthly consideration toward the young woman who had gone forever. Then they arranged the wreaths and bouquets of flowers, brought by friends and relatives, as a last fond farewell on the lid of the coffin. The deceased girl's father's eyes were red, but he held back his tears. Her mother, supported by two of the girl's older brothers, was inconsolable and angry at destiny.

Enzo Carruba stood at the door of the funeral home rubbing his hands, satisfied that, despite the unplanned disturbance, everything was going smoothly. In a few seconds, the procession would leave for the cemetery.

But all of a sudden, violent pounding startled the people closest to the coffin. At every blow, the casket shook. Then some wreaths and bouquets of flowers began to fall off the top of the coffin. Stifled cries could be heard coming from inside the casket. After a number of thumps, a deep silence fell among the crowd. They all held their breath and strained their ears, even those furthest from the wagon. Two more violent knocks made the casket jiggle.

Immediately people began clamoring and jostling to get closer to the coffin, some exclaiming, “It's a miracle,” while others, more skeptical, shook their heads. One man shouted, “She's alive! She's alive!” Then as if it were a signal, other shouts rose among the crowd:

“The Madonna performed a miracle!”

“Quick, open it, take the casket down!”

One of the relatives seized a long iron bar that a street paver was wielding to tear up cobblestones, and several men used it to pry open the lid of the coffin. The screws holding the wood shut popped out, and the lid flew off as though raised by a superhuman force, landing outside the wagon. Everyone plainly saw the bride sit up inside the coffin. Then a collective gasp arose from the group, a mixture of joy, tears, disbelief, and fear. Some applauded, while others fell to their knees. Children shouted wildly for joy.

Enzo Carruba had never seen anything like it in his entire career as an undertaker. Carmelo Vanni, wearing the bride's clothes, his lips painted red, and minus the showy mustache that Saro had quickly shaved off, took in deep lungfuls of air. Panic, triggered by claustrophobia, had left him breathless. But there was no time to lose.

Enzo Carruba had been making the sign of the cross, when behind him the two Irish killers appeared at the doorway, angry and frustrated at having their prey get away. “What's all this?” Freckles asked as he ran out, followed by his sidekick.

Not far away, he saw what should have been a corpse, in a wedding dress, standing in the middle of the coffin, with everyone shouting and raising their arms in prayer. It took him several seconds to take in what he was seeing.

Those few seconds were enough for Saro to yell to Carmelo Vanni to jump onto the seat. Then Saro gave the driver a shove, knocking him to the ground, and with a kick released the brake. He grabbed the reins and whipped the horses, who couldn't wait to get going. The two stallions lurched, and the heavy carriage rolled forward, amid the alarm of all the onlookers who didn't understand why the young bride was climbing onto the driver's seat.

Behind him, Saro heard several gunshots. He turned and saw the two killers pushing their way through the crowd to get to the hearse. Carmelo Vanni, still ludicrously wearing the white dress, joined Saro, who tossed him the reins. Lithely leaning down from the seat toward the rings to which the horses' traces were harnessed, Saro pulled out his razor and with a sharp stroke cut the straps. Then he jumped astride one of the horses, holding the other by the reins so he wouldn't run away. The black stallions were spooked by the gunfire and all the commotion. Saro motioned Carmelo to get on, so the man screwed up his courage and jumped on the horse.

Behind them, all hell broke loose. Relatives and friends watched, incredulous, as the person they still thought was the former deceased nimbly leaped onto the stallion. Then everyone started running after the wagon, yelling for it to stop. Mixed in with the group were the two hit men, guns in hand; pushing their way through the crowd, they didn't think twice about shoving and tripping the poor souls who got in their way. The dead girl's mother fainted.

Meanwhile, the two black horses had come unhitched from the shaft. As soon as it lost the stability of the shaft, the carriage, which had picked up some momentum, lurched. The two front wheels suddenly swerved, and the hearse tipped over and crashed to the street with a great racket, shattering into a thousand pieces of wood and putty.

The two killers were knocked over and fell to the ground. Freckles swore and from the ground aimed his pistol at the fugitive disguised as a bride. A couple of shots rang out, but by now the target was too far away.

In desperation, Enzo Carruba's hands went in search of what little hair he had left on his pate, shiny with sweat. “I'm ruined, ruined,” he muttered, slumping against the door frame of his fine funeral home.

In the distance, Saro and Carmelo Vanni galloped toward Columbus Park. When they reached the park, they separated, going in opposite directions.

F
erdinando Licata had made the voyage in first class, so on arrival at the Port of New York, he had gone ashore along with all the other first- and second-class passengers, without having to go through the Ellis Island inspectors. Waiting for him on the dock was his niece, Elisabetta, his sister Lavinia's daughter, who had brought her seven-year-old child, Ginevra, to the port with her.

Licata recognized his niece immediately in the crowd. Unlike his sister, she was a little overweight, but she had the same magnificent face: aristocratic and strong willed.

Though the passing of the years had modified his temperament somewhat, Prince Ferdinando Licata was not a man who was easily moved. Yet at the sight of his adored Elisabetta, he was unable to swallow the lump that rose to his throat. He held her to him for a long time, murmuring, “Elisabetta . . . Elisabetta . . .”

The young woman closed her eyes, as though recalling the sensations and scents of her far-off land. Smiling to cover her emotion, she drew away from her uncle and introduced him to the little girl she was holding by the hand. “
Zio
, this is Ginevra.”

The child was distracted by the confusion that surrounded them on the landing dock, intrigued by the huge ship tied up behind that grand gentleman with the graying hair. Leaning down to match her height, Ferdinando Licata gazed at her and then clasped her to his chest as well, pinning her arms at her sides. Elisabetta watched them nostalgically as all the lost opportunities, far from the warmth of a real family, flashed through her mind.

Ferdinando released the child from his embrace and, straightening up again, could not resist giving his niece another kiss.

“That one is from your mother.” It was not intended as a reproach, but Elisabetta bowed her head to hold back tears.

“She told me to tell you that she prays for you—for all of you—every day.”

“I should write her a letter. But there's so much to do here. I don't have a moment free,” the young woman said in excuse.

“You don't have to explain, Elisabetta.”

“Mommy's name is Betty,” the little girl piped up.

“Oh, is that her name?”

“Uh-huh, Betty. Only I call her Mommy.”

“All right, Betty it is . . . But her real name is Elisabetta,” Ferdinando teased.

“No, Betty!”

“Oh, all right, Betty . . . But it's Elisabetta!” The prince laughed, as did his niece, but Ginevra crossed her arms and repeated stubbornly, “Betty!”

One would think that Ferdinando Licata had had a dozen children of his own. He could communicate perfectly with them.

“She's just like her grandmother. She resembles Lavinia in that painting in the parlor. She was the very same age,” he said taking a better look at the little girl.

“Yes, I know, she has the same forehead and the same eyes as Mama.”

“And the rest of the family?” Ferdinando asked, changing the subject.