The Prince (34 page)

Betty took her uncle's arm, and they started walking toward the exit. “Nico stayed at the trattoria. You know, we can't afford a cook yet, and he can't leave the stove.”

Betty and Nico had arrived in New York in 1926, and for five years, they had worked more than fourteen hours a day, scraping together every penny for a dream they'd always had: to open an Italian restaurant. Lavinia opposed the plan from the start, considering Nico unworthy of her daughter. Proud like all the Leicesters, Betty left Italy with what little savings she had set aside, to show her mother that she didn't need her money, only her affection. She and Nico had started out in a basement location on Crosby Street, just south of Houston Street. Later they found an opportunity north of Houston, in an area that had formerly been inhabited by New York's upper middle class. However, due to its proximity to the burgeoning working-class neighborhoods of Little Italy and Chinatown, it had been abandoned by the well-to-do families, who gradually chose to move uptown. Little by little, the houses were occupied by immigrants: Irish, Germans, Poles, Jews, Ukrainians, and Puerto Ricans. The extreme density of diverse ethnic groups made the area one of the most explosive and difficult for the police to control, which was why commercial space there could be rented at bargain prices. Betty and Nico patiently sought a place with the right location.

Finally, in 1931, the opportunity arose. The venue was located on East Second Street, and along with the restaurant, they rented a nice apartment on the second floor of the same building. They named the restaurant La Tonnara and finally decided to have a child. Ginevra was born in March of the following year.

Not that the sacrifices ended with the opening of La Tonnara. On the contrary, the debts were unrelenting, and Betty, up until the time the child was born, continued working mornings as a milliner in the hat company of a Polish man. In the evenings, she served meals prepared by her husband at the trattoria.

When Ginevra was born, an elderly neighbor took care of her during the hours when Betty and her husband were busy at the restaurant.

The early thirties was a tense time, not only for them but also for Americans in general, for the Great Depression spared virtually no one. The trattoria struggled to remain afloat, and only her enormous pride kept Betty from returning to her mother in Salemi.

La Tonnara was furnished with objects that recalled Sicily. A closely woven fishing net, a
tonnara
, covered the ceiling. On the walls were lobster traps and harpoons for deep-sea fishing. Two large specimens of stuffed swordfish heads near the doorway were a great marvel to those who had never seen anything of the kind. The walls were painted with imaginary fishing scenes. But on one side, near the entrance to the kitchen, Ferdinando Licata recognized the landscape and the village of Salemi perched on a hill. Surprised, he questioned Betty about it.

“A man from Salemi, Salvatore Turrisi, painted it,” Betty told him. “We fed him for a month. Then he disappeared, as suddenly as he had come.”

Ferdinando looked at the painting more closely. “Salvatore Turrisi. . . was a campiere. I didn't know he could paint so well, and I didn't know he'd come here to America.”

“There are a lot of things you don't know—” She was about to add “about your people,” but stopped herself.

“You're right. We persist in looking for certain qualities in others without realizing that they may have entirely other virtues, equally remarkable.”

“It's a fault most of humanity shares,” his niece agreed.

“Did you know that back home this Salvatore Turrisi is wanted for murder?”

Just then Nico came in. He was back from the market and had his arms full of bags. Ginevra ran to him. “Daddy, look who's come from Sicily!”

Nico set down the bags on the table and went to greet the prince with open arms. “Prince Licata! Welcome to America and to our humble home.”

The prince embraced him. “Nico, call me Ferdinando here, or at most, Uncle. Otherwise the snot-nosed kids will make fun of me.” They laughed and clasped each other again.

“You've done a wonderful job. Well done. I'm proud of you both,” he said, indicating the room. “But the real masterpiece is this little
picciredda
.” He opened his arms, and Ginevra ran to him. Then she pulled away and scampered off into a corner of the room: “Daddy, look what
zio
Ferdinando brought me.” She came running back with a replica of a small Sicilian
carrettu
, showing her father the little cart like a trophy.

“And another surprise.” She disappeared behind the kitchen door, reappearing soon afterward with a large Sicilian puppet almost as tall as her. “It's Orlando! For you and Mommy.” She held it out to Nico, who gave her back the little cart and took the puppet. “
Mamma mia
, how heavy it is! We'll put it here, in La Tonnara.”

They smiled, like a family content with the choices they'd made so far. It hadn't been easy, but in the long run, sacrifice and honest labor yield lasting satisfaction, and after years of hard work, Betty and Nico were now beginning to reap the first fruits of their efforts.

Saro ditched the black horse as soon as he reached Columbus Park, having eluded his pursuers.

Now his problem would be finding a place to sleep, for he couldn't go back to the funeral home anymore.

He decided to get as far away as possible from that area. He had to mingle with the crowds, disappear—and in such an immense city that would certainly prove easy. Saro began looking for businesses displaying the barbershop pole, thinking that if he was lucky, he might find a job. Or else he could go back to the port, where Vincenzo Ciancianna could direct him to some other work.

He was walking along the Bowery, beginning to get clear signals from his stomach that it was time to put something in it. A hot dog cart was parked on the corner of Bayard Street, giving off a faint smell of burning rubber. He approached and saw a man stuffing long rolls with strange, pale sausages that he had never seen before. Apart from the smell, they looked inviting and succulent, with that odd yellowish cream spread on top.

“Are they good?” he asked naively.

“Of course. They're hot dogs,” the German replied.

“I have no money.”

“Get lost, then; you'll scare away the customers.”

“I can give you a shave and trim your mustache,” Saro said, pulling out his razor so quickly it frightened the man.

The vendor fingered his rough beard. “Why not?” he thought. Business was slow, not many people around, so he agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, the German looked as if he were spruced up for a special date, and Saro was able to taste a hot dog. He sat in the shade of a doorway and savored it as though it were a five-course dinner. He was able to relax now that his stomach was no longer rumbling. Finally, a little peace after the morning's excitement.

He reopened his eyes, convinced that he had spent only a few seconds dallying with the image of Mena. But the light had changed completely, the hot dog vendor was no longer on the corner, and the sound of a band, composed of a bass drum and a trumpet, had rudely awakened him. The musicians were dressed in dark blue uniforms, and as soon as they finished playing, a woman, the third member of the group, started shouting something into a megaphone.

Saro pricked up his ears.

“As long as children go hungry, we will fight for them! As long as human beings are imprisoned, we will fight for them! As long as there are casualties of addiction, we will fight for them! As long as individuals are forced to sell their bodies, we will fight for them! As long as there are people in need of the Lord's light, we will fight for them!”

At each refrain, the bass drummer struck his instrument with resounding force. Small groups of children had formed in front of the musicians and were pretending to conduct their own orchestra, waving their hands in the air.

“Come!” the woman went on shouting through the megaphone. She was a plump, matronly lady with enormous breasts that swayed each time she moved. “The doors of the Lord are always open. A word of comfort could save your life. You, girl!” She turned to a young woman who stood beside a door, waiting for customers. “Forget your wanton life. Return to the straight and narrow. Think of your mother.”

“And you think of your sister!” the woman retorted. “It's thanks to my mother that I know all the tricks of the trade!” She laughed coarsely and retreated into the shadow of the doorway to avoid being bothered again.

The matron did not give up and looked around for another passerby. Her gaze fell on Saro, who was still stretched out in the doorway next door to the prostitute.

“And you, brother”—she walked over to Saro—“turn your back on the siren called ‘the bottle.' Look at the state that vice can reduce you to. Look, all of you!” Now she addressed the audience of children and a few curious adults. “Children, you might become like this poor young man if you start drinking: a drunk who can't even find his way home.”

Saro stood up. “Actually, I was resting. I'm not drunk.”

“That's what they all say. You're Italian, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you see, everyone knows that Italians like to drink wine until they become sloshed.”

“But I
haven't
been drinking! How many times must I tell you!” Saro had raised his voice, sounding hostile.

A policeman approached the small crowd that had formed around them. “What's going on here? Are you threatening her?” he asked Saro harshly.

But the woman intervened, stepping between Saro and the cop. “Everything's all right, officer. He's one of ours. There's no problem, really.”

Though still doubtful, the policeman saluted the Salvation Army lieutenant by touching his nightstick to his cap and walked away.

“Brother, come with us to the Outpost, become a soldier, enlist in the Salvation Army for the joy of the Lord.” The woman was ecstatic. Saro looked at the man who was playing the bass drum. The drummer, thin as a breadstick, shrugged his shoulders; whispering so that the woman wouldn't hear him, he said to Saro, “It doesn't cost anything; plus you get to eat twice a day.”

For Saro, those words were magical. He had found a place to hide as well as a way not to starve. They were right to say that America was a great nation.

He was taken to the nearby Madison Street Outpost. It was a large cellar; at one time, it must have been a warehouse for wines and spirits, since the walls seemed infused with a typical tavern aroma. He was welcomed by a lady in a blue skirt and white blouse with red military epaulets on which a star was pinned. She must have been around fifty, but wrinkles had not yet formed at the corners of her eyes. She had long blonde hair braided and wound around her head; the hairdo made her look like a granny who baked oatmeal cookies. Her face was still beautiful, though, and her kind blue eyes seemed at odds with her pompous, militaristic manner. She greeted Saro with a broad, affected smile. “Come in, brother. Welcome to our Outpost. Here we fight for all of our unfortunate brothers like you.”

She led him to a sideboard in a corner of the room, laid with sandwiches and bottles of orangeade and Coca-Cola. “Go ahead and help yourself. It's easier to pray on a full stomach.” She left him and joined another group in civilian clothes. Shortly afterward, the two musicians whom Saro had met on the street came up to the table. The bass drummer, reaching for a sandwich, noticed that Saro was having trouble with his second sandwich. “You don't have to stuff yourself,” he said, “they never run out. It's a real gold mine, I told you.”

“How long have you been with them?” Saro asked him, his mouth so full he could hardly talk.

“A month, and I assure you I won't be too quick to leave. I'm a soldier now,” he said with some pride.

“But do you go around playing that drum all day?”

“Sure.”

“It's not for me.”

The woman who had received him came back. “Brother, what is your name?”

“Saro. Saro Ragusa.”

“I'm Captain Virginia. Come, let us go to the Altar of Thanks to pay homage to the Lord.” Without waiting for him, she walked to the center of the room, where there was a kind of dais, and knelt down there. A few people imitated her, and Saro, after wolfing down the rest of his sandwich, felt compelled to follow her, though the whole thing really didn't appeal to him. He knelt down, and Virginia started singing a hymn. Soon everyone present joined in singing, and the chorus could be heard even out in the street:

As long as there are women who weep, I will fight.

As long as there are children who are hungry and cold, I will fight.

As long as there are alcoholics, I will fight . . .

When they had finished, Virginia asked him, “Do you, Saro, want to become a soldier of Christ?”

The question startled him. “Well . . .”

“Oh, Lord . . .” The woman raised her arms to heaven, quickly followed by everyone there, including Saro. “Thanks be to You for your benevolent kindness, for having guided this lost sheep to the path of light.” Then she rose and, turning to Saro, said, “Now come and sign the Articles of War.”

He let himself be led like an automaton. At that moment, if he'd been asked to jump into the fire, he would have done so. With his signature at the bottom of a mimeographed sheet listing the twelve points of the Salvationists' creed, the formalities were finally completed. Saro was now, for all intents and purposes, a soldier in the glorious army. Those looking on applauded and started singing the “Hallelujah,” but this time all the trumpeters and bass drummers played in unison, rattling windows throughout the entire building. At the end, they all flocked around Saro, congratulating him on his decision. Some kissed him, and others heartily shook his hand. Then Virginia claimed everyone's attention. She climbed up on the podium of the Altar of Thanks in order to be heard and seen better. “Gentlemen? Gentlemen, please!” She clapped her hands to call the soldiers to order. “After having taken ‘refreshment' ”—she used that word to drive home the point to her audience—“let us return to our joyous battlefields. And please, capture some other fine trophy for us,” she said, eyeing Saro with the satisfaction of a hunter who has just hung an elk's head over the mantelpiece.