The Fortunate Pilgrim

by Mario Puzo

  She knew what had happened. He had waited to see her leave, watching from some hiding place. Never dreaming she was coming here. Then quick into the house to get his clean clothes. Figlio de puttana, she thought, how two-faced he is.

  But she did not let her anger show. “Ah, my son,” she said. “You’re moving into your new home? Signor and Signora Le Cinglata are adopting you? My cooking doesn’t please you? One of your blood has affronted you in some way? You’re making a change, are you?”

  Larry laughed and said, “Ah, come on, Ma, quit kidding.” He was appreciative. He found her witty. He gave her his big flashing smile. “I told you I’m just gonna stay here and help out awhile. I want to give you some extra money. Zi’ Le Cinglata has to go to court and then to the country and buy grapes. Don’t worry, Ma, any money I get, it’s yours.”

  “Grazia,” the mother said. They all smiled, even Signor Le Cinglata, that the youth thought himself so clever he could call his cuckold “Uncle.”

  Signor Le Cinglata fell into the spirit of the thing. “Lucia Santa,” he said familiarly. “I look on Lorenzo as my very own son. Ah, what a disgrazia we have no children. But now who will protect my wife when I am away? This business is hard and dangerous for a woman alone. There must be a strong man in the house. Your son has his regular hours on the railroad. Then he comes here until early morning. He must sleep during the daytime. Your children run in and out, in and out. Why shouldn’t he get his rest here, where everything is quiet? I have absolute trust in your son and I don’t care about idle gossip. A man who makes the money I make need not worry about his neighbors’ opinions.”

  It was all clear to the mother. She felt an overwhelming contempt for these people. Here was a husband, and an Italian, who for the sake of money let his wife cuckold him. Here was a wife who knew her husband cared more about the business and money than about her honor and good name, and made his wife his whore. Lucia Santa was truly shocked, for one of the few times in her life.

  Where would it lead her son, living with such people? She said to Lorenzo, not even in anger, “Get all your things, figlio mio, and come back to your own roof. I don’t leave here until you come.”

  Larry gave them all an embarrassed smile. “Come on, Ma,” he said. “I been working five years now and bringing home money. I’m no kid.”

  Lucia Santa stood up, commandingly stout in black. She said dramatically, “I am your mother and you dare defy me before strangers?”

  The female Le Cinglata said with savage contempt, “Va, va, giovanetto. Go with your mother. When a mother calls, children must obey.”

  Larry’s face became red through the bronze and Lucia Santa saw the man’s anger in his eyes. He looked like his dead father. “Like hell I will,” Larry said.

  The mother rushed across to him and hit him in the face, a good solid blow. He gave her a push that sent her staggering against the kitchen table.

  The Le Cinglatas were aghast. There would be too much trouble now. They stepped between mother and son.

  “Ahhh.” Lucia Santa gave a long hiss of satisfaction. “A son strikes his mother. Animale! Bestial Sfachim! Figlio de puttana! Thank God your father is dead. Thank God he does not see his son beating his own mother for the sake of strangers.”

  Larry’s face had five red stripes, but he was no longer angry. He said sullenly, “Ah, Ma, I just pushed you away. Cut it out.” He felt guilty, conscience-stricken, to see tears of humiliation in his mother’s eyes.

  Lucia Santa turned to the Le Cinglatas. “This is your pleasure, eh? Good. My son can stay here. But let me tell you this. My son will be in my house tonight. Or I will be in the police station. He is underage. I will send him to reform school and you people to prison. Selling wine and whisky is one thing, but here in America they protect children. As you said, Signora, we are not in Italy.” She spoke to her son. “And you, stay with your friends. I wouldn’t want your company in the street. Stay, enjoy yourself. But, dear son of mine, I warn you, sleep in my house tonight. Or big as you are I’ll put you away.” She made a dignified exit.

  Walking home, she thought, Ah, that’s how people make their fortunes. Money comes before everything. But what scum they are. What animals. And yet when they have money they dare look everyone in the eye.

  That night, after the children had been put to bed, Octavia and the mother sat drinking coffee at the great round kitchen table. There was no sign of Larry. Octavia was a little frightened at her mother’s determination to put Larry in reform school. She would not be able to go to work the next day. They would both have to go to the police station to swear out a summons. Octavia had never thought her mother could be so cruel and hard or so contemptuous of extra money earned by Larry at the Le Cinglatas’.

  A knock on the door startled them, and Octavia went to open it. A tall, dark, good-looking man, dressed in a suit as beautiful as a movie star’s, smiled at her. He asked in perfect Italian, “Is this the home of Signora Corbo?” Then he added, “I am from the Le Cinglatas, their lawyer; they asked me to see you.”

  Octavia brought him a cup of coffee. Friend or enemy, a guest was offered something to drink.

  “Now,” the young man said. “Signora Corbo, you are foolish to get so upset about your son. Everyone is bootlegging. It is not something wrong. The President himself has his little drink. And are you so rich you can’t use a few dollars?”

  “Mr. Lawyer,” the mother said, “I don’t care how or what you say.” The young man was observing her intently, not taking offense. She went on. “My son sleeps in the house of his mother, his brothers, his sisters. Until he has a wife. That, or off he goes to reform school to enjoy his pleasure. At eighteen let him leave and I will not be his mother. But until he is of age I have no choice. None of my children will be pimps or jailbirds or murderers.”

  The young man was staring hard into her face. Then he said briskly, “Good. We understand each other. But perfectly, Signora. Now listen to me. On no account go to the police. I promise you that tomorrow without fail your son will be here. This trouble will not trouble you again. Now, that’s well said, is it not?”

  “Tonight,” Lucia Santa said.

  “Eh,” the young man replied. “I’m disappointed in you. Jesus Christ could not make your son come home tonight. You, a mother, with your experience of life—you must understand his pride. He thinks himself a man. Let him have this little victory.”

  The mother was pleased and flattered and recognized the truth. She nodded assent.

  The young man rose quickly and said, “Buona sera, Signora.” He bowed his head to Octavia and left.

  “See?” the mother demanded grimly. “That is what I save your brother from.”

  Octavia was bewildered.

  The mother went on, “A lawyer—ha, ha. They do business with the Black Hand. There was ‘murder’ written all over his face.”

  Octavia laughed with pure delight. She said, “Ma, you’re crazy, you really are.” And then she looked at her mother with love and respect. Her mother, a simple peasant, thinking this man a dangerous criminal, had not quailed or shown any fear. In fact, at the beginning she had looked as if she were going after the Tackeril.

  “So now can I go to work tomorrow?” Octavia asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Lucia Santa said. “Go to work. Don’t lose a day’s pay. We can’t afford it. People like us will never be rich.”

  CHAPTER 5

  HOLDING BABY LENA in her arms, Lucia Santa looked out the living room window into the blinding light of the late August morning. The streets were busy with traffic, and directly below her a peddler shouted his arrogant singsong. “Potatoes. Bananas. Spinach. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap.” His wagon was filled with red, brown, green, and yellow square boxes of fruits and vegetables. Lucia Santa might have been staring down at a child’s vivid, blotchy painting on her linoleum floor.

  Across in the railroad yards she saw a crowd of people, men and young boys. Thank God Lorenzo was safe in his bed after the night shift
, or she would have that terrible stabbing pain, the weakening fear in her legs and bowels. She watched the street intently.

  She saw a small boy standing on top of a railroad car, staring down at the people below him. He was walking back and forth, a few steps at a time, quickly and frantically. The sun glinted on a blue rayon shirt laddered white across the chest. It could only be Gino. But what was he doing? What had happened? There were no engines near the car. He could not possibly be in danger.

  Lucia Santa felt that power, that almost godlike sense of knowledge women feel looking down from windows at their children playing, observing and themselves unobserved. Like the legend of God peering out of a cloud at human children too engrossed to glance upward and catch him.

  There was a glint of shiny black leather as the uniformed railroad policeman went up the ladder of the freight car, and the mother understood. She rushed into the bedroom and shouted, “Lorenzo, wake up. Hurry.” She shook him. She gave her voice an urgent shrillness that would make him jump. Larry came bounding out of bed, all hairy chest and legs and BVDs, indecent to any woman but a mother, his hair tousled, his face greasy with the sweat of summer sleep. He followed his mother to the living room window. They were just in time to see Gino jump from the top of the railroad car to escape the Bull, who had climbed up to get him. They saw him grabbed by another black-uniformed Bull, who waited on the ground. When Gino dropped through the air, the mother let out a scream. Larry bawled, “Jesus Christ, how many times I told you make that kid stop stealing ice?” Then he rushed into the bedroom and put on his pants and sneakers and ran down the stairs.

  When he came out of the building, his mother was shouting from the window, “Hurry, hurry, they’re killing him.” She had just seen one of the policemen give Gino a cuff on the ear. The whole group was walking toward the shanty on Tenth Avenue. Lucia Santa saw Larry run across the Avenue, rush toward them, and grab Gino’s hand away from the police-man. In that moment she forgave his insults to her at the Le Cinglatas’, forgave his sullen behavior of the last few weeks. He still knew what a brother meant; that there was no obligation more sacred than blood, that it came before country, church, wife, woman, and money. Like God, she watched the sinner redeem himself, and she rejoiced.

  Larry Angeluzzi ran across the street like a man rushing to commit murder. He had been pushed around enough. During the past weeks he had lived with a feeling of rage, humiliation, and guilt. His image of himself had been shattered. He had actually struck his mother and shamed her before strangers. And all for the sake of people who had used him and then sent him away. A child sent to do errands, then brought to heel; an object of ridicule. In his mind he had become a villain, an angel fallen from his own heaven. Sometimes he could not believe he had acted in such a fashion and thought of it as an accident—that his mother had tripped and stumbled, that he had put his hand out to steady her and been clumsy. But behind this thought came a quick flush of shame. Now, not knowing he was seeking redemption, he grabbed Gino away from the Bull and felt, as if it were a physical touch, his watching mother’s eye upon him.

  Gino was crying, though not tears of pain or fear. Up to the last moment he had been sure he would escape. He had even dared to leap from the top of the railroad car to the hard gravel, and he had escaped injury. His tears were the tears of a little boy’s baffled rage and lost pride on being made small and helpless and trapped.

  Larry knew one of the Bulls, Charlie, but the other was a stranger. Larry had spent many a winter night in the shanty swapping stories with Charlie about the local girls, laughing at the bowlegged man’s conceit. But now he said coldly to both of them, “What the hell you guys doing to my kid brother?” He had meant to be conciliating; he knew it was a time for friendliness and charm. But the words came out in a rough challenge.

  The tall Bull, the stranger, said to Charlie Chaplin, “Who the hell is this guy?” and reached over to grab Gino. Larry pushed Gino behind him and said, “Go on home.” Gino didn’t move.

  Charlie Chaplin said to his partner, “He’s the dummy boy on the night shift.” Then, “Listen, Larry, this kid brother of yours stole ice all summer. One time he throws rocks at me and tells me go fuck myself. A kid like that. Your brother or not, I’m gonna make his ass black and blue. Now step aside, kid, or get hurt. And out of a job in the bargain. You work for the railroad, too, don’t forget. And you are wrong, Jack.”

  One of the watching laborers said in Italian, “They gave your brother a few pretty slaps already.”

  Larry stepped backward until he felt pavement instead of gravel. They were out of the yard. He said, “We’re off railroad property now. You guys got no jurisdiction.” Larry decided to reason; he didn’t want to lose his job. “But I’m surprised at you, Charlie. Since when you been a company man? Every kid on Tenth Avenue steals ice from the yards. Even your girl’s kid brother. What the hell, you’re not talking to a greenhorn. O.K., you hit my brother because he hit you with a rock. You’re even.” He saw out the corner of his eye, first the crowd, then Gino, dry-eyed and somber, his small boy’s face wearing a look of thirsty vengeance that was comical. Larry said affectionately to his half brother, “You go in this yard again and I’ll give you a beating. Now, come on.”

  It was well done. Everyone had saved face, he hadn’t been too tough and made enemies, and he hadn’t backed down. Larry was proud of his good judgment. But the tall, strange Bull spoiled everything. He said to Charlie Chaplin, “So you made me come all the way over here for nothing?” Charlie shrugged. The tall Bull reached out and gave Gino a backhanded slap in the face and said toughly, “Just let me see you in here.” Larry hit him so hard that the black visored cap went flying through the crowd. The circle widened, and everyone waited for the bloody-mouthed Bull to get up. Without his cap he looked much older, and less menacing in his almost complete baldness. The Bull got up and faced Larry.

  They stared at each other. The Bull took off his gun belt and gave it to Charlie along with his black jacket. He was long-chested in his tan shirt. He said quietly, “O.K., you’re one of these tough guineas. Now you’re gonna fight.”

  “Not here,” Charlie said. “Let’s get behind those cattle cars.” They all walked back into the yard to a natural square of gravel. There was no idea of a trap. It was an affair of honor. Both Bulls lived on the West Side. To use their official authority now would disgrace them forever in the neighborhood.

  Larry slipped out of the BVD top and stuffed it into his pants. Young as he was, he had a chest as hairy as and even broader than the older man’s. Larry felt only one fear—that his mother would come down and make a scene. If she did that, he would leave the house for good. But glancing upward, he saw her figure still at the window.

  For the first time in his life, Larry really wanted to fight, to hurt someone, to show himself the master of his world.

  People were running across the Avenue to watch the fight. Heads were popping out of tenement windows. The Panettiere’s son, Guido, came to him and said, “I’ll be your second.” Behind him was Vinnie with a scared look on his face.

  Larry and the Bull raised their hands against each other. In that moment Larry felt the full force of his mother watching at the window, and his two small brothers tense and wide-eyed in the crowd. He felt a great surge of power. He would never be humbled; they would never see him beaten. He sprang at the older man. They rained blows on each other, their fists sliding off each other’s shoulders and arms. One of the Bull’s defensive blows struck the onrushing Larry full in the face and left a long bloody gash on his cheek.

  The Panettiere’s son rushed between them, yelling, “Take off the ring, you yellow bastard. Fight fair.” The Bull flushed and took the rough gold wedding ring he had slipped up to his knuckle and threw it to Charlie Chaplin. The crowd jeered. The Bull rushed at Larry.

  Larry, a little frightened at all the blood running down his face, yet filled with a murderous hatred, hit the Bull with a roundhouse right to the stomach. The Bull
went down. The crowd yelled. Guido kept shouting, “Knock him out, Larry. Knock him out.” The Bull got up and everyone was still. Larry heard his mother, far away, screaming, “Lorenzo, stoppa stoppa.” Some of the people turned and looked across the Avenue and up toward the tenement window. Larry made a furious, imperious gesture for his mother to shut up.

  The two men kept swinging at each other until the Bull went down again, not from the force of a blow, but to get rest. He was winded. When he got up, Larry knocked him down with a painful blow in the face.

  The older man, furious with humiliation, grabbed Larry by the neck and tried to kick him. Larry flung him away. They were both exhausted, and neither was skillful enough to score a clear-cut victory. Charlie Chaplin grabbed the Bull and Guido grabbed Larry. Each held his friend back. The fight was over.

  “O.K.,” Charlie Chaplin said with authority. “It was a good fight. You both showed you ain’t yellow. Shake hands and no hard feelings.”

  “Right,” said Guido. Then, with a wink at Larry and with a voice filled with condescension for the Bulls, he said, “It’s a draw.” Some of the crowd shook Larry’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. Everybody knew he had won the fight.

  And then both Larry and the Bull had sheepish smiles on their faces. They shook hands laughing and grasped each other’s shoulders to show their friendship. The Bull said huskily, “You’re all right, kid.” There were murmurs of approval. Larry put his arm around Gino and said, “Let’s go, brudder.” They crossed the Avenue and went up the stairs to the house. Guido and Vincent came with them.