Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  the sea was my sister drowned.

  Calla went up on her toes in victory as Sam nodded his approval. Hortense’s hands went up in the air in a silent hallelujah, as the Palazzini family exhaled and relaxed back into their seats. Al DePino stayed upright, judging his future son-in-law with disdain. What kind of a man wears hosiery and why is that man in leotards marrying his daughter?

  Connie looked around the theater. When she saw the audience approve of Nicky, it made his victory her own. A smile crept across her face and would remain there through the curtain call. Peachy, who was perspiring so heavily she was caught in her own rain shower, pulled the wet fabric away from her skin under her armpits to air it out.

  Onstage Nicky eased into the play, recalling his lines through the blocking. Careful not to exaggerate or primp, he listened and moved and spoke with clarity. Sam noticed his daughter’s eyes follow Nicky in his scenes with particular interest. Calla caught her father looking at her. He didn’t have to say a word; he knew something was happening; so did she, and so did Frank Arrigo.

  * * *

  After the show, the families and some of the patrons waited for the cast in the lobby. Rosa broke out the Dixie cups and a few bottles of cold champagne left over from opening night to celebrate Nicky’s debut.

  When Nicky entered the lobby, his aunt, uncle, and cousins surrounded him. Gio hugged him. “I can’t believe you made it through the whole thing.”

  “So did you, Gio. Your first play. Right?”

  “Yep. Unless you count Gert’s the Gal with Garters. Saw that in the Poconos.”

  “Nothing but class, that’s my Gio. How did you memorize all those lines?” Mabel marveled.

  “I’m just relieved they came out of my mouth when they were supposed to.”

  “You were so handsome in the wedding scene!” Lena swooned.

  “The language didn’t put you off?” Nicky asked them.

  “After a while you understand it,” Uncle Dom admitted. “It’s like going to a foreign country, you listen long enough, eventually people make sense.”

  As Rosa passed the paper cups filled with champagne, Nicky reveled in his family’s support. This might be what he loved most about being a part of a big family. The Palazzinis showed up for one another no matter the occasion. If any family member was receiving a sacrament, a diploma, or a driver’s license, every member of the family put on their best hat and went to bear witness to the achievement. If Nicky had any sense of self-confidence, it had come from the circle Aunt Jo and Uncle Dom had created; even though he was their nephew and not one of their sons, Nicky had always been made to feel he was inside of it.

  Peachy stood back with her parents and watched the Palazzinis fawn over Nicky, waiting her turn to do the same. Her mother stuck her finger in her daughter’s back. “Get in there,” she hissed.

  Peachy moved into the huddle of Palazzinis like a pink streak in the whipped cream of a cherries jubilee. She squeezed through until she got to her fiancé.

  “You were wonderful, Nicky,” she said, throwing her arms around him.

  “You think so?”

  “I do. There was that awkward start where something happened, but then you bounced right back.”

  The Palazzinis grew quiet.

  “I mean, it was nothing,” Peachy covered. “No one noticed.”

  “Then why did you mention it?” Mabel said under her breath.

  “It was a glitch. Just a glitch. The rest of the play—you were Palmer Method perfect.”

  Nicky put his arms around Peachy. “Thanks, honey. Your support means the world to me.”

  Al DePino stood back and rolled his eyes into the top of his head until there was nothing left in his eye sockets but the whites.

  “Behave yourself. Don’t say a word,” Connie whispered to her husband.

  “Maybe you want to throw another peignoir set into the wedding trousseau for the groom.”

  “I mean it, Al.” Connie glared at him. “If you can’t behave, go sit in the car.”

  Calla and Frank joined the group. “Mr. Palazzini, I’m Calla Borelli, and I want to thank you for filling the theater.”

  “It’s the least the boys at the Legion could do. I think they enjoyed the show.”

  “We’re very grateful to you.”

  “Mr. P? Calla’s fella is going to be mayor someday,” Peachy offered. “Mayor Frank Arrigo.”

  “Peachy is a visionary.” Calla patted Peachy’s shoulder. “I hope this vision comes true.”

  “Me too.” Frank smiled at Peachy.

  “Really,” Dom said, looking Frank up and down. “You’re out of your mind if you think this city will ever elect an Italian American mayor.”

  “Things are changing, sir.” Frank shrugged. “We are making inroads.”

  “That’s only because we built them,” Dom fired back. “But good luck to you. You’re a tall man, and that goes a long way in politics. Usually it’s the only thing you need.”

  “That and the purse,” Frank joked.

  Dom nodded approval. “Hey, with that attitude, you may swing an election your way.”

  Nicky made sure everyone was served champagne. Peachy held the tray and stayed by his side as he thanked every person in the lobby for coming to the show.

  “We should get going.” Connie laced her arm through her husband’s. “We want to say good night.” She interrupted the small group Nicky was regaling with stories of the play. “We have a gown fitting in the morning. Can you get her home soon, Nicky?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m really tired, honey.” Peachy put her arm around Nicky’s waist.

  “Just a sec, and we’ll go.” Nicky continued with his story.

  Frank helped Rosa collect the empty paper cups. Calla stood by the box office with her father. “You tired, Dad?”

  “Not when I come to the theater.”

  “Who needs sleep when you’re doing what you love?”

  “That’s right, Calla. Don’t forget it. When you love your work, you never need a vacation.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I think so.”

  “I thought we didn’t go on vacation because we didn’t have any money.”

  “Well, there was that too.” Sam laughed.

  Calla looked across the lobby. Peachy had her head on Nicky’s shoulder. She looked over at Frank, chatting with Al DePino, then back at Nicky. She watched as Nicky took Peachy’s hand and walked out the glass doors, followed by the Palazzini clan.

  “You all right?” her father asked her.

  “That’s a big family.”

  “Nothing like it.”

  “I wish we had one, Dad.”

  “It’s got its minuses.”

  “I’m sure it does. But it seems you get so much more of everything,” Calla said wistfully. “More support. More love. Look at how they carry Nicky.”

  “Depends on the family. Sometimes a family can drop you too. I’ve seen that happen. Nothing is what it seems from the outside, Calla. There’s always a story when the door closes or the curtain comes down.”

  Sam went to talk with the cast, who were huddled in a corner, smoking and laughing. He wanted to congratulate them too.

  Calla leaned against the box office window just as Rosa DeNero raised the shade. The snap startled Calla.

  “I have a question,” Rosa said through the glass.

  “Yes, we have a night drop at our bank. We’ve just never had to use it.”

  “I know all about that. I have it all set to go. I have another question if you don’t mind. Do we have a colored section?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We do now. I sold a lady a ticket. A single. I put her in the mezz.”

  “Did she mind?”

  “No, she liked it. Left during the curtain call.”

  “Hat with a long feather?”

  “Yeah. You know her?”

  “Nicky does.” Calla beamed. Hortense Mooney had made it.
Nicky had more than a big extended family, he had a world behind him, lucky guy, and it was in color.

  * * *

  Nicky leaned into the circle curve as he drove around the Art Institute to the lot nearest the Fountain of the Sea Horses. He parked the sedan near the Azalea Garden as the orange sun rose in a pink sky. The purple lace of azalea blossoms poked through the green along the winding white gravel path. In the morning light, the stones under his feet looked like gold nuggets.

  He didn’t hear the familiar whoosh of sheets of fresh water rushing over the fluted urn at the top of the fountain. He quickened his step to find that the shallow bowl beneath the pedestal was dry. The marble sea horses that held up the bowl were dry as well; no rivulets of water flowed over the carved scales of their smooth backs and tumbled into the pool beneath them.

  Nicky walked around the base of the fountain and found a repairman working on the limestone lip of the pool beneath the sea horses, filing a small section of the stone with a wire brush.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s a crack at the base. We went in yesterday and patched it.”

  “I thought this fountain was indestructible.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “I don’t know. Italian travertine. Isn’t it the most durable of all stone? And it was carved by the great artisans.”

  “Great sculptors aren’t God. They make objects of beauty, but they can’t make them last forever. Well, I might have to include God in that group. Look at women.”

  “A woman’s beauty is a matter of perspective, not age.” Nicky shrugged.

  “I’m just joking with you. The problem here is the exterior. The carving is superb, but the foundation is under stress from the weight of the sculptures, and then you add the water. Eventually we’ll have to take the entire thing apart and shore up the central disc.”

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “And expensive. That’s the problem with something like this—it’s built to impress. Nobody thinks, ‘How’s it going to work over the long haul, how will it survive ten, twenty years in the elements?’ They don’t know from a Philadelphia winter in balmy Rome. You know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “Anything that lasts has to be built with strength from the inside out. The veneer—”

  “Is just a veneer?”

  “The builder had to have a way in to work on the stone over time—you’re not looking at one solid piece of stone on these dishes.”

  “I spend a lot time on that bench over there. It’s interesting to know the facts. Thanks.” Nicky turned to go.

  “Were you going to make a wish?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Were you going to make a wish this morning? You know, throw a coin in the fountain.”

  “I just came here to think.”

  “You got the look of somebody who already made a decision.”

  “I do?”

  The man laughed. “That, or you expected to meet somebody here.”

  “I’m alone.”

  “You came here to think.” The man stood back from his work. “I wish I could tell you I’ll have the water flowing soon. But as it stands, I’m behind. Even with overtime, I can’t get the work done.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  “I work so my wife can spend. I’m lucky. I have a good pension coming. I’ve been an engineer with the city since I was twenty-six years old. You married?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  “To the right girl.” Nicky kicked the gravel with his shoe. Now that the sun was up, the stone path was back to gray, the gold lifted away with the morning light.

  “When Bernini built the original fountain in Rome, a woman had just broken his heart. And the sea horse is the only male species that can reproduce without a woman. There was a message in the ravioli there.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Did you get your heart broken?”

  “I’m afraid I might be the one doing the breaking.”

  “You want a piece of advice? Don’t do it on her birthday, your birthday, or a holiday, or in a place she frequents.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been in my predicament.”

  “And back again. I made the mistake of choosing the wrong day, time, and place. It backfired.”

  “How did it work out?”

  “Married thirty-two years in December.”

  “Congratulations.” Nicky extended his hand. “Nicky Castone.”

  “Ed Shaughnessy. Everybody calls me Big Ed.”

  * * *

  Uncle Dom leaned back in the driver’s seat of No. 4 as though it were the flannel-covered club chair in the corner of the garage where he’d sit and nap or listen to the Dodgers games on the radio. He had one arm propped on the driver’s-side door, the steering wheel nestled in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, and his other arm slung over back of the passenger seat. As he joined the line for the car ferry, Dom’s stomach grumbled. “Nicky, root around in that basket your aunt packed, will you?”

  “Sure.” Nicky reached behind the front seat and pulled the picnic basket onto his lap. “She put all kinds of stuff in here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cavazoons. There’s ham-and-butter sandwiches. Olives. Cookies.”

  “To drink?”

  “Limeade.”

  “That’s my girl. Nick, when you do get married, whether you marry Thin Melba—”

  “You mean Peachy?”

  “Yeah, the DePino kid. Peach Melba. Whether you marry her or not, marry a girl that can pack a basket for a car trip.”

  “What would you like?”

  “We’ll save the sandwiches and the savories for the trip home. Let’s have a cavazoon. That’ll tide us over. I like a little uptick of sugar before a negotiation.”

  Nicky unwrapped the large half-moon-shaped pastry, which Aunt Jo had cut in half. The flaky crust was filled with a fluffy mixture of whipped ricotta, egg, and vanilla. The uncle and his nephew bit into the delicacy and chewed. There weren’t words for how light and delicious a treat the cavazoons were, so they ate them in silence.

  “Uncle Dom, did you know my dad?”

  “Yeah. I knew him. Not well. But I knew him.”

  “What was he like?”

  “A fine fellow. Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder about him.”

  “You never asked me about him before.”

  “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “You know how it is, there are things you can ask and things you shouldn’t.”

  “You can ask me anything, kid. I’m an open book with torn pages. Your mother was a beautiful person.”

  “I remember her.”

  “Anyone that ever met her never forgot her. Your aunt still cries, she misses her so much.”

  “Do you miss your brother?”

  Dom grunted. “No, I do not.”

  “He’s still alive.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “So it’s different. If he were dead, you’d feel differently. Or maybe you wouldn’t. I don’t want to speak for you.”

  “I try not to think about it. I can’t change the situation.”

  “You could. You could walk over to Fitzwater Street and talk to him any time you wanted.”

  “I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”

  “If he came to you?”

  “My door is always open.”

  “So you do miss Uncle Mike.”

  Uncle Dom swatted the crumbs from the front of his shirt. “Well, you miss the history. He knows things only he could know about me, and vice versa. That has value when you get to be my age. But you have to weigh it against the Sturm und Drang, the tumult and the agita. And when it comes to your uncle, it’s obvious what teeters and what totters.”

  “If I had a brother, I don’t think I could live so close to him and not see him.”

  “I
know he’s there.”

  “But you don’t speak to each other.”

  “But I know he’s there.”

  “And that’s enough?”

  “It has to be. You can’t go out and fix it now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too much. Too much.”

  “And that’s that?”

  “It’s something you have to accept. I went to see a priest about it. And he told me a story about the Renaissance. Funny, it always takes an Irishman to tell an Italian a good story about our people. Anyhow, I told him my troubles because I was guilty about the situation—I’m the oldest brother and I take responsibility, you know? Primogeniture is a concept that goes back to the Bible, Isaac and Jacob and Esau, it’s the basis of law itself. The firstborn son gets everything. No fooling around there. So this priest says that Mike and I were rivals, like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. When we worked together, we went at each other, and there were problems. But when we separated, my business did well, and his business did well. The priest said, go talk to your brother and just be his brother. Keep business out of it. But I couldn’t do it. It was too late.”

  * * *

  Dom pulled into Lou Caruso’s Cars New & Used on Empire Street and glided the cab next to the glass box in the center of the lot. “Take the basket,” he said to Nicky.

  Nicky waited outside with the basket as Uncle Dom went inside. He watched the men shake hands. Lou Caruso sat in his chair as Uncle Dom negotiated the return of Car No. 4 to the lot. Uncle Dom had his arms outstretched for much of the wheeling and dealing, looking a lot like the trapeze artist who walks the high wire between skyscrapers, holding a crossbow and wearing nothing but ballet slippers and a wrestler’s tank suit. It was as if his uncle were balancing the return of the car with the value of a new one in his hands.

  Fascinated, Nicky began to copy his uncle’s stance, looking at his own shadow on the sidewalk. He remembered how Sam Borelli insisted his actors observe behavior, and how emotions move through the body. There was something about the way Uncle Dom held his body that made the men inside listen to him and do his bidding. Nicky could see Lou Caruso through the glass, mesmerized, or maybe entertained. It didn’t matter. It appeared that Uncle Dom was effective. If there’s anyone in the world who has seen the gamut of human emotion, from lust to greed to indifference and back again, it’s the used-car salesman.