Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “No Italian. I am—”

  “Rocco Tutolola.” Nicky embraced him, disarming his host.

  “Yes, did you receive my letter?” Rocco asked.

  “I did not.”

  “It was sent to you. Your schedule and itinerary were included.”

  “It must have gotten lost. It’s a big ocean, no? But I here now. I here now! We jubilee!” Nicky turned to the crowd and waved his arms high in the air, and they cheered.

  “Yes, yes, we jubilee,” Rocco agreed.

  The crowd pushed forward, encroaching with enthusiasm. The thought that he might be discovered crossed Nicky’s mind, and he began to sweat. The friendly throng could easily turn into an angry mob. He wished he would’ve gassed up in Easton in preparation for a hasty exit.

  “How did you get here? You were to come on the train from New York, and I was to greet you in Easton in an hour.”

  “Change of plans. I wanted to see Philadelphia, the birthplace of freedom. I hope-uh you understand. Capisce? My first visit to America, a cause for excitement! And, independence. So, I drive-uh myself from the New York to the Philly to the Jubilee! The adventure! The experience! The Palazzini Cab Company of Philadelphia donated the sedan.”

  “They did?”

  “Everything was paid for. Gas included.” Nicky grinned, slapping Rocco on the back. “Petrol! Petrol! We-uh call the gas in Roseto Valfortore.”

  “Well, we’ll have to thank them. Was your crossing comfortable?”

  “The airplane was so fast. Zoom-uh. Zoom-uh,” Nicky said, reaching into his grab bag of bad Italian and finding an impression of Louis Prima.

  “What airplane? Are you sure you don’t want to speak Italian? We have to work on your English.”

  “Crossing?”

  “The boat. You know, the ship.” Rocco spoke slowly: “Ocean liner.”

  “Oh yes, yes. It was magnifico!”

  Nicky formed his fingers into a closed umbrella shape and kissed them. The crowd cheered.

  “The MS Vulcania is the best of the Naples line.”

  “Da best-uh!” Nicky said enthusiastically. “What a line!”

  The screen door behind the chief burgess snapped open and his wife emerged.

  Rocco turned to Nicky. “This is my wife, the First Lady of Roseto, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Tutolola.”

  Cha Cha Tutolola was in her mid-fifties and built like a tugboat. She wore a shift dress in broad panels of black, red, and blue, so she was dressed like one too. Her hair was dyed deepest black, her lipstick was rose red, and two bright pink triangles of rouge faked cheekbone hollows. She extended her hand to Nicky. “Ambasciatore, per favore—”

  “No Italian, Cha Cha,” her husband chided her.

  “Why not? I practiced for months,” Cha Cha whined. “I could give guided tours at the United Nations.”

  “I learn-uh the English for you.” Nicky took Cha Cha’s hand in his and held it. “Bellissima, signora. Bellissima.” He kissed it, and the crowd cheered.

  “Well, I learned the Italian for you, Ambasciatore.”

  Cha Cha looked into Nicky’s blue eyes and then took him in head to toe, drinking in his height, thick hair, handsome face, and bright smile. The sum total of his attributes sent a charge through her that she hadn’t felt since she was stuck on the Whip at Dorney Park during a surprise electrical storm, and her metal safety bar was hit with a mild bolt of lightning. “You are much more handsome than your picture.”

  “And you-uh are-uh more-uh . . . how do you say . . . stunning than the official portrait in the Jubilee book.”

  “Black-and-white photography doesn’t do my coloring justice.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I’m a Snow White, you know. It’s all about contrast.” She lowered her voice and said with a wink, “It’s a brunetta advantage.”

  The screen door snapped behind them.

  “This is our daughter, Rosalba,” Rocco announced. “My only child. Flower of my loins.”

  A teenage girl slunk down the porch steps without taking her eyes off Nicky. She had the look of a starved fox, her chin pointed down, her brown eyes locked on her next meal. Her full madras skirt was cinched so tightly at the waist that the whole of her rib cage moved up and down when she breathed. The button holes on her white blouse strained over her bust, which was pointed and hoisted high.

  Rosalba extended her hand to Nicky.

  “I see she gets her beauty from her mother.”

  “She’s shy,” her mother whispered.

  “Chief Burgess?” Nicky began.

  “Please call me Rocco.”

  “Rocco, mio figlio—may I call you mio figlio?”

  “Of course, of course.” Rocco was flattered.

  “The-uh United States government generously sent an attaché to accompany me on my travels here. She is-uh from da highest pinochles . . .”

  “Do you mean ‘pinnacle’?”

  “Si, si, pinnacle of la government. I would-uh like to introduce her to you now.” Nicky opened the sedan door and stuck his head in. The crowd burst into welcoming applause.

  Hortense had the expression of an electrified Halloween cat. She whispered, “This better work, or I’ll kill you before Al DePino takes a run at you.”

  “It will work,” Nicky whispered back.

  Hortense’s foot, in a plain black leather pump, landed on the ground outside the car. She stepped out into the light.

  As she was revealed, the applause ebbed, replaced with a soft chatter of surprise. An odd sound pealed through the crowd, a sigh of surprise laced with wonder, which turned to a faint grumble, until it was muted entirely. It was so quiet, Hortense swore she could hear the town butcher sawing salami on Garibaldi, a block away.

  Nicky broke the impasse. “I would like you to meet Mrs. Hortense Mooney, attaché of Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  The chief burgess and his wife shook Hortense’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Welcome to Roseto.”

  “I am pleased to meet you both. Mrs. Roosevelt visited Pennsylvania many times. She knew of the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, and of Ben Franklin’s tomb.”

  “Mrs. Mooney, forgive us, but we weren’t expecting you.” Cha Cha looked up at her husband anxiously. “We don’t have a hotel here. The closest one is many miles away. And the ambassador is staying in our only guest room.”

  “So you don’t have accommodations for me?”

  “We don’t.”

  “I’ll just return to Philadelphia. It’s been nice meeting you. Ambassador, if we leave now, you can drop me at the train station and be back in time for your dinner this evening. Bye-bye, everybody!”

  “No, no—surely you have a room to accommodate a very important member of the United States government,” Nicky insisted.

  “Mrs. Viglione has the apartment over her garage,” Rosalba offered. “The men who were staying there moved out.”

  “How do you know?” Cha Cha asked suspiciously.

  “They were from Scranton, Ma. They were here to paint the church. Remember?”

  “Those Ukrainians did a good job.” Rocco shrugged.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll call Mrs. Viglione.”

  “We planned a tour of the Capri blouse mill upon your arrival. Then we thought you could use a rest.”

  “I could go for that right now,” Hortense said under her breath.

  “Tonight we have the Cadillac Dinner.”

  “Very-uh exciting. I much look forward,” Nicky said loudly.

  “I’ll get your bags,” Rocco volunteered.

  “No, allow me. In Italy, we handle our own bags.”

  “Why?” Cha Cha wondered.

  “Since da war.”

  “Oh.” Cha Cha was enlightened.

  Rocco turned to the crowd. “Friends, thank you for coming to welcome our guests. Now, if you would please allow us to get them situated and on with the plans of the day, we’ll see you all at the Cadillac Dinner.”

  The crowd cheered. Nicky and Horten
se walked to the car.

  “It’s not smart to stay in a private home. They’ll trip you up,” Hortense said under her breath.

  “You’re safe.”

  “But you won’t be.” Hortense looked over at the porch, where Rosalba was perched on the railing like a hungry buzzard eyeballing her prey.

  * * *

  Capri Fashions was one of thirty blouse mills scattered through Roseto, tucked unobtrusively between the houses. The mills’ facades were painted the colors of the homes, soft white, pale blue, and coral. The signs on the entrance doors were not industrial but artful; the factories were named after family members—Carol Fashion Company, Kay Ann Sportswear, Yolanda Manufacturing Company, Cascioli Mills, Inc.—or combinations of the owners, names, including Mikro, owned and operated by Michael and Rosemarie Filingo. Still others described the final product: Perfect Shirt.

  Nicky stood outside the Capri factory with Rocco. “Your town, it is-uh prosperous.”

  “Since the war, we’ve had a boom.”

  “You have brought felicita to Roseto. You must be-uh populare.”

  “I won the popular vote, if that’s what you mean. But my victory is conditional. Success has many fathers, but failure has a stench. I’ve lived through that too. You hold your nose and push through it.” Rocco opened the door, and Nicky followed him inside.

  The factory was abuzz with the steady drone of fifty sewing machines operating at full speed. Filaments from the fabric floated in a gray haze in the air. Electrical cables as thick as hemp crisscrossed overhead, providing power to the rows of machines separated by a main aisle.

  At each sewing machine was a woman, an operator, who swiftly and skillfully sewed pieces of a garment together, performing her particular job on a blouse with urgency. When it was completed, she handed it off to the operator next to her, who added her expertise to the garment until the assembled blouse made it into the bin at the end of each row.

  A runner bundled the blouses by the dozen with a ribbon, and wheeled them down the main aisle into finishing, which was in full operation at the far end of the massive room. Clouds of white steam obscured the workers in finishing as they pressed the blouses.

  “Anything like this in Italy?”

  Nicky shook his head.

  “A lot of women in this world, and all of them need clothes,” Rocco said practically.

  Nicky watched the operators as they focused on their sewing. Their speed was matched by their dexterity.

  “The faster they go, the more money they make. If you’re determined, you can do pretty well,” Rocco said.

  It was hard not to be caught up in the excitement of the enterprise and the precision of the operation. The women were beating the clock, working at a furious pace, their ambition laid bare. The process was mesmerizing, and Nicky appreciated a moment to observe instead of working hard to sell his accent. His mind was on the machines until a woman appeared at far end of the factory floor.

  She might have been Nicky’s age, or a little younger. Her light brown hair grazed her shoulder and was curled under neatly, but it fell out of her barrette and across her face when she turned to check the contents of a bin. She carried a clipboard, which she referred to as she moved. The visitors were far enough away that they couldn’t hear what she was saying, but they could see that she acted like a coach, giving a directive to each row of operators at their machines, who would nod in agreement but not look up from their work. As she worked her way down the floor, she stopped to instruct or encourage with the focus of a conductor of a seasoned orchestra.

  Nicky watched her walk; the buzz of the machines became music. She was an opera, not a minuet or a ritornello but the bravura of it, the swell of the overture, the transfixing aria, the lively intermezzo, and the emotional finale. She seemed to be coming through a garden, as she wore a dress made of some soft fabric covered in tiny pink roses, belted at her small waist and buttoned nearly from the collar to the hem, skimming her classic curves like the robe on mythic Helena or Nicky’s favorite Hollywood beauty, Lana Turner. It was warm in the factory, and a few of the buttons at the collar were undone.

  Her face had the look of the women from the rocky shores of the Mediterranean, seaport towns like Santa Margherita and Sestri Levanti, places Nicky’s nonna had spoken of when he was a boy. This woman held the colors of the sand in her hair and the sea in her green eyes. The woman’s full cheeks and lips were familiar to him. They had never met, but somehow he knew her.

  “Who is she?” Nicky asked Rocco, his voice breaking.

  “The forelady.” Rocco motioned to her to join them. “Mamie Confalone.”

  Mamie Confalone. Nicky committed her name to memory.

  “This is Ambassador Carlo Guardinfante from Roseto, Italy. Can you believe it? He made it.”

  Mamie extended her hand to Nicky.

  “You are-uh in charge of da factoria?” Nicky said in his best Italian accent.

  “Just the floor.”

  “Mamie is fluent in Italian. She was going to accompany you around Roseto during your stay. Mamie, you’re off the hook. The ambassador wants to speak English.”

  “Well, too bad, there goes my Italian.”

  “Maybe you could help me with my English.”

  “You don’t need any help. You speak English in a way I’ve never heard it before.”

  “You see, therefore, I need-uh your help. I could always use-uh more, come se dice, practice, Miss Confalone.”

  “Missus Confalone,” Mamie said with a smile, and went back to work.

  “Come, Ambassador. I’ll show you the cutting room.”

  Nicky followed Rocco through the factory, but he had no interest in seeing the cutting room or the finishing department, or watching the shipping crew fold the blouses into cardboard box after cardboard box that would be stacked and loaded onto the truck that would transport the shipment to the garment district in New York City.

  Nicky wanted to find a corner to be alone and mourn. He had, at long last, met the only woman in the world who had everything he was looking for; she’d come to him wrapped in roses. But he was too late. Mrs. Mamie Confalone was already taken.

  * * *

  “I hope you’ll find these accommodations sufficient, Mrs. Mooney,” Cha Cha said nervously.

  “This is very nice. Thank you,” Hortense said, removing her gloves.

  The apartment over Mrs. Viglione’s garage behind her house on Garibaldi Avenue consisted of one large room, with an alcove in which three single beds were made with white cotton coverlets. A round table and four chairs were set up under a large half-moon window. A door led to a small bathroom tiled in white. The kitchenette had a sink and a toaster oven.

  “The kitchenette is tiny, but you’ll be taking all your meals outside, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Viglione lives alone in the front house. Should you need anything, she has a telephone.”

  “Good to know. Do any Negroes live in Roseto?”

  Cha Cha shook her head.

  “Not one?”

  “Not that I remember. The closest we go outside of Italy are the Greeks, and we only let in one family because they make the candy.”

  “You have to have candy.”

  “I’ll make sure to bring you some.”

  “I’m the first colored person you’ve ever met.”

  Cha Cha nodded.

  “So what do you think?”

  “You’re very cultivated, Mrs. Mooney. But you do work for Mrs. Roosevelt, and she is a world traveler.”

  “She didn’t pick me up on the continent. I’m from Philadelphia.”

  “I didn’t know where you came from.”

  “About an hour south of here. Have you been to Philadelphia?”

  “To the zoo. Here’s the key. We’ll be by to pick you up for the dinner around six.”

  “Thank you. Will I be sitting with my hostess?”

  “Mrs. Viglione? No. She never leaves her house.”

  “Never?”

>   Cha Cha leaned in. “Not for years. She goes in the garden and sits on the porch, but no further.”

  “She has a malady?”

  “Not of the body,” Cha Cha said, and tapped her head.

  * * *

  Hortense hung her good suit on a hanger. She examined her shoes, relieved to see that the black leather was still polished and barely scuffed, and stepped into a simple cotton day dress and a pair of sandals.

  She wrote a note to leave on the door. She took the key, left the note outside, and walked through Mrs. Viglione’s garden to the house. The small footpath was lined with irregular slabs of slate, in muted shades of blue and purple. She observed that the lady of the house was a serious gardener; she used every inch of earth to grow plants, wasting very little on the walkway or decorative elements.

  The garden was not without its charms, however. Hortense walked under a trellis woven from branches of birch wood, which over time had faded to a calico finish of gray, white, and soft pink. The delicate pale green leaves that would eventually shield the summer grapes had twisted through the branches, which gave her an idea for a hat.

  Hortense knocked on the back door, which was screen on the top half, wood below, with a solid door behind it. She tapped lightly at first, then put some muscle behind it.

  Finally Mrs. Viglione opened the door.

  “Mrs. Viglione, I’m staying in your guest apartment over the garage.”

  “Is there a leak?”

  “No, there’s no leak. In fact, it’s lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wanted to come and introduce myself. I’m Hortense Mooney, with the United States.”

  “Aren’t we all with the United States?”

  “Government. I’m with the United States government.”

  “Cha Cha said you worked with Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  “Yes.”

  “I voted for her husband four times.”

  “I will tell her.”

  “How is she getting along as a widow?”

  “Up and down. You know, up and down.”

  “I hate it. Being a widow is just terrible. Are you married?”

  “Many years.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I hope so. Well, I just wanted to say hello and introduce myself.” Hortense turned to go.