Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Hortense smiled. “Thank you. That would be nice.”

  Minna Viglione opened the door. She was small and thin, her white hair pulled back by two simple braids, attached to a low chignon. She was close to eighty years old, but she had a youthful energy that was obvious in the way she kept her garden and home. Her day dress was simple gray-and-white-checked gingham, zippered up the front, with deep pockets. She wore flat gray leather lace-up work shoes and stockings.

  Hortense stepped into her immaculate kitchen. The walls were covered in white marble and the floor pebbled with smooth, soft blue stones. The round kitchen table had an elaborate ceramic top, painted with the artwork of an old map.

  “What a lovely kitchen.”

  “I’m in it most of the day.”

  “I would be too, if it were mine. Where did you find this table?”

  “It was sent from Italy. My husband and I went to visit our families on our honeymoon, and I saw it and had to have it. It’s my favorite piece of furniture in the house.”

  “I can see why.” Hortense ran her hand over the smooth tiles.

  “Please.” Mrs. Viglione invited Hortense to sit. “Are you hungry?”

  “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “It’s almost supper time. Are you waiting for the dinner this evening?”

  “I won’t be attending.”

  “Don’t you have to go with the ambassador?”

  “I’ve done enough for him today.”

  Mrs. Viglione laughed. “Is he difficult?”

  “He has his moments.”

  “They all do, don’t they?”

  “He is a man, after all.” Hortense chuckled “Are you going to the dinner?”

  “No, no. Will you join me for dinner here?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “You’ll miss all the excitement,” Minna warned her.

  “I think my ticker has had enough of that for one day,” Hortense promised her.

  * * *

  Nicky looked at himself in the mirror of his guest room at the Tutololas’ house, feeling as though he had landed in a jar of women’s cold cream. The four-poster bed was draped with a crocheted canopy. The bedspread was made of ruffled pink organza. There was a white rug, an antique pink dresser, and a lamp whose shade looked like the bottom half of a ballerina. Every surface was covered with a doily.

  He folded back the coverlet, careful not to wrinkle the ruffles, and then stepped out of his pants and hung them up in the small closet stuffed with boxes of Christmas ornaments. He was hanging his suit jacket on the same hanger when there was a knock at the door.

  He opened the door a crack and peeked out into the hallway.

  “I pressed your uniform for the dinner this evening,” Cha Cha said from behind his pressed suit, holding it above her head because it was twice as long as she was.

  “Grazie, signora.” Nicky reached one arm through the door to take it from Cha Cha, but she attempted to push her way into his room with her free hand.

  “I am not dressed!”

  “Oh my.” Cha Cha tried to peek inside. “I wanted to show you the closet.”

  “I-uh find it. Grazie.”

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  Nicky was close enough to Cha Cha’s face through the crack in the door to see that she’d drawn her black eyebrows on over a few sparse white hairs. She felt his stare and patted the left one. “We’ll give you a knock when we’re ready to leave tonight.”

  “I will take a rest.”

  “You do that.”

  Nicky threaded his costume through the door and closed the gap between him and Cha Cha quickly, knowing that any delay would be a sign of encouragement. The door did not have a lock, but why would it? Who would want to be locked inside this lady lair?

  He hung his uniform on the back of the closet door and lay down on the bed, which nearly collapsed under his weight. His feet hung over the edge on one end, as his head sunk through the pillow to the mattress below on the other. Everything was too soft.

  Nicky wanted to get up and get a cigarette, but he feared that if he lit a match in this room, he would blow up Truman Street. Instead he put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and without moving a muscle, let his mind wander to the exquisite beauty of Mamie Confalone. As she walked down the main aisle of the factory and toward him, he longed for her. As he drifted off to sleep, Mamie Confalone reached him at the end of the aisle and pulled him close and kissed him.

  * * *

  Minna stood at her kitchen window, peering out at the garage apartment.

  “Can you see anything?” Hortense whispered from behind the kitchen door.

  “Cha Cha is with Eddie Davanzo.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The town cop. Come and look. They can’t see you from here.”

  Hortense peeked out through the kitchen curtains. “He’s handsome.”

  “A bachelor.”

  “What a waste.”

  “I don’t know what is wrong with the young ladies in this town. But I think he pines for one girl in particular, and he can’t have her, so he doesn’t settle.”

  “Unrequited love. One-sided pain for no one’s gain.” Hortense cackled victoriously. “They’re taking my note!”

  “What did it say?”

  “It got me out of the dinner tonight. I’m just too tired to put up with the staring.”

  “I understand. They can be cold if you’re not one of them.”

  “They weren’t cold this afternoon, but they look at me like they’ve never seen a colored person. It makes me feel prickly.”

  “I’ve felt that way since the day I moved here.”

  “You’re not one of them?”

  “I married one of them.”

  “So you’re once removed. You’re not Italian?”

  “I am, but not from their province, or their town. They like their own. That’s it. I’m Venetian, and therefore an outsider.”

  “Judged by your own kind. That is frosty.”

  “Do you like all Negroes?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I’m sure you’re respected in your community because of your position. How many people can say they work for Eleanor Roosevelt?”

  “It’s not my job that earns me respect. It’s my standing in my church.”

  “That’s important, too. But it’s very rare for a woman to have a position like yours. Mrs. Roosevelt saw something in you.”

  “She’s a visionary, only one of her in a million. Franklin and she—well, I can’t speak of them without getting emotional. May he rest in peace.”

  “Best president we ever had.”

  “I think so. Except perhaps for Abraham Lincoln.”

  “He was a good one, too.”

  “For my people he was essential.” Hortense put her hand on her heart.

  “Do you like to cook?”

  “It’s my favorite chore.”

  “Mine too.”

  “But I do love to garden, too. And you have a lovely garden.”

  “I enjoy it. I grow my own tomatoes. Lettuce. Cucumbers. How about you?”

  “The same. I also raise okra, chicory. We cook with that.”

  “How do you make your tomatoes?”

  “I stew them. Have you ever stewed tomatoes?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “My momma taught me. You take about eight big red tomatoes in season,” Hortense began. “Slice them in triangles, heat some butter in a skillet, two teaspoons of sugar—slice up an onion—let that get glassy. When it does, throw in the tomatoes and stir them up. Sprinkle about a quarter teaspoon of cloves over the tomatoes as they’re cooking. Keep stirring. If you want to make a meal out of it, tear up some bread and throw it in there and stir it all together. You never tasted anything so delicious.”

  “Tonight I’m going to make macaroni. Is that all right?”

  “As long as you serve it with
some fruit of the vine.” Hortense winked.

  “I have a bottle or two.”

  “Then I am all set. Hallelujah. A little homemade hootch, and I’ll forget all my troubles.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Thank you, Lord!” Hortense went to sit at the counter where Minna prepared the meal. “I always wanted to learn how to make the gravy.”

  “You must know some Italians. You don’t call it sauce.”

  “The Roosevelts employed some Italians here and there.”

  “I’ll show you how to make gravy Venetian style. In this town, they make it Rosetan style, which is fine, it’s tasty.” She whispered, “But mine is better.”

  “I believe you. What’s in the Roseto gravy?”

  Minna paused for a moment. “It goes like this. Olive oil in the pan, chopped onion, minced garlic, let it get glassy, as you say. Set that aside. Then you prepare the tomatoes. We can them every winter—in summer, we use fresh. One tomato per serving, so a quart of tomatoes serves about four people. When you use the fresh, most of the women like to give the tomatoes a dunk in boiling water and peel them before cooking them into the sauce. Then they strain them into the pan, so no seeds or skin in the gravy—it’s just smooth. You’ll add parsley, basil, and crushed red pepper. Salt and pepper. You let that simmer. Over the macaroni it goes. Add your freshly grated cheese.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s the Rosetan marinara. Of course, when they make the big pot of gravy, they add the meat. The meatballs, the sausage, pork, chicken, what have you. For the big pot, double the tomatoes. That’s the pot the family eats out of all week.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you want to help me make the gravy Venetian style?”

  “Sure.”

  Hortense watched as Minna methodically gathered the pots and utensils, including paring knives, colander, wooden spoons, slate cutting board, and a large pot to boil the macaroni. She tied a dishtowel around her waist, washed her hands, and filled the pot with water, placing it on the stove to boil and adding salt to the water. From her icebox, she took one carrot and a bunch of celery. From a bin next to it, she retrieved an onion. From the window, she pinched a bunch of basil from the plant in its pot. From a ceramic dish, she chose three cloves of firm garlic.

  Minna lifted her largest skillet from the shelf, placed it on the stove, and poured olive oil into the pan. She handed Hortense a paring knife. “Mince the garlic for me. I’ll take care of the onion. I never make company cry.”

  Minna placed the onion and garlic in the skillet, turning the heat on low. She stirred the onion and garlic, thoroughly covering them with the olive oil. “Peel and slice the carrot in very thin discs for me.” As Hortense cut the carrot, Minna pulled the outside stalks of the celery away from the bunch until she got to the heart. She pulled the heart stalks out and chopped them finely on the cutting board.

  “Why the hearts of celery?” Hortense asked.

  “That’s my own choice. The outside stalks make the sauce bitter. Just my opinion.” Minna put the carrot discs and chopped celery hearts into the pan and stirred.

  “Smells divine,” Hortense commented.

  Minna stirred the vegetables until they were soft. She climbed up on her stepstool and opened her cupboard, revealing mason jars canned with fresh tomatoes, seeds, skins, and all. She selected a jar and handed it to her guest.

  She poured half a quart of the tomatoes into the skillet, blending them with the vegetables. She placed the colander over a stainless steel bowl and poured the mixture from the skillet into the colander. With her wooden spoon, she methodically pressed the vegetable juice and pulp through, leaving behind any skin, seeds, and threads from the vegetables. When she was satisfied that she had pressed all the best pulp and flavors from the mixture, she returned it to the skillet, turned the burner on low, and covered it.

  “Now we have a glass of wine.”

  “Bring it forth, Mrs. Viglione!”

  “But before we do, I have to ask you to look away.”

  “I won’t tell anybody you drink, if you won’t tell anybody I do.”

  “It’s not that. I have to add the secret ingredient to the sauce.”

  “You just showed me how to make it.”

  “I left out one ingredient.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s been in my family, and I took an oath.”

  “You’re not going to give me the secret ingredient? But how am I supposed to make the gravy come out like yours?”

  “You may have it when I’m dead.” Minna shot Hortense a look like she meant it, so Hortense turned away. Hortense heard Minna climb back onto the stepstool. She heard the snap of the cupboard door, the snap of a canister, and the click of a spoon. She heard her hostess lift the lid of the skillet on the stove and return the lid to the skillet. Then she heard her put away the secret ingredient, just as she had retrieved it.

  “You can turn around now,” Minna said.

  “I don’t like secrets.”

  “How can you work for the government?”

  “True, it weighs on my Christian conscience. But not as much as a cooking secret weighs on my colored one.”

  “I promise you’ll have the secret when I die.”

  “I’ve known you for such a short time, but the thought of that already makes me sad.”

  “I know. Isn’t it funny how that works when you make a friend?” Minna hoisted the wine jug from under her counter. She poured Hortense a glass, and one for herself.

  “To Eleanor Roosevelt.” Minna raised her glass.

  “To Mrs. Roosevelt.” Hortense sipped. The sip of rich, purple homemade wine filled the dispatcher with the pure heat of an Italian sun on a cloudless day. She savored it, closed her eyes, and let go. For the first time in her long and useful life, Hortense Mooney was in the moment.

  7

  The half-moon over Roseto looked like a broken button through the silver chiffon clouds. A large white tent, the venue for the town’s annual Cadillac Dinner, dazzled in the black field as music played by the live orchestra sailed out into the night.

  A brand-new dove-gray 1950 Cadillac convertible with a black top was displayed in the field, in a blaze of floodlights. The grand prize of the evening’s raffle was decorated with an enormous glittering gold bow, as if an object of such grandeur needed further adornment. Every person in attendance hoped to drive it home.

  The dinner guests arrived from all directions, some in cars, others on foot. The quick clicks of the heels of their dress shoes could be heard on the sidewalks as they poured toward the entrance of the tent.

  The women were dressed in formal gowns made of satin, lace, and tulle, in spring shades of pink, yellow, and mint green speckled with sequins, crystals, and seed pearls. The ladies looked like a floating garland of blossoms as they lined up to pick up their table cards. The men wore black tie and dress shoes that pinched their feet, and, in a tip of the top hat to the evening’s formality, traded their cigarettes for cigars.

  The Jubilee Committee had decorated the interior of the tent in the Italian national colors of red, white, and green. Luckily, the colors of Italy’s flag were the same as the town Christmas decorations, so the holiday lights that hung across Garibaldi in December pulled double duty inside the tent in June.

  The tables were set with red tablecloths and the white church china. The centerpieces were pedestals mounted with cookie trays wrapped in cellophane and festooned with a small bouquet of red carnations attached with ribbons. The women of Roseto had baked biscotti, iced coconut cookies, fig bars, nut drops, jelly centers, pizelles, and chocolate twists by the hundreds for the event. The scent of sugared almonds, anisette, and vanilla filled the tent, competing with the ladies’ best perfumes: Tabu, Charles of the Ritz, and Intoxication by D’orsay.

  Fifty tables of ten were filled. It was the largest Cadillac Dinner in history, surely because the ambassador of Roseto Valfortore was the guest of honor. In a matter o
f a few short hours, Carlo Guardinfante had become the most popular man in town. He ingratiated himself to the Rosetani with his excellent English and good humor.

  Word spread quickly of the specifics of his Italian lineage (which they shared), his good looks (power and beauty are an excellent combination), his height (a lucky break for any Italian male), and his warm personality (he was one of them). If there were an election the ambassador would beat Rocco for chief burgess handily, and Rocco Tutolola was beloved.

  A parquet dance floor had been installed in the center of the tent. The dais, elevated over the crowd where the ambassador and town officials were seated, overlooked it, with the orchestra facing them on the other side. The tables were staggered inside the tent on either side of the dance floor.

  Nicky surveyed the bash from his seat on the dais. The place cards had been printed in gold, except the one next to his, which was handwritten: “Mrs. Mooney, Attaché to Mrs. Roosevelt.” He rested his arm on the back of Hortense’s empty chair.

  Nicky checked his watch. Where was Mrs. Mooney? His stomach grumbled. Nothing makes a man hungrier than being nice to people, therefore he was famished. He fished for a coconut cookie through the cellophane as he waited.

  Nicky was nibbling on the cookie when Eddie Davanzo handed him an envelope.

  Dear Ambassador,

  I regret I won’t make it to the dinner, but I’d rather kill myself than attend.

  Have fun.

  Mrs. Mooney

  “I hope she’s all right,” Eddie said. “Mrs. Tutolola and I knocked several times, and she didn’t answer the door.”

  “Mrs. Mooney has the gout. She is probably soaking in a hot bath.” Nicky stuffed the note in his jacket pocket as Rocco went off to greet more guests. “Or she got a lift to the bar at the Bangor Hotel, and she’s three Pink Squirrels shy of forgetting her name,” he mumbled to himself.

  Nicky was corralled to appear in a series of group photographs with the important civic organizations and religious clubs in Roseto: the Jubilee Committee, followed by the Our Lady of Mount Carmel Sodality, Columbia Fire Company, American Legion–Martocci Capobianco Post, the Knights of Columbus, the Blue Army, the Roseto Presbyterians (long story), descendants of the town founders: the Rosato, Falcone, and Policelli families, the Pius X High School Chorus, Our Lady of Mount Carmel School science project winners, Columbus School drama club, the Roseto Coronet Band under the direction of Louis Angelini, the officers and membership of the local International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union; and the board of directors and membership of the Marconi Social Club.