Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I want to know.”

  Mamie sighed. “All right.” She straightened her maternity blouse over her stomach and looked up at her husband. “He listened.”

  * * *

  The Oldfield estate in Radnor was a splendid Tudor mansion which sat high on a hill before a clear blue lake so large it reflected the timbers on the facade. The footpaths leading to the house from the circular driveway were carpeted in thick emerald green moss. Hortense could not hear the sound of her own footsteps as she approached the front door. She observed that rich people lived in quietude; a perk of wealth was tranquility. Hortense stood back from the doorbell and took several deep breaths before pressing the gold button.

  A butler answered the door. “May I help you?” he asked in a polished British accent.

  “I am Mrs. Mooney. Mrs. Turnbough made arrangements for me to meet with Mrs. Oldfield.”

  The butler invited Hortense into the house. She stood in the entry hall, which gleamed under the lights of a chandelier dripping with onyx daggers and glass medallions. Hortense had never seen a chandelier made with black crystals, but she liked it.

  The butler led Hortense to the library. The circular room was filled ceiling to floor with bookshelves. The walls were covered in red damask fabric. A suite of chairs and a sofa in forest green leather were arranged before a formal fireplace.

  Edna Oldfield stood at her writing desk. Slim and tall, her white hair matched her pearls. Her plain suit was made of navy blue silk wool, the Main Line standard.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me today,” Hortense said as she and Mrs. Oldfield sat across from one another in front of the fireplace.

  “Mrs. Turnbough tells me you’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, I have. I have a passion and I’ve created something, I believe, is special and essential.” Hortense sat up straight in the chair.

  “Mrs. Mooney, tell me your story.”

  “I met an Italian woman whose people were from Venice. And she shared her very delicious tomato sauce with me. She passed away and left me the recipe and its secret ingredient. I have tested it for two years, done my own canning, and now I’m ready to sell it to the public.”

  Edna leaned back in the chair. “Let’s say you have the best sauce in the history of sauce.”

  “I do.”

  “Why should I invest my money in you?” She squinted at Hortense.

  “Because you’ll make more money. A lot more money.” Hortense squinted back.

  “Why shouldn’t I invest my money in you?”

  “Because I’m colored?”

  “You bring up a good point. Why would anyone buy Italian sauce from a colored lady?”

  “Because the only color they will see is red. Marinara. The recipe is Italian, from a woman of pure Venetian descent. Though I do know, from studying history, that the spice market thrived in Venice as far back as the thirteenth century. I imagine some of my African relatives made their way to Italy with cardamom and cinnamon and anise. So you might say my people have a long history with the Venetians.”

  “That’s a lovely story.”

  “I can’t change my color, Mrs. Oldfield. And once you taste this sauce, you will not want to alter one ingredient. No one ever rejected Madame Curie’s radium because she was French.”

  “True.”

  “Villa Hortensia is not about a face on a label, it’s about the flavor in the jar. And I’m ready to work to bottle this product just right, put it in stores, and sell it all over the country.”

  “You are not young, Mrs. Mooney.”

  “There’s not much I can do about that either. It took me a lifetime to get here. I can’t apologize for that, and I shouldn’t be penalized for taking the long road to success. There’s no sell-by date on the American dream. Well, not on mine anyway. But if you’re concerned about my age, why don’t we rely on the wisdom of your husband? He left the company to you.”

  “He trusted me.”

  “He’d have to do more than trust you. He must have thought you had a brain and the skills to run a corporation.”

  “He did.”

  “And you weren’t young when you took over, were you?”

  “Hardly.”

  “So let’s put my wisdom in the plus column, shall we?”

  “We could, Mrs. Mooney.”

  “Have you had lunch, Mrs. Oldfield?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “May I make you lunch?”

  “Perhaps another day.” Edna forced a smile. “I have an important meeting at the office this afternoon. I am handing the reins of the company over to my son, and there is a lot of work to be done before that can happen.”

  “I just need enough time for water to boil.”

  “It’s not a good day.” Edna Oldfield stood. The butler opened the doors to the library to see Hortense to the door.

  Hortense stood. “Mrs. Oldfield, I took three buses to get here today. And I don’t want to tell you about the road to get to those three buses. You were kind to see me and you owe me nothing. However, if I were in your position, I would taste the sauce, if only to stay current. You want to look good to your son when you hand him the company. You want him in the best possible position when the news breaks and that stock market reacts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I have three more meetings scheduled, the next one at the Campbell Soup Company. That’s right. You’ve heard of them. The Dorrance family. They live right over the hill due west. One stop on the bus. And they want to get into the Italian food business because they like the numbers they see coming off Chef Boyardee. I’m sure you’ve seen the profit margins yourself. Now, those numbers could be yours with Villa Hortensia. I’m not asking for much, Mrs. Oldfield—just twenty minutes to convince you, taste it for yourself before it’s too late. Once you sample my sauce, I guarantee you will want to get into business with the person that will take you into that market share, Italian style. Now, may I fix you a dish of macaroni?”

  Edna exhaled. “All right, Mrs. Mooney.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Hortense turned to the butler. “Now, which way to the kitchen?”

  * * *

  Lena Palazzini modeled the latest Dachette hat for Mabel, a pink silk number with a large turquoise button on the crown.

  Da Ponte’s had just received a new shipment from New York, which meant the women of South Philly swarmed the swanky shop for the latest hats. The shop was painted ballerina pink and the glass cabinets that lined the wall were filled with hats positioned on mesh wire displays. A wall of mirrors, reflecting all angles of the customer, made trying on the latest Lilly Daché, Mr. John, Nettie Rosenstein, or Luray hat out of Paris, a pleasure.

  “You look good in the cloche, Lena,” Mabel remarked. “You have a small head. I need a brim.”

  “They have a knock-out Venetian gondolier hat.” Lena handed her the big hat.

  “If I buy that hat, my husband will have me working on a canoe on the Delaware,” Mabel complained. “I don’t want to give him any ideas.”

  The entrance door pushed open to the jingle of bells. Freda, the shop girl, poked her head out from the back room. Lena looked up and saw June and Diane, the wives of her husband’s cousins, Micky and Tricky, the Palazzinis of Fitzwater Street. The ladies were a matched set, sleek and polished. June was a slim brunette shaped like a bottle of Coca-Cola, while Diane was a curvy blonde, strictly 7-Up.

  “Hi girls,” Mabel said from her seat on the bench. “I mean, cousins.”

  “Hi,” June and Diane chimed together. The cousins stayed in the front of the store, avoiding Mabel and Lena until Mabel placed the gondolier hat on her head.

  “You know, we can be friends,” Mabel said loudly.

  Diane and June looked at one another. After a moment, Diane summoned the courage. “You think so?”

  “Why not? We didn’t start this malarkey. I find plenty wrong with the Palazzinis, if you want to know the truth. Now, not enough to get in a vendetta
over it. But they’re not so perfect, are they?”

  “Mabel,” Lena chided her.

  “I just think we should be friends with these girls because we probably have a lot in common. Right?”

  “I think we do.” Diane looked at Lena. “I was coming in here to buy that hat.”

  “See? Progress.” Mabel modeled the gondolier hat. “What do you think of this?”

  “I don’t like it on you,” June said.

  “We will be very close,” Mabel assured her. “You’re honest.” Mabel took the hat off and gave it to June.

  “A snap brim would suit you better. It would show off your eyes.” June handed Mabel a lovely periwinkle straw number with an orchid bow.

  Mabel put the hat on. It lit her face romantically like blue moonlight.

  Lena was amazed. “She’s right.”

  “I won’t say a word to our father-in-law,” Mabel said.

  “And I won’t say a word to ours,” June promised.

  * * *

  Weeks had passed since Hortense Mooney had made Edna Oldfield a dish of macaroni. The old lady had enjoyed it, and said as much. Hortense made sure Edna had brought extra to the office for her son to sample. She had even left the kitchen as spotless as she had found it. She didn’t know what else she could do to convince Edna to take the sauce into her company fold.

  Since she hadn’t heard from Mrs. Oldfield, Hortense decided to spend some time at the Free Library and conduct some marketing research. She had spun a convincing fable about competition in the food business; now the facts were needed to back it up. There must be more companies in the country that would be interested in canning and selling Italian tomato sauce. Hortense simply had to find them.

  Hortense was putting on her hat just so when the telegraph machine began to tick. She sighed and sat down at her desk. She lowered her head and placed her thumb on the lever as the message came through.

  TO: HORTENSE MOONEY

  FROM: EDNA OLDFIELD

  WILL BUY YOUR SAUCE. COME TO OFFICE 9 AM TOMORROW. E.O.

  Hortense’s hand began to shake. She checked her work. Twice. Three times. She typed out the message, glued it to her favorite telegram letterhead, filigree angels on hearts, and typed the envelope with her home address. She placed the telegram in her purse.

  Hortense went to the file cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer, where she kept her private stash: a bag of chocolate-covered raisins, a jar of Sanka, and the sheaf of her private correspondence. She shuffled through the folders until she found one marked, in her own handwriting:

  FREEDOM

  She lifted out the unsealed envelope, which had a typewritten letter folded inside. She took out the undated letter she had typed nearly thirty years earlier and read it.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Palazzini,

  I am grateful for the steady employment provided by your company. The time has come for me to move on, and this letter is to respectfully tender my resignation. I wish you nothing but the best. Thank you.

  Very truly yours,

  Hortense Mooney

  Hortense slid the letter into the carriage of the typewriter and typed in the date.

  She picked up the fountain pen, shook it, and signed her name with a flourish. The ink dried while she put on her hat.

  She left the letter on her desk and placed the bag of chocolate-covered raisins and the jar of Sanka in her purse before snapping it shut.

  Hortense didn’t take the bus home that night. She walked.

  She walked through two Italian neighborhoods, one Irish, one Jewish section, and one other colored neighborhood before reaching her own—four miles in all, but she didn’t feel it, not a single step, not in her knees or her hip, because the concrete beneath her feet had become air. She floated home over the streets in a bubble, under a cloudless sky that looked like a bolt of silver moiré.

  Hortense had found, when she wasn’t looking for it, when she had not made a plan, her divine purpose. She had waited for this moment all of her long life. She had been so eager for it to arrive, sometimes she’d mistaken lesser opportunities for it. When she learned how to type, or when she graduated first in her class from Bland High School, or when her great-aunt left her an acre of land in Metuchen, New Jersey, or when she graduated from Cheyney, or learned Morse code, she’d figured those were skills, breaks, or accomplishments that would reveal her path and lead her to the revelation of her destiny. But they had not. Yes, they were all points of growth, arrows in the right direction, but none were her purpose.

  Villa Hortensia was her purpose.

  Hortense Mooney used her sense of taste, her talent for cooking, her affinity for the Italian people, and her love of tomatoes to create a product people would buy. Tomatoes were life. They were delicious, and they grew in abundance. They were equally the fruit of kings and peasants. They were lovely to look at, rich in color, and round in form. Hortense learned to appreciate every aspect of the simple tomato: its firm skin, meaty pulp, and even the element she would discard, the translucent seeds in the grooves of the pith, which reminded her of precious pearls.

  The new entrepreneur took advice. She had listened to Minna, trusted her, and that cleared the path for her to trust her own instincts. Never once did Hortense look back and question how long it had taken her to reach her goal, or second-guess her competence, or count herself out because of her age or her color or her bank account when her purpose was finally revealed. She believed in the excellence of her product, and that made her believe in herself. She could not fail.

  Hortense hadn’t dreamed of making spaghetti sauce all her life, but she accepted that Americans had a need for it now. Destiny reveals itself when need and desire merge in the moment. The world had changed since the war; when the boys returned home from Europe, they were all a little Italian, it seemed. Women were cutting their hair short: the Italian cut was all the rage in the women’s magazines. The airwaves were full of the music of Vic Damone, Perry Como, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, and Louis Prima. Fellini, Visconti, and Rossellini were making movies, the Agnellis made cars, the Ferragamos shoes—and all were popular with Americans. Franco Scalamandré was decorating the White House with his handwoven silk fabrics, and the Italian pope, the head of the Holy Roman Church, was planning his first visit to America. Hortense had spotted a trend, before it became one, and she would have the macaroni and gravy ready per tutti.

  Bottled Italian tomato sauce.

  Authentic recipe in the Venetian style!

  Villa Hortensia would be on shelves long after she was gone, she believed, and like a good book, it would find a new and hungry audience as the years rolled on—those who appreciated the ripened tomatoes made sweet by slow simmering with garlic, hearts of celery, one carrot, onions, a touch of butter, olive oil, and the secret ingredient. The sauce would save women time and bring immediate joy to the family table. Easing a woman’s burden was as important to Hortense as making a top-shelf item. A profitable business venture needed to have a touch of goodness to it, or so Hortense believed. Making a housewife’s meal preparation a breeze was Hortense’s idea of God’s work.

  The telegram from Edna Oldfield that arrived that day would be framed, and when the time came, it would be buried with Hortense Mooney.

  * * *

  Hortense took off her hat and gloves, placing them on the bench in the foyer of 34 Charlotte Street, where she had lived with her husband and daughters for almost forty years. She took a deep breath and looked around the dark house before opening her purse and removing the telegram in its envelope.

  The wallpaper she had hung herself looked outdated; the yellow roses climbing up the gray trellis seemed from another era. Hortense thought she would have to do something about that, now that everything in her life was about to change for the better. She flipped on the lamp in the living room on her way to the kitchen. There was already a light on in the kitchen, so she knew Louis was home.

  “I’m making eggs. You want some?” Louis asked her as he stood a
t the stove.

  “I had half a sandwich at three.”

  “All right.” Louis flipped his eggs in the pan, and his toast popped up in the electric toaster. Hortense moved to help. “I got it,” he said.

  Louis prepared his plate and placed it on the table. “There wasn’t anything in the icebox for me. So I went ahead and made myself something.” He sat down.

  “I’ve been busy with the sauce.”

  “It’s your life and your lover. Takes all your time.”

  “I know. You’ve been so patient.” She sat down across from her husband at the kitchen table. “I got news today.”

  “Palazzini gave you a raise?”

  “No. I quit.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  Hortense unfolded the telegram and handed it to Louis. He wiped his hands on the napkin before taking it from her.

  “You sold the sauce to the Oldfield company,” he said, handing the telegram back to her.

  “I did. Villa Hortensia.” She nodded.

  “Good. Good for you.”

  “It’s for us, Louis.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  She watched as her husband angled the eggs onto the toast and took a bite. “We’re not in competition. We’re a team.”

  “Whatever you say.” Louis chewed slowly.

  “It’s not whatever I say. It’s what’s true. Now, what is true for you?”

  “That we are what we are. We keep on living.”

  “And that’s good enough for you?”

  “What choice do we have?”

  “We have all the choice in the world. We have opportunities. We can grow. We can change.”

  “If I didn’t know you were a teetotaler Baptist, I’d think you were drunk.”

  “I need to confess. I’m not exactly a teetotaler. I like a glass of wine from time to time.”

  “Good to know, Hortense.”

  “But I’ve not had any today. I’m as clear as I can be. We can create anything in this life, Louis. We can be whatever we want to be. Have what we want. It’s all there for us. For you.”

  “You’ve lost your mind. What opportunities are out there for me? What opportunities have there ever been?”