Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “We can make things, Louis. I proved that with the sauce.”

  “Nobody ever wanted anything I made. All I ever did was clean up after people and the messes they made. I had ideas, but nothing would come of a colored man’s ideas because a white man always had a better one. And if he didn’t, he just took mine.”

  “Until now.”

  “For you.”

  “For us. Are you proud of the sauce?”

  “It’s yours. I’m just standing behind you as I always have. That’s the world I live in.”

  “We stand together. At least, that’s how I saw it. You worked hard. You’re a deacon in the church. You’re an important man.”

  “I don’t need to go through all of this with you.”

  “I’m your wife.”

  “That doesn’t make you right.”

  “Oh, Louis. It’s fine with you for us to just keep going on the way we have been, isn’t it?”

  “Marriage lasts until death. It’s in the Bible,” Louis said with conviction.

  “Somewhere in there it also says that He came so you would have life and have it more abundantly. Well, what we’ve been living is famine. Lack. This isn’t working, Louis.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know everything. I saw you with the widow.”

  “I had a church meeting.” He shrugged.

  “There was no congregation, Louis. Just a kiss on the street corner. But let’s put that aside, because it’s not the reason for what I’m about to do. It’s just another fact in a long line of them that adds up to your truth and mine.”

  “Hortense . . .”

  “Louis, let me talk. I have tried for over forty years to make you understand that you are worthy. I even dressed you. I bought you an Italian suit, I pressed a cotton shirt with French cuffs. I bought you a silk tie, made in England and sold at Wanamaker’s. Couldn’t afford it, so I put it on lay-away. Took me seventeen months to pay for it. You remember that, don’t you? I saved up and bought you a car so you might drive down the street and feel like somebody.”

  “I appreciated what you did.”

  “I raised our girls and educated them. Sat at this table and did their homework with them every night when I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I taught our daughters skills—both of them can iron silk without leaving a press mark, and last I checked, Maxie can type a hundred and four words a minute, and you know, she got the long fingers, and even Mary, with more effort, can type ninety-two words a minute. They are miracles. And you gave them to me. And every day, I say a prayer of gratitude for you, for them.”

  “I love our girls.”

  “I know you do. And I took care of your mother. I took her into the house to live with us and treated her with the respect I gave my own mother before she passed. I washed your mother’s hair and set it once a week faithfully and took her every Sunday for services at the Everwood AME Church and every Wednesday night to Bible study, even though that wasn’t my church and that wasn’t my Bible group.”

  “She appreciated it.”

  “I changed out her church hats with every season—straw in the summer, felt in the winter. I placed silk rosebuds on the band in the spring and clusters of green pearl grapes in the fall so she might know that she was special and that her hat backed it up. Whenever she got a compliment on her hat, she’d turn and wink at me. I didn’t do this for me, I didn’t do it for her, I did it for you.”

  Louis pushed his chair away from the table.

  “Now, I’m not saying you’re a bad man. I don’t know what all you did when you left this house. I didn’t question who you were with and why you were with them and I never asked, not because I wasn’t curious but because the answer would have meant I might have to do something with the knowledge. And the truth is, I was tired. I had enough with my job and taking care of this house and our family. But now the girls have moved out, they are on their way with lives of their own, your mother is gone, and it’s just you and me. And I am neither happy nor unhappy, I am on that island of nothing where dreams aren’t born but they don’t die either. They just aren’t. And that’s not living. You might be fine in neutral, but I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry, Hortense.”

  “I accept your apology. And please accept mine. I’m responsible here too. I thought we could pick up where we left off before we had the girls. But now I know that youth isn’t waiting for you on the other side of wisdom.”

  “It’s not.” Louis put his head in his hands.

  “In Roseto, I learned a few things about myself. I learned I could think on my feet, get myself out of hot water. And around here, I’ve been wading in lukewarm since I had Maxie. That’s right. That long. And it wasn’t your fault. Once I made you over, I needed a new project. I didn’t realize it then. I figured a new project would present itself—and when the children were cooked, well, I had nothing on the worktable. And in Roseto, I learned how to make gravy. Not our gravy. Not brown gravy. But gravy the Italians make. So I’m going into business with the Oldfields. And because I stayed with you for all these years and you blessed me with two fine daughters, I’m going to give you half of whatever I make. If I can, as a farewell gift, make you rich, it would be my pleasure. But as your gift to me, you must pack up your things and leave this house. It’s time for you to be with someone who loves you. It’s time for you to share a bed with a woman who faces you when you sleep. Do we have an understanding?”

  “We have an understanding.” Louis wiped a tear away.

  Hortense had never seen Louis Mooney cry. Never once. Not when his lung was pierced by a falling window when he was working the odd job, not when she lost the baby boy in 1916, not when his mother died or when he was laid off from the railroad. Today, of all days, he cried. But he wasn’t sad; he wept tears of relief, the kind that come after a dry spell, when rain falls after a long drought and the sky opens up and drenches the fields, saving the crop that saves the village, that saves the country, that in turn saves the world. It was like that with Louis in that moment. He was on the brink of happiness before it was too late, before he died without knowing it could be his.

  * * *

  Hortense got off the bus in Manhattan at East Sixty-third Street and Madison Avenue. Nicky had promised her that Quo Vadis was easy to find. She looked down at the business card he had sent in her birthday note.

  As she descended the steps of the bus, she passed a small group of colored ladies, domestics in uniforms, on their way home from work. Hortense nodded at them in recognition. They returned the acknowledgment.

  She pushed through the front door of the restaurant and into ancient Rome. The walls were covered in hand-painted tile mosaics, a series of Doric columns separated the tables, and red velvet wallpaper framed the arches.

  Hortense waited at the maître d’ stand. Inside, a sea of white faces looked up at her, taking in her hat, gloves, and coat, and finally her brown face. Hortense patted the gold brooch on her collar as the maître d’ returned. “I’m here to meet Mr. Castone.”

  Gino, one of the owners, surveyed the reservation log. “I don’t have a Mr. Castone on the reservation list.”

  “But he invited me here for dinner at seven o’clock.”

  “Yes, I did!” Nicky bounded through the restaurant and joined Hortense. “She’s with me,” he said to Gino.

  “I’m sorry, sir, she asked for a Mr. Castone. I didn’t recognize the name.”

  “That’s my given name,” Nicky explained.

  “Let me show you to your table.” Gino smiled and escorted Hortense and Nicky back to their table. Gino helped Hortense into her chair.

  “If you’re no longer a Castone, what do you call yourself now?” Hortense asked.

  “Nick Carl.”

  “Sounds like the first and middle of a name, not the entirety of one.”

  “Carl is for Carlo, our old pal the ambassador.”

  “Why do you want to be reminded of him? He almost ruined you. Or you him. I can’t
remember.” Hortense chuckled.

  “Either way, he changed my life.”

  “Almost ended mine.”

  Nicky laughed. “The Ambassador changed everything. When we went to Roseto, we got out of the car, and they loved us and they didn’t even know us. It’s a lot like being on television.”

  “They only accepted me because I was with you,” Hortense reminded him. “I’m a bad actress.”

  “Not true. You were very imposing on your own. I have a feeling they were on to me from the beginning, but they wanted to believe I was the ambassador, they needed him. He was coming all the way from Italy to honor them. People need to feel important.”

  “They do indeed.” Hortense thought of Louis, and that made her eyes fill with tears.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No. It’s the onions.”

  Nicky looked around. “There are no onions here.”

  “I said it was the onions. It’s the onions.”

  “Mrs. Mooney, I’ve never seen you cry.”

  “I’ve been known to weep here and yon. I’ve had some sadness. Some misery.” Hortense opened the menu.

  “The food is good here.”

  “I think your friend Gino thought I was here to apply for a job in the kitchen.”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  “Funny thing. I could work in that kitchen now. I know my way around Italian cuisine.”

  “Years around the Palazzinis.”

  “You could say that, but not really. I stayed to myself over at the garage, except for the times I took care of you at the house.”

  “You took care of me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was I a good kid?”

  “Better than your cousins. I thought those boys would end up in prison. They would not follow instructions.”

  “What do you remember about my mother?”

  “She was a lovely person.” Hortense closed the menu. “Very kind. I would say she was the prettier of the two sisters, and had the better figure. Jo leans to the stocky, if you know what I mean. Your mother was more graceful. And the face—she had a very sweet countenance. And good teeth.”

  “Do you remember when she died?”

  “It was a long illness. You know, when an illness goes on and on, you don’t think that the person will pass. She fought hard because she didn’t want to leave you behind. That was her only worry. You were everything to her.”

  “Where was I when she died?”

  “You were in the room with her.”

  “I was?”

  “You had a day bed in her room. Do you remember that?”

  Nicky nodded that he did.

  “You were asleep. It was night, almost morning. Mrs. Palazzini called me because she didn’t want to leave the children alone when she went with her husband to take your mother to the hospital. I went right over. When I got there, Mike and Nancy had arrived. Her boys were all over the place, one slept on the couch, the other two on chairs. You slept through everything. I went upstairs when they took your mother out of the room.”

  “They left me there?”

  “I was with you. And when you woke up, you asked for her. And I didn’t know what to tell you, but I could see, even though you were only a little boy, you knew. So I told you the truth, that she had passed but she was in heaven, and now she was everywhere.”

  “Did I believe you?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “I guess I had to.”

  “So I picked up a book and read to you. That made you feel better.”

  “I wish I could remember more.” Nicky straightened his necktie.

  “Your mother did come to see me at the office a few months before she passed. She said she was looking for her sister, but I knew better. She needed to talk to me alone. She knew that I did the books, so she wanted to make sure that you got everything you needed. She gave me her bank account number. And I took all the information down, and she sat with me awhile, we talked about my girls. She was interested in them too. When she got up to leave, she said, ‘Mrs. Mooney, I know this is asking a lot, but will you watch out for Nicholas?’ That’s what she called you. She said 810 Montrose was a zoo, and she was afraid you’d get lost in the commotion over there. And I told her that I would.”

  “And you have.”

  “Why else would a sane woman agree to pose as Eleanor Roosevelt’s attaché in Roseto, Pennsylvania? I only did it because I promised your mother I would look out for you.”

  “Here I thought it was because you believed in my acting skills. Do you drink?” Nicky offered Hortense the wine.

  “The occasional nip.”

  Nicky poured Hortense, then himself, a glass of wine. They toasted and sipped.

  “Have you met a nice young lady from a good family yet?”

  “I can’t do two things at once.”

  “Work and a social life?”

  “No, nice lady from a good family. It’s either one or the other, never both.”

  “I saw Peachy DePino. She had her baby. A boy.”

  “Good for her.”

  “I didn’t recognize her. A lot of baby weight, even though the baby was in the pram.” Hortense shook her head.

  “I can’t imagine Peachy heavy.”

  “You don’t have to. You can see it plain. Of course, some of it’s baby and will come off, and the rest is cannoli filling. According to your cousin Mabel.”

  “I’m happy for Peachy.”

  “I told you that would all work out. Every heel finds its shoe.”

  “You never said that. You just said don’t marry her.”

  “Same thing. You ever hear from Mamie?”

  “No.”

  “But you made it all square with her, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Would you like to see her again?”

  “I got her to her destination.”

  “When she got there, did you have any feelings for her?”

  “You never forget the person that healed you.”

  “Or the one that made you rich. Minna was an angel. And I guess now that she’s gone, there’s no need to go back to Roseto. I have no reason, no excuse. Well, maybe I’ll slip down and go to the cemetery sometime. Italians and Baptists think that’s important, so I’ll do that.”

  “Why do you think she gave you the recipe?”

  “I don’t know. I think about that sometimes. She believed that the most important thing was—” Hortense rapped on the table, “This.”

  “La tavola.” Nicky toasted Hortense with his wine glass.

  “Right. Minna said anything of importance in a family happened right here.”

  “So this is a good place to bring up my problem.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m making money.”

  “Where’s the problem in that?”

  “I didn’t think about getting paid, when I got on television. I just thought about the job and loving the work. And it turns out that being happy brought the money.”

  “Minna told me that one leads to the other. Happy leads to money but never money to happy.”

  “Money can bring out the worst in people.”

  “It can. When money is the goal. When Minna died, she left all her money to the church. Nobody had any idea how much she had, but it was a lot. She kept it in a bank in New Jersey. She felt if anybody in Roseto knew she had a few bucks, they might treat her differently. So she never told them she was rich. I thought that was odd. Why not be proud of the money you earned? So I went to the library to see if they had a book on the subject. I wanted to understand how to keep my head if I got rich. Now, when I go to the library, they don’t let us into the Main Branch stacks, we have to go in the back to a room designated for colored folks. We don’t get a good selection. But sometimes they trip up, and a good book gets through and I grab it.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Anyhow, I found this one book, the story of the richest man in A
raby. He was a sultan. You know, with a silk tent and a harem. He lived in a desert so vast you needed full sun or a full moon to find anything in it. In the middle of that desert, he had a palace. A palace so huge you couldn’t count the rooms. People would visit and get lost in there and show up years later. That’s how vast the inside of this cat’s palace was! Everything inside was made of something rare from some exotic island or foreign land. Elements like fine marble, hand-painted enamel, tiny mosaic tiles made of turquoise and jade. He was so rich, he even had a gold toilet. Gold seat. Gold flushing handle and chain. Gold lid. A golden commode. I sat with that thought for a while. And I thought what it might be like to be so rich that you think you need a gold toilet.

  “Common sense tells us that even if a man has great power and genius and cunning and possesses all of the treasures of the Orient, the last thing he needs is a gold crapper, because shit is shit. There’s no way to make it into anything more. But rich people believe they are better than you and me, and therefore everything they make is more important than it actually is, including their own dirt. Now, you keep your wits about you. You remember where you came from, and you’ll be all right. And if you don’t need all that money you’re making, give it to somebody who can use it.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  “There’s a lot of need out there.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  “You have an old friend in dire straits right now.”

  “I do?”

  “Calla Borelli has to sell the theater.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. I hear it’s going up for auction. Poor kid.”

  * * *

  Nicky held the door for Hortense as they left Quo Vadis.

  “I can get the bus back to the Port Authority from here,” Hortense said.

  “You’re not taking the bus.” Nicky motioned for a black town car to pull up to the curb. “You get a royal coach, Mrs. Mooney.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I always wanted to do something nice for you. I never got you that Lilly Daché hat.”

  “There’s still time,” Hortense teased, “This isn’t enough, but it’s something.” Hortense reached into her handbag and gave Nicky a jar of Villa Hortensia Fine Italian Tomato Sauce. “This is the very first jar of my tomato sauce. See there? It has a gold number one on the lid. I had that put there just for you. You can use the sauce—just save the jar.”