“What?”
He pointed to the steering wheel. “Drive.”
Drive? What did she know about driving? She grabbed hold of the steering wheel as he let go of it in order to light his match. He swore as she jerked the truck toward the right and then back to the left. After lighting his cigarette, he took control once more.
“Eventually, I ran away. I mean, who needs it, you know?” He took a draw on the cigarette. “Who needs people telling you what to do all the time? Like they’re so much better than you are? Why should anyone tell me what to think or what to believe?” He paused to take a drag. “Who needs rules anyway? And why should a government tell me what to do? A religion, what to believe?”
“You aren’t Catholic?”
“No.”
How could someone from Rome not be a Catholic? “If you aren’t Catholic, then what are you?”
“I’m nothing.”
Nothing? Was that even possible? “You don’t believe in God?”
He snorted. “Why should I? When I don’t have any proof that He’s ever believed in me.”
“Then you don’t . . . go to confession?” Imagine that!
“What do I have to confess? And why should I confess to breaking someone else’s rules? I’m a smart person. Can’t I decide for myself what’s right? And wrong?”
“But if you don’t believe in God and you don’t believe in . . . the government . . . then what do you believe in?”
“I believe in myself. And the capacity of man to determine his own fate. To decide for himself what he should do and where he should go.”
She’d never heard of such a thing! How could anyone live without papas and mamas telling them what to do and where to go? “How do you decide? And what kind of rules do you make?”
“Rules? There are only two. I do what I want. And when I do, I make no apologies for it.” He punctuated his points with a brandishing of his cigarette. He could have added that he changed the rules whenever he felt like it, but he didn’t. And in any case, he didn’t actually see it as a changing of the rules; he would have described it in much more philosophical terms best left to academic discussions and term papers.
No apologies? “You must not have many friends, then.”
She was hoping for a laugh. What she got was a scowl. “I don’t need anybody. Who really needs anybody? Sentiment hinders change. Change can only be had through revolution. And sacrifices must be made in order that revolution be achieved.”
Revolution? Sacrifices? It sounded rather . . . sinister. And she couldn’t keep herself from shuddering. But she didn’t want to end their day with talk of sacrifices and revolutions. And she didn’t like seeing him look so unhappy. So she slid closer to him. Kissed him on the cheek.
And was rewarded with a smile. And a wink.
Once Angelo dropped Julietta off near Zanfini’s, she ran through the North End to her street, into her building, and up four flights of stairs before skidding to a halt in front of her apartment door. She smoothed her gown, pushed the pins further into her hair. Prayed to God that no one would notice her. That no one would ask her any questions.
But Mama Giordano caught her coming through the door. “There you are! Grab the beans and bring them to the table.”
Julietta froze and then moved toward the sideboard, eyes wide. That was it? That was all the attention she would be paid? The only remark that would be made? She felt her shoulders go slack with relief. Her gaze traveled the room. Everyone was there. Including Salvatore and Little Matteo.
And Mauro.
Her cheeks were lit by the scorching flames of guilt.
Mama bustled by with a serving spoon. “So where were you anyway?”
“Where was I? I was at the . . . um . . . the . . .”
Mama Giordano glanced over at Julietta, took in the dusty hem of her skirt. Her disheveled hair. The shadow that seemed to have fallen on her neck. Something . . . no, everything . . . about Julietta seemed somehow askew. Mama planted a fist on her hip and leveled a gaze at her daughter. “Where have you been?”
She shrugged, not willing to lie to Mama. At least not blatantly.
Mama’s mind was furiously working through the list of eligible Avellinesi boys in the neighborhood, trying to come up with a pairing that made some sort of sense. But the Basso boy was after the Celentano girl and the baker’s son was courting the fish-seller’s daughter. So who had Julietta been with?
Everyone at the table looked on with great interest. No one more so than Mauro. Julietta hadn’t been at the festa, and he knew it. He’d been down every street and alley looking for her. But where had she been? And who had she been with? He could see Mama’s eyes getting dangerously narrow. He could tell Julietta’s knees were beginning to quake. And so he did something he’d never done before in his life. He lied to Mama Giordano. “She was with me. For most of the day.”
Julietta followed Mauro out into the hall as he left that night. She wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she settled on the simplest, most expedient word. “Grazie.”
He’d lied to Mama Rossi on her behalf and all she said was grazie?! As if he’d done her some kind of favor? He turned around to face her head-on. “Thanks for what? For lying for you? I should have let your mama find you out.”
His words caused her to stop in her steps. She blinked.
He set his doctor’s bag down and moved toward her. “Who were you with?” She bit her lip. Then she shook her head. Why should he have to know?
“Don’t you think you owe me that? At least?” After making him search for her all day, and worry about her all night? After he’d spent the better part of his morning shaving his face and shining his shoes and pressing his shirt?
She resented being scolded as if she were a child, and kept her eyes trained on the tops of her shoes.
In pure frustration he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Look at me!” The one fearful glance she sent him did nothing to assuage his fears. “Did he hurt you?”
That caused her gaze to fly toward his. “Ow – no! But you are.”
He loosened his grip. “I apologize. But so help me, if he did – ”
“He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”
Who was he? Did Mauro know him? Because if he did, he’d put the fear of God into him. Listen to him! Put the fear of God into him? He’d wring the boy’s neck with his own two hands!
She shrugged out of his grip. Stepped back. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Mauro. I can take care of myself.”
“You have no idea how much I want to hope that’s true.”
Hope it was true? It was true! “He’s not like you. He treats me like a woman.”
“Like a woman? By enticing you away from your family, taking you God knows where, and marking you like a – ”
“Marking me?”
He wrenched her chin to bare her neck. “Right there. Gentlemen don’t do things like that!” Thugs did things like that. To whores. And girls who didn’t care enough to stop them.
Che macello! She clapped a hand up to her neck to cover it. She had a mark on her neck? Was that what Angelo had been doing? How was she going to keep Mama from seeing it? And how long would it take to go away?
He was angry at her, frustrated by her, and scared for her. But more than that, he was frightened by her actions and her attitude. Terrified by the thought of her clasped in the arms of a man he did not know.
“Julietta . . .”
She raised her chin. Looked at him. “Leave me alone, Mauro. I know what I’m doing.”
21
The day of the festa hadn’t been any less eventful for Annamaria. She too had dressed for the occasion. On this one day in all the year, she had abandoned her head scarf in favor of a flower blossom tucked into the middle of her bun. And she tied a colorfully embroidered sash around her slim waist.
Her future suddenly seemed so broad. And bright!
Would she see Rafaello?
She hoped so! Even though he wa
s . . . Sicilian. And Saint Marciano belonged to the Avellinesi. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be at his store, did it? And maybe she could coax Mama into buying a melon today. Just for special.
When Rafaello saw her with the flower and the sash . . . maybe . . . maybe he would smile at her again. Or take up her hand in his!
Her cheeks flamed at the thought as she jostled Theresa for the preeminent place at the window. But her victory was only temporary. They both lost out to Mama when she elbowed them aside. “Such a fine day for Saint Marciano! He must be pleased.” She stuck out an arm and gave a vigorous wave to someone Annamaria couldn’t see.
“Who is it?” Theresa whispered to Annamaria behind Mama’s back.
“I don’t know. I can’t see!”
There was a scraping sound behind her. Annamaria didn’t turn around to look because she thought she might be able to glimpse a view of the street. If she bent at the knees just a little, she could peer through the gap between Mama’s upper arm and her body.
“Here!” Theresa shoved something into Annamaria’s back.
Annamaria turned.
Theresa was holding out a chair. “Stand on this. Mama won’t let me; she knows about Giovanni. But there’s no one looking for you.”
Oh, but sì, there was! At least she hoped there was. And she almost spoke of it right then, but prudence made her guard her tongue.
“Tell me if you see him!”
Annamaria had already put Theresa completely out of her thoughts. She had Rafaello to look for. A few moments later, as she watched high above Mama’s head, she saw him come out of the store and put up the awnings.
Here I am. Look up. Right here. At me.
He did! And she almost toppled from the chair.
“Madonna mia!” Mama turned and looked up at her eldest daughter. “What are you doing up there? If you want to look, just say so. But keep Theresa away from the window. That Giovanni Sardo keeps sniffing around.” Mama backed away from the window as Annamaria jumped from the chair and took her place.
“And bring me that chair, Theresa!”
For once, Theresa did some work, leaving Annamaria to revel in the luxury of having the window to herself. She placed her elbows on the windowsill and watched the street below, chin propped up in her hands.
Behind her, Theresa leaned first this way and then that, trying to see down into the street. “Move!”
“Mama said not to.”
“Mama said . . . and you always do what Mama says, don’t you?”
Annamaria ignored her. Because right at that moment, Rafaello came into view, carrying a crate of eggplants. He glanced across the street, up toward Annamaria, who suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
And then he winked.
Behind her, Theresa gasped. “Was that – did that boy over there wink at you?”
Annamaria pushed way from the windowsill and whirled to face her sister. “What? No.”
“He did! That boy from – ” She leaned out beyond Annamaria.
“From Zanfini’s? A Sicilian?”
“He didn’t.”
“I think he did! Mama!”
Annamaria grabbed Theresa by the forearm. “He didn’t wink at me.”
“He did.”
“He didn’t!”
“Then swear on the grave of Saint Marciano himself.” Theresa, noting the hesitation in Annamaria’s eyes, sensed victory. And a place at the window. “Mama!” She wrenched her arm from her sister’s grip.
But Mama Rossi was nowhere to be found.
Annamaria, hard on Theresa’s heels, followed her sister out the apartment door. They tore down the stairs, each of them trying to reach the bottom first. And then they burst out into the street, heads swiveling like marionettes, both of them looking for their mother.
Theresa gasped and clutched at Annamaria’s hand. “Look! There he is. There’s Giovanni!” Had you known him, you might have marveled at the excitement in her voice. But youth have a lamentable way of placing value on all the wrong sorts of things. And Theresa was no exception to that rule.
“Mama said you weren’t to – ”
“She also said not to talk to Sicilians.”
“I never – I never talked to him.” Not really. One word didn’t count.
“But he winked at you?” With narrowed eyes, she probed Annamaria’s gaze. But then her own gaze shifted up and over her sister’s shoulder. She lifted a hand and fluttered her fingers in greeting at someone. She squeezed Annamaria’s hand. “I won’t say anything if you don’t say anything.”
“About – about what?”
“Exactly!” She gave Annamaria a swift hug and then skipped away past her and disappeared – with Giovanni – into the crowd.
The throng in front of Annamaria parted and there was Mama. Right there! But – she glanced over toward Zanfini’s. He was there too. He had to be. And if she went back to the window, maybe she’d be able to see him. And he would be able to see her.
But what about Theresa? And Giovanni? Knowing them both, they might just get themselves into some serious trouble. But then, Theresa might land Annamaria in serious trouble too. If she told.
Indecision plagued her. Should she tell Mama? What should she do?
Annamaria ran up the stairs just as quickly as she’d run down them. She’d made her decision; she wanted to keep Rafaello to herself. The whole apartment was empty. She positioned herself at the window and soon after saw Rafaello come out of the store once more.
She held her breath as she watched him, willing him to look up.
He did.
He nodded – at her! – and then he proceeded to pick up an apple and polish it with his apron. And then he picked up another. And another. He polished that whole crate of apples, one after the other, all the while looking up at Annamaria.
She didn’t quite know what to do.
As her cheeks grew hot, she thought that surely it must be unseemly to stare down across the street at him, but she couldn’t seem to make herself do anything else. She thought, perhaps, maybe . . . she could wave at him.
And so she did.
And he saluted her with an apple, touching it to his heart before placing it back into the crate.
She felt a flush wash over her face.
But that wave – and his response – had emboldened her. She leaned forward, out over the window, and she smiled at him.
She did!
A smile so big that it was unmistakable.
And – heaven bless her! – he smiled right back.
Soon the tooting of horns, the rattle of drums, and the roar of a crowd approached. Leaning out the window farther still, she could see Saint Marciano’s statue come around the corner, swaying as it was carried by a contingent of Avellinesi men.
When it paused in front of her window, she pinned a dollar on his robe. On behalf of the entire Rossi family. “Please!” She hardly dared voice her wish. But then again, she hardly dared not to. And so, she whispered her prayer as she pinned a dollar onto the statue’s robe. “Please, help me, God. Please. With Rafaello Zanfini. Somehow. Some way. Please, God.”
As the party of revelers carried the statue down the street, the crowds began to thin. This was her chance! She took a few coins from Mama’s jar, enough to cover both the cherries and a melon. And then she went to find Mama.
She sidled up to her and waited for a pause in the conversation. “Can I get a melon today, Mama? Since it’s Saint Marciano’s?”
Mama frowned.
“You know how Stefano likes them.”
Her face softened. Stefano. Her precious baby boy. “Go ahead.
But only one.” She shook her head as she watched Annamaria cross the street. A melon. As if they were royalty.
Knowing Rafaello was in the store, waiting for her, imbued Annamaria’s every thought with purpose, every movement with grace. Never before had she felt so . . . female. It came to her then that Rafaello didn’t really know who she was. He must think she was
just a normal girl. A girl like Theresa. She only wished she were.
She entered the store, and as her eyes adjusted to the sudden dimness, she saw Rafaello’s back disappear behind a curtained doorway even as she heard someone call his name. Her heart froze. She lingered in the store, hoping he would reappear. He never did. And Mr. Zanfini grew impatient.
She pointed to the crate of melons.
“How many?”
“One.” She didn’t have the heart not to speak. What did it matter? It was only Mr. Zanfini. She walked back across the street, disappointment weighting her steps. She climbed the stairs up to the Rossi apartment and abandoned the melon on the sideboard.
22
That night Annamaria helped serve dinner at the Sons of Taurasi Hall. And then she helped Mama Rossi clean up afterward. Once Papa and the boys had left for more revelry, and once Mama had found her group of friends, Annamaria walked home to the tenement. Finding it empty, she pushed aside the curtains and sat at the open window, drenched in the silvery light of the summer’s moon.
Zanfini’s was closed now. The awnings drawn. The store dark.
If only she’d had the chance to see him! Would she have spoken to him again? Maybe . . . sì! Sì, she would have. And she would have said more than just one word.
Her gaze lifted from the store to the windows of the buildings opposite her own. And just there, across the street, one story up and one building down, sat Rafaello, his face glowing in the moonlight. They weren’t supposed to speak. No self-respecting Avellinesi should speak to a Sicilian. And they could not meet, save for Annamaria’s trips to the frutta e verdura, but no one could stop them from staring out the window at each other, if they chose to, of a night. And so they did. And when Rafaello burst into song, when the notes of a lilting melody drifted across the street to her window, Annamaria knew – she knew with a certainty borne of true love – that he sang those words just for her.
She couldn’t understand the words; no one on her side of the street could. The song was an ancient one, sung in the Sicilian dialect. But everyone who heard them understood their meaning. You would have to, for he was singing of love. Amazing love. Fantastical love. An all-consuming love that was born when the world first began, a love that would venture to the very gates of hell – past the gates of hell! – in honor of its beloved’s heart.
A Heart Most Worthy Page 14