The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  The rat glanced over at the captain and slapped his own chest with his hand. To Cetta’s surprise, the captain lifted Natale away and pulled out one of her breasts, showing it off.

  Cetta grabbed her son and took him back, lowering her eyes, mortified. But before she did that she saw the rat laugh and nod to the captain. When she looked up again, the rat was standing next to one of the immigration inspectors, talking to him. He held out some money to the inspector and pointed at Cetta.

  The captain squeezed Cetta’s culo. “You’re in better hands than mine now,” he told her, chuckling, and then he left.

  And Cetta, without even realizing it, felt a sense of desolation as she watched him walk away. As if she could feel any affection for that disgusting man. Or as if that disgusting man were preferable to the void that was facing her. Maybe she shouldn’t have run away from home, maybe she shouldn’t have come to America.

  When the line moved imperceptibly forward, Cetta looked again at the customs inspector and saw that now he was beckoning to her. Another man was standing next to the inspector now, not the rat. It was a person with thick eyebrows, tall, with a tweed jacket that looked tight across his broad shoulders. He was perhaps fifty years old, with a long tuft of hair that went from one side of his head to the opposite one, to cover the part of his scalp where the hair didn’t grow. It looked ridiculous. But at the same time he looks alarmingly strong, thought Cetta as she approached them.

  The man and the inspector said something to her. Cetta didn’t know what they were saying. And the less she understood, the more they repeated it to her, louder and louder, as if the problem were that she was deaf. As if loudness could translate that unknown language.

  During the one-way discussion the rat reappeared. And he started talking loudly, too. Gesticulating. The limp hands with long nails chopped at the air like razors. A ring gleamed on his little finger. The big man grabbed the rat’s lapels, shouted even louder. Then he let go of him, glanced at the inspector and murmured something that seemed even more menacing than whatever he’d said to the rat, because the inspector went pale, and then turned towards the rat. Suddenly he started shouting at him, too. The rat turned on his heel and scuttled away.

  Then the big man and the inspector started talking to Cetta in their mysterious language again. Finally they beckoned a short stocky young man over to the table. He looked energetic and sunny and had been waiting in a corner to interpret between two populations who were separated by an ocean.

  “What’s your name?” he asked Cetta, with a friendly and open smile that made her feel less alone for the first time since she’d left the ship.

  “Cetta. Concetta Luminita.”

  The inspector couldn’t understand it, so the young man wrote it on the immigration paper for him. And again he smiled at Cetta. Then he looked at the baby in Cetta’s arms and stroked him. “And what’s your baby’s name?”

  “Natale.”

  “Natale,” he told the inspector, who again couldn’t understand. “Christmas,” the young man explained.

  The inspector nodded, satisfied, and wrote: “Christmas Luminita.”

  PART ONE

  3

  Manhattan, 1922

  “So what kind a name is that?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “If you ask me, you got a nigger name.”

  “Do I look like a nigger to you?”

  “Hey, you don’t even look wop.”

  “I’m American.”

  “Sez you,” and the boys around him hooted.

  “I’m American!”

  “You want to be in our gang, then change your fuckin’ name.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Hey, no, you go fuck yourself, lousy little prick! Christmas, my ass!”

  Christmas Luminita sauntered lazily away, hands in pockets, blond hair tousled, and a faint blond growth just starting to appear above his lips and on his chin. He was just fourteen but his eyes belonged to an adult, like so many children growing up in the airless tenements of the Lower East Side.

  “I got my own gang, assholes!” he shouted once he was sure he was too far away for a hurled rock to reach him.

  He pretended not to hear the chorus of insults that pursued him as he turned into a filthy unpaved alley. But once he was alone, Christmas unleashed his anger, kicking an overflowing bucket of garbage, there behind a butcher shop. He could smell the sweetish odor of meat. A little, fat, mangy dog, with two bulging red eyes that looked as though they might pop out of their sockets at any minute, shot out of the back door, barking furiously. Christmas crouched down, smiling, and reached out his open hand to the dog.

  Accustomed to avoiding kicks, the dog stopped, keeping her distance; and uttered a last yelp, but in a higher key now; sounding surprised. Almost a whimper. She opened her bulging eyes even wider and stretched out her thick neck, pushing her quivering nostrils towards the boy’s hand. Growling softly, she made a couple of timid steps, sniffed at Christmas’ fingertips. Her cropped tail began wagging slowly, with dignity. The boy laughed and scratched her back.

  A man in a bloody apron stood in the doorway, a huge knife in his hand. He stared at the dog and the boy. “When she quit barkin’, I think maybe this time they kill her,” he said.

  Christmas barely lifted his head, nodded mutely, and went on scratching the dog.

  “You gonna catch the mange, kid,” said the man.

  Christmas shrugged and kept stroking the dog.

  “Sooner or later they kill her,” the butcher went on.

  “Who?” asked Christmas.

  “Those mascalzoni, hooligans, always comin’ around here. You — you a hooligan too?”

  Christmas shook his head, no. His blond forelock tossed in the air. His eyes darkened for an instant, then brightened as he smiled at the dog, who was snuffling with pleasure.

  “She’s one ugly dog, eh?” said the man, cleaning the knife blade on his apron.

  “Yeah,” said Christmas. “No offense.”

  “A guy sold her t’ me ten years ago. He say she pure breed,” said the man, shaking his head. “But whattya gonna do, I real fond a her,” and he turned to go back into his shop.

  “I could give her protection,” said Christmas, without thinking.

  The butcher turned around and stared at him, curious. A fourteen-year-old kid, skinny, with patches all over his pants and shoes a mile too big for him, covered with mud and horse dung.

  “You scared they might kill her, right?” said Christmas, getting to his feet. The dog rubbed against his legs. “You like her. Me, I can protect her.”

  “What you talkin’ about, kid?” The butcher burst out laughing.

  “Half a dollar a week and I’ll keep your dog safe, I’ll be her protection.”

  The big man, huge in his bloody apron, shook his head incredulously. He wanted to get back to work, he didn’t like leaving the shop unsupervised, full of stingy cuts of meat that only a few people in the neighborhood could even afford. But he didn’t go back inside. He gave a quick look into the shop and then stared at the strange boy. “How ya gonna do it? Eh?”

  “I’ve got a gang,” said Christmas impulsively. “It’s — people call us …” He hesitated, looking down at the dog, who was still rubbing against his legs. “They call us the Diamond Dogs.”

  “I don’t want no gang wars around here, nobody breakin’ my balls!” The man stiffened and looked back into his shop again, but he didn’t leave.

  Christmas stuck his hands in his pockets. He moved some dust around with the tip of his shoe. He gave the dog a last caress. “Suit yourself, mister. Only, I heard some guys talkin’ … well, never mind,” and he started to walk away.

  “Wait a minute, kid. What you hear?” the butcher stopped him.

  “Those kids from down the street,” and Christmas gave a quick glance towards the corner where he could hear the gang he’d just refused, still shouting taunts. “They were sayin’ there was a dog that ba
rks all the time an’ makes a lot of trouble, and …”

  “And? What?”

  “Never mind … Could be they were talkin’ about some other dog.”

  The butcher, knife in hand, came down to the middle of the alley where Christmas was standing. He grabbed the boy by the lapel of his threadbare jacket. His hands were huge and strong, a strangler’s hands. Tall, he loomed over Christmas. The dog gave a few worried yips.

  “This mangy little dog, she don’t like nobody. But you, yeah, she likes you. Take Pep’s word for it, she likes you,” the butcher snarled, looking into Christmas’ eyes. “Like I say, I’m fond of her.” He was still studying Christmas, peering into his eyes, silently, while a look of wonder softened his features. Wonder, because he didn’t understand what he was about to do. “It’s true, she’s more trouble than a wife,” he went on, looking at the dog, who now was panting, with her tongue hanging out. “But at least I don’t have t’ fuck her!” And he laughed at the joke he’d told who knows how many times. Then he flipped his apron to one side and rummaged in his vest pocket with blood-crusted fingers, shaking his head in disbelief that he was actually doing this, finally pulling out a fifty-cent coin, and putting it in Christmas’ hand. “I must be crazy. Here, look: O.K., I hire you.”

  He was still shaking his head. “C’mon, Lilliput,” he said at last to the dog, and went back inside the shop.

  As soon as the butcher was out of sight, Christmas looked at the coin. His eyes shone as he spat on the coin and rubbed it with his fingertips. He leaned against the wall across from the butcher shop. And he laughed, not like a grown-up. Not like a kid, either. The same way his blond hair didn’t belong on an Italian and his dark eyes weren’t Irish. A kid with a weird name, who didn’t know who he was supposed to be. “Diamond Dogs,” he said, and laughed with delight.

  4

  Manhattan, 1922

  The first one he asked was Santo Filesi, a gangly kid, all pimples, with frizzy black hair. He lived in their building and they spoke when they ran into each other on the street, but nothing more. He was the same age as Christmas, and in the neighborhood they said he went to school. His father was a longshoreman, short, stocky, with legs twisted by years of lifting heavy things. They said — because the entire neighborhood did was talk about stuff — that he could lift a five hundred pound load with one hand. And because of that, even though he was a good and gentle man, who never got violent even when he was drunk, he was respected; nobody ever tried to provoke him. With a guy who could lift five hundred pounds with one hand, why take chances? Santo’s mother, on the other hand, was lanky like her son, with a long face and even longer front teeth that made her look like a donkey. She had sallow skin, dry knotted hands that were quick to box her son’s ears, so that Santo, whenever his mother gesticulated, flung up his own hands to protect his face. Signora Filesi cleaned the school that Santo supposedly attended.

  “Hey, is it true your mother makes a cream t’ put on your pimples?” Christmas asked Santo the morning after he’d been hired to protect Lilliput.

  Santo shrunk into his shoulders, blushing, trying to keep on walking.

  “Hey, did I hurt your feelings?” Christmas hurried after him. “I ain’t pickin’ on you, honest.”

  Santo stopped.

  “You want to be in my gang?” said Christmas.

  “What gang?” asked Santo, suspicious.

  “Diamond Dogs.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “What do you know about gangs?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “So if you never heard about us, it don’t mean nothin’. ‘Cause, see, you ain’t in touch,” Christmas explained.

  Santo looked down again. “Who in it?” he asked shyly.

  “It’s better you don’t know,” said Christmas, looking around furtively.

  “How come?”

  Christmas came close to him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into a side alley heaped with trash. Then he turned back to peer out at Orchard Street for an instant, as if to make sure they weren’t being followed. At last he spoke quickly, in a soft voice. “’Cause that way you can’t squeal if somebody puts the screws to you.”

  “Who’d put screws in me?”

  “Oh, fuck, you must be right off the boat! Don’t you know nothin’? What world are you livin’ in? Hey, is it true you go to school?”

  “Maybe.”

  Christmas sneaked another look at Orchard Street, put on a worried frown, and jumped backwards, shoving Santo more deeply into the alley, making him crouch behind a pile of garbage. He put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He waited until an ordinary-looking man walked past the mouth of the alley, and then gave a sign of relief. “Shit … did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Listen, do me a favor. Go take a look, see if he’s still buzzin’ around the honey pot.”

  “Huh? What honey?”

  “That guy. Didn’t you see him?” and Christmas grabbed Santo’s lapel.

  “Yeah … I guess so …” said the boy.

  “You guess, you guess … And you want to be a Diamond Dog? Maybe I was wrong when I thought …”

  “Yeah? You thought what?”

  “I thought you was smart. Hey, just do me this one favor and that’s it, I won’t ask anything else. Go see if he’s still hangin’ around or if he already fucked off.”

  “Me?”

  “Fuck, am I talkin’ to somebody else? He don’t know you. So get your shitty ass movin’.”

  Santo climbed out of his reeking hiding place and walked hesitantly towards Orchard Street. He looked around awkwardly, in search of the ordinary-looking man whom he now believed to be a dangerous criminal. When he started back, Christmas saw that he was walking with a surer step. Santo hooked a finger into his belt and said: “He ain’t there.”

  “You did fine,” said Christmas, standing up.

  Santo smiled shyly.

  Christmas gave him a pat on the back. “C’mon, let’s go get an ice-cream soda, after that you can go your way an’ I’ll go mine.”

  “You say ice-cream soda?” Santo stared at him wide-eyed.

  “Sure, yeah, why not?”

  “It cost — it cost a nickel.”

  Christmas shrugged, laughing. “So? It’s just money. All it takes is havin’ some, am I right?”

  Santo couldn’t believe his ears.

  Entering the grimy shop on Cherry Street, Christmas clutched his half-dollar desperately. “Listen,” he told Santo, swinging himself onto a stool, “I already had two sodas today and my stomach feels kind of funny, Let’s split one, ‘cause you ain’t used to it, a whole one might make you sick. Got to take it easy with this stuff.” Strawberry — the soda jerk’s nickname came from the red birthmark that spread across half of his face — brought them a single huge glass with two straws. Christmas tapped his single coin nonchalantly on the counter, feeling inwardly doomed.

  For a few minutes neither of the boys spoke. Each of them was glued to his straw, trying to suck up a little more than his own half.

  “So, what’s it mean ‘maybe’ you go t’ school?”

  “Afternoons, a teacher teach me some grammar and some history on account of my mamma she clean the school. But I ain’t exactly goin’ t’ school, get it?” explained Santo. “Anyways, I don’t care nothin’ about school,” he added meaningfully, hoping to sound like a junior outlaw.

  “Don’t be dumb, Santo. You want do somethin’ with your life? You ain’t like your father, you ain’t never gonna lift a ton or whatever it is with one hand, that’s not gonna happen. But if you was t’ learn somethin’ it could help.” He said this without even thinking. “I wish I could do it.”

  “Honest?” said Santo, brightening.

  “Yeah. But don’t get a swelled head, greenhorn. An’ don’t stick out your chest, it makes you look like a turkey. Hey, I’m just kiddin’,” he added.

  “Yeah, sure, I know,” said Santo softly, looking at the empty gla
ss. “You got it all.”

  “I can’t complain …”

  Santo looked at the floor in silence. A question rose up inside him. “So … now can I be a Diamond Dog?” he finally asked.

  Christmas clapped a hand over Santo’s mouth and glanced over at Strawberry, who was dozing in a corner. “Are you nuts? What if somebody was listenin’?”

  Santo blushed again.

  “I don’t know, kid. I don’t know if I can count on you,” Christmas said softly, looking into Santo’s eyes for a long time. “I have to think about it. This is serious, see?” He read the burning disappointment on Santo’s face. He smiled to himself. “Okay, let’s give it a try, huh? Maybe you can do it, maybe not.”

  Santo gave him a sudden hug and squealed with delight.

  Christmas pulled away. “Hey, us Diamond Dogs don’t do that girly stuff.”

  “Sure, sure, scusami, me, I just … just …” Santo stammered excitedly.

  “Never mind, forget it. Time to talk business,” said Christmas, lowering his voice even more and leaning towards the only member of his gang, after another glance at Strawberry. “Is it true your mamma makes a cream t’ put on your pimples?”

  “Why? What her pomata got to do with anything?”

  “Rule number one: I ask the questions. If you don’t understand right away, you will later. An’ even if you don’t never understand, remember I always got a reason, O.K.?”

  “O.K. Yeah.”

  “‘Yeah’ what? Does your mamma make a cream for your face? She makes it herself?”

  Santo nodded.

  “And it helps?”

  Santo nodded again.

  “You wouldn’t think it t’ look at you, ’scuse the expression,” said Christmas.

  “It really work. My face a lot worse before she make me use it.”

  Christmas rubbed his hands. “I believe what you’re sayin’. Now tell me somethin’ else: Would that same cream work on a dog?”

  “A dog?”

  Christmas leaned over to him again. “There’s somebody we’re protectin’. He pays us. But his dog’s got the mange, and if you and me make it better, he gives us more money,” and he clinked a nail against the soda glass.