The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  Christmas looked at Ruth again, then let Greenie escort him through the crowd of people, out to the asphalt path from the cemetery.

  “Sorry, kid,” he said.

  Christmas turned away and slowly walked towards the gates, passing the liveried chauffeurs and handsome cars that had made up the funeral procession.

  25

  Manhattan, 1923

  Ruth left the library an hour early, but she didn’t tell Fred. She was going to walk home alone today.

  After her grandfather’s death, her parents fired Greenie and his band of gorillas. Now it was only Fred who accompanied her everywhere. Bill’s letter, now that months had passed, had come to seem more like a braggart’s sadistic joke than a real threat. The net of protection around her had loosened a little, but for Ruth even Fred’s constant presence was a heavy limitation of her freedom. Every day she felt a greater need to be free.

  Grandpa Saul had been dead for three months and she still couldn’t manage to come back to life. Nothing could fill the emptiness that his death had left inside her. It seemed to her that a century had passed since the evening she, thirteen years old, had slipped out with Bill in search of adventure, of laughter, of happiness. Surely a century had passed — and yet it hadn’t been quite two years. It was as though she had never been that innocent young girl. Bill had marked her for life. And her grandfather’s death had forced her even more deeply into the prison she had been constructing for herself.

  So that day Ruth had decided she was going to take back some of her life. She told Fred to pick her up at five, but instead she was already outside the library at four. The first step to reconquer her own life was to wander down the street by herself. To window shop, alone. Like any other girl. And then she’d go home and get ready for that afternoon’s meeting with Christmas, the only person who made her feel free. The only one she loved and hated with such intensity. It was as if the others didn’t exist.

  Strolling along the sidewalk she imagined the day when she’d go to visit Christmas. All the way downtown, to his street, to his house. By herself. Maybe she’d also get to meet Christmas’ prostitute mother, the way she’d meet anybody’s mother. She’d go back to being any girl. And she wouldn’t be afraid of venturing into the dangerous Lower East Side — that place so near to where she lived but also so far away that not a single one of her friends had ever set foot there, so far away that nice people talked about it as if it were a mythological or infernal zone — because Christmas would be there to protect her. And, musing about coming into that ill-famed part of town as she walked peacefully up Fifth Avenue, she was sure that she wouldn’t hesitate, that she wouldn’t feel like a frightened child at the edge of an ominous forest. She knew that she could cross the dangerous confines beyond which lurked wild beasts, and serpents dangling from dark tangles of branches. The sounds of unknown animals, moving invisibly, making a carpet of dead leaves rustle wouldn’t even bother her. And she wouldn’t be scared by demonic spirits, tormented ghosts, wizards, or witches. Because she would be with Christmas.

  As she neared home, passing the Eighty-Sixth Street Temple, her grandfather’s synagogue, she saw her reflection in the window of an elegant shop. No, she wasn’t going to be afraid, because she’d be with Christmas, her Lower East Side elf.

  She came into the apartment with a vigor and enthusiasm she hadn’t felt for months. With an eagerness to live and laugh that she couldn’t remember ever having felt. She was grateful that destiny had led her to meet the one kindly elf of the forbidden Lower East Side kingdom.

  Her parents were certainly out, she thought. Her father at the factory, her mother out spending money somewhere. For once she was grateful to both of them for the solitude that otherwise weighed on her most of the time. She ran into her mother’s bathroom and began to rummage through her drawers, nervous as a burglar on his first break-in. She marveled at the huge quantity of cosmetics. Was this what it meant to be a woman? She stopped and looked in the mirror. She didn’t know if she was ready. Everything in her body had changed. She knew she had become a woman. But she didn’t know if she was really ready to be one.

  All the childish joy that had brought her there vanished. She could feel that her thoughts weren’t any longer those of a girl. That she couldn’t hold them in any longer. And her joy yielded to a new sensation, more burning, darker, with a mysterious taste. A whirlpool. Vertigo.

  She passed a hand across her breasts, flattened by the strips of gauze that made her look like a boy. She took off her blue cashmere cardigan and then, slowly, unbuttoned her white blouse. Again she looked at herself. Timidly she undid the knot that fastened the strips and began to unwrap them. A first turn. The second. The third, the fourth and finally the fifth. Five gauze windings that kept her from looking like a woman. That shouldn’t let her look like herself. She looked at herself again. Naked. Little breasts reddened by the constriction. Darker horizontal marks where the edges of the gauze strips had left their impressions. And then she caressed herself again. On her skin this time.

  “Are you ready to be a woman?” she asked herself softly, almost as if the answer lay dormant in the question, without her having to pronounce it. Without having to decide.

  Her hand explored the contour of her breast. It reached the nipple. Ruth shivered. Lazily. As if something were dissolving inside her. She lowered her eyelids. And in that melting darkness she saw Christmas’ face. His blond hair the color of wheat fields. His smoldering eyes, dark and shining. His open smile. His gentleness. Gentle as the touch of her own hand on her breast, as her fingertips on her nipple.

  Her eyes flew open. Frightened. She had the answer she’d sought. That she had perhaps feared.

  She was ready.

  But not right away, she told herself, still unable to look away from her own reflection, naked, abandoned. Sensual. Not right away, she thought. And it seemed to her that her thought quivered, too, just as her voice would have trembled if she’d said it out loud.

  The filth that Bill had smeared on her, like the trail of blood she had left behind, was still there, coiled between her legs, imprinted in her gaze. Then she picked the gauze strips up from the floor and began to wrap herself again. Almost frantically. But her hands obeyed the feeling she’d had earlier. She didn’t bind herself so tightly now. The gauze felt soft, like a caress. Like the memory of something she needed to protect. Warm, reassuring. Because she didn’t have to be in a hurry. Because she was afraid of what she’d been thinking. Of what she’d decided to do.

  She got dressed, considered her mother’s cosmetics collection again, and dusted a light veil of powder across her face. She brushed a soft line of gilded amber on her eyelids. She combed her hair and tied two red silk bows into her curls. She went into her own room and dabbed herself with Chanel Nº 5, her grandfather’s last gift to her. At last she went back to her mother’s dressing room and opened the tiny black lacquered container that held something essential to every woman. She leaned towards the mirror and with trembling hands applied a hint of lipstick.

  Because this might be the day she’d kiss Christmas on the mouth.

  “We need to talk to you, darling,” said her father from the parlor as Ruth was about to leave for Central Park where she would meet Christmas.

  Ruth jumped. She wasn’t alone. Quickly she pulled the ribbons out of her hair and rubbed her hands feverishly across her face, getting rid of every trace of makeup. She wiped her lips with the hem of her blouse, then tucked it back in her skirt. She took a deep breath and went into the parlor, her heart beating wildly in her throat.

  Her father and mother were sitting in two armchairs, hands folded, trying to look bland.

  Only then did Ruth notice that the rugs were rolled up in a corner and that some pieces of furniture had tags tied to their knobs or their keys.

  “Sit down, Ruth,” said her mother.

  26

  Manhattan, 1923

  Christmas wasn’t in any hurry to go home. He had waited fo
r Ruth in their usual place, their bench in Central Park. But Ruth didn’t show up. It was the first time she’d missed a meeting. At the beginning he’d just waited. Then he got up from the bench and ran to the corner of Central Park West and Seventy-Second Street, where they used to see each other back at the beginning. And then turned back, still running, back to their bench, afraid that Ruth might have come and, not finding him, left. That was when he saw Fred. With a letter in his hand.

  Forget me. It’s over. Goodbye, Ruth

  Nothing else. Christmas was so distressed that he didn’t even ask Fred what had happened. He heard the car pull away behind him, but he didn’t even turn around.

  Forget me. It’s over. Goodbye, Ruth

  He stayed there, sitting on the bench — their bench — turning the letter in his hands, rolling it up, crumpling it, throwing it on the ground and then picking it up, and finally, every time, rereading it. As if he hoped that scrambling those few letters might make them compose themselves into other words. A different message. At last, after two hours, he felt a deep rage building inside him. He cut through the park, crossed Fifth Avenue, and reached Park Avenue.

  The doorman in uniform blocked him at once. Then he called the Isaacson’s apartment on an interphone. “A boy named Christmas is asking for Miss Ruth,” he said. He listened imperturbably to the response. “Very good, madam, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said and hung up. Then he turned to Christmas and intoned in an unpleasant nasal voice, “Mrs. Isaacson says the young lady is extremely busy and she suggests that you not bother her at home.”

  “I want Ruth to tell me herself!” cried Christmas, waving the letter and taking a step forward.

  The doorman blocked his way. “Don’t make me call the police,” he said.

  “I have to talk to Ruth!” Christmas shouted.

  Just then an aged lady, elegant and refined, entered the lobby, looking at Christmas, scandalized.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Lester,” said the doorman, with a slight bow. “I’ve sent your magazines up.”

  The old lady arranged her wrinkled mouth into the semblance of a smile. Then she tottered towards the elevator where the operator awaited her.

  Then the doorman, without losing his smile, leaned towards Christmas and said, “Beat it, wop, or it’ll get a whole lot worse.” He straightened up, crossed his hands on his chest and resumed the official expression of a Park Avenue doorman.

  So now Christmas was going back unhurriedly towards his ghetto. Furious. What was Ruth thinking? That he would let himself be treated like a servant? Just because she was rich and he was nothing? He’d get her over that idea soon enough. Until the day before it had seemed that she — even though she did everything she could to hide it — loved him with the same absolute and overwhelming feeling that he’d felt from the very moment he saw her, through a layer of clotted blood, without knowing who she was. Ever since he had carried her in his arms, as if she were a priceless treasure. And now Ruth wanted to end it with that letter? Goodbye. Christmas kicked a lump of broken asphalt as hard as he could.

  “Hey, be careful, lad,” said a man is his forties — gray suit, fur-collared coat — who’d almost been hit by the asphalt.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Christmas turned on him, giving him a shove. “What are you after, you piece of shit? Do you think you can scare me with that hunk of rat fur on your neck?” He shoved him again. “You think you’re somebody? Should I kick your head in? Rob you? How’d you like to spend Christmas in the hospital?”

  “Police! Police!” the man screamed.

  A police whistle responded immediately.

  Christmas stared at the man. He spat in his face and ran way as fast as he could, until he didn’t hear the whistle behind him anymore. Then he stopped and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. All around him were happy people. Men and women going home with their arms full of presents and packages. It was Christmastime for everyone but not for Christmas.

  “You can all get fucked!” he shouted. His eyes filled up with tears. He fought them down. “It’s not worth crying over you, Ruth,” he murmured. “You’re just a lousy rich girl.”

  He’d reached Times Square. The sign had been changed. Now it read: “Aaron Zelter & Son.” Christmas couldn’t even remember the last time he’d come to see Santo. Their lives were separate now; the roads they’d taken were too different. He looked into the store. The faces of the salespersons looked different to him, but he wasn’t sure. The manager, however, was definitely someone new.

  “Yes?” the new manager inquired in a suspicious tone.

  “Does Santo Filesi still work here?”

  “Who?”

  “The stock clerk,” said Christmas.

  “Oh, the Italian,” said the director. “Yes. Why?”

  “I’m a friend. I just wanted to say hello,” said Christmas, smiling.

  “Wait for him out back. At the moment he’s working,” said the director, unsmilingly. He pulled a watch out of his vest pocket and looked at it. “We’re closing in five minutes, so if your friend has finished for the day, you can talk to him as long as you like without being a drain on my pockets.”

  “Thanks …” said Christmas, heading for the door.

  “There’s an old saying: ‘Don’t lose any time that God counts and men pay for’.”

  Christmas shook his head, annoyed. He didn’t feel like being preached at. He went around the corner and waited for closing time, hoping the minutes would pass quickly so that he wouldn’t have to be alone with his thoughts.

  “Christmas!” Santo exclaimed happily as soon as he came out the back door and saw his friend waiting there.

  “They’ve changed the whole place,” said Christmas, pointing at the store, “Funny they haven’t fired a dead weight like you.”

  “It came close,” said Santo as they walked home together, happy as in the old days. “You know what he always say?”

  “Don’t lose any time that God counts and men pay for.”

  Santo laughed. “Right. He said it to you, too? What a ballbreaker. Ever since old Isaacson die, the son he get rid of everything little by little. Now the store belongs to that stinking miser. He cut my pay by a dollar and a half and he got me working almost twice as much.”

  Christmas gave Santo a playful push. “You’re dressed up like a pansy salesman.”

  “That just what I goin’ to be if I stay shut up in that fuckin’ stock room much longer.”

  The two boys laughed. They were fifteen years old. A trace of beard on their faces. Life had begun to mark their eyes. They walked a few blocks in silence, as in the old days.

  “How it goin’ with Joey?” Santo asked.

  “Aw, it’s not like with you,” lied Christmas.

  Santo smiled delightedly. “I miss the Diamond Dogs.”

  “You’re still part of us,” said Christmas.

  “Yeah …” sighed Santo, pushing his hands into his pockets. “My mother, she sick.”

  “I heard.”

  “Know when I found out it was serious?”

  “When?”

  “When she stop slappin’ me around,” and Santo tried to smile.

  “Yeah,” muttered Christmas. “I’m sorry, Santo.”

  They walked another few blocks without talking.

  “I never think I miss my mother slappin’ me,” said Santo suddenly.

  Christmas didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. And he knew that Santo didn’t expect him to say anything. That’s how it was between them. It had always been that way.

  “That girl, how she doin’?”

  “What girl?” said Christmas, pretending not to understand.

  “Ruth.”

  “Oh yeah, Ruth …” Christmas held back his anger. “I never see her. She’s just a rich bitch.” He didn’t say anything else.

  Santo didn’t speak. Because that’s how it was between them.

  “Merry Christmas, pal,” said Chr
istmas as they arrived back at the house.

  “Merry Christmas … boss,” said Santo.

  27

  Manhattan, 1913-1917

  Cetta never saw Andrew again. After a while she erased him from her thoughts and only remembered the excitement she’d felt at Madison Square Garden. And from that moment on it was all she talked about to Christmas. “The theater,” she told him, “is perfect world, where everything the way it supposed to be. Even if it end bad. Because it all happen in order.”

  Christmas was five years old and he didn’t understand what his mother was saying. But when they were together, stretched out on the bed or walking through Battery Park looking at the ferryboats filling up with throngs of happy people headed for Coney Island, or when Cetta took him to the Queensboro Bridge and showed him Blackwell’s Island, telling him that Sal was inside those gray buildings but that he would be coming out soon, Christmas would ask her to tell him about the theatre again. And Cetta, with only the vaguest recollection of the Paterson strikers’ pageant, made up a new plot for him each time. And so, out of the original theme of a labor union strike, she confected stories that told of love and friendship, peopled by dragons and princesses and heroes who never betrayed their beloved, ever, even if they were married to an evil witch or the king himself opposed their love.

  “When can I go to the theatre?” Christmas asked.

  "When you big, my baby,” Cetta would answer, smoothing his blond hair.

  “How come you’re not an actress?” Christmas would ask her.

  “Because I belong to you,” and Cetta hugged him close to her.

  “Then I can’t be in the show either,” Christmas said once. “Because I belong to you, don’t I, mamma?”

  “Yes, angel, you all mine,” said Cetta, moved. Then she cupped his face in her hands and grew serious. “But you, you can be anything you want in life. You know why?”

  “Awww, yeah …” Christmas grumbled, pulling away from her.

  “Say it.”