The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  “What the fuck!” shouted Christmas.

  “All right, all right,” said Cyril, putting his arm around Christmas’ shoulders and pulling him closer. “Change of program, hear?” He nodded at Karl. “Finally our manager got somethin’ right. You sees those gentlemen over there?” and he pointed out three white men in gray suits hovering near the patrol cars. “Well, the Polack convinced ’em they should make CKC an independent branch. Those WNYC studios is a dream come true, oh yeah, but we was missin’ our own little illegal spot. We say it historical. So now we has our own antenna and the bes’ equipment on the market.”

  “And that’s not all,” Karl broke in eagerly. “So far we’ve only fixed up Sister Bessie’s apartment, but the real work started today. We bought the whole top floor. We’ll have three broadcast studios, offices — the works.”

  “And we’ll give a whole lot o’ niggers some work!” cried Cyril.

  Christmas was speechless. “Two weeks,” he said, laughing. “I’m away for two weeks and you two go overboard.”

  “Come say hello to the managing directors at WNYC,” said Karl, taking his arm and pulling him toward the three gray-suited white men who continued to smile.

  “They be shittin’ theyselves wit’ so many negroes ‘round,” laughed Cyril.

  The three shook Christmas’ hand warmly. They said a few polite words, like bureaucrats, and then said they had urgent business in midtown and climbed into a handsome car.

  “I’ll go with them,” said Karl. “I’ve got a series of CKC programs in mind, and I want to talk about them while they’re hot.”

  Cyril waited till Karl was in the car, “He a born manager. He don’ think about nothin’ else,” he said, shaking his head. Then he elbowed Christmas, and spoke to the oldest policeman of the four from the patrol cars.

  The cop stood on the running board, glaring. “’Scuse me, officer, but does you know what time it is?” Cyril asked with an ironic smile. Then he gestured at the roof, adding, “’cause us niggers is so foolish, we done put up a clock that don’ work.”

  The cop’s face tightened and turned red with anger.

  The crowd around them laughed. “You got the time, officer?” they chorused, gathering around him.

  The other three cops put their hands on their holsters, alarmed.

  “Don’t do nothin’ dumb,” said the older cop quietly. “Lemme deal wit’ dis scum.” He stepped off the running board and moved to the middle of the street. He looked up. “Yeah, you jerked us around for a good long time, all right,” he said loudly.

  The crowd laughed. The cops let go of their pistols. They pretended to laugh.

  “Officer, what time is it?” someone called from the crowd.

  The old cop turned suddenly, with a hard look on his face. But quickly he smiled again, shook his head, took off his cap, and rubbed his thinning hair. Then he looked out at the crowd. “Up here, it’s always gonna be half-past seven!”

  The crowd laughed and clapped their hands.

  The cop gave another tight smile, then whispered to one of his colleagues, “Let’s get outa here. That nigger stink turns my stummick.”

  He got into the car, started the engine, and drove between the two groups of people, followed by the other car.

  “Say, you were great, Charlie,” said the officer sitting next to him.

  “Negroes. They’re inferior. Ya gotta remember that,” said the cop as he smiled at the people pounding their fists on the roof of the car. “Oh, yeah. From now on, every time we pick up one of these jungle bunnies, he’s gonna pay for leadin’ us around by da nose.”

  “Come on up, I wants you t’ see where you gonna be workin’ now,” Cyril urged Christmas.

  As he followed Cyril to the door, Christmas looked around. The people gathered outside looked happy. It was like a party. And among the black faces there were some whites, too. One of these, a heavy-set guy with black curly hair, deep-set eyes and an aquiline nose blocked the way, looking surly.

  “I’m da Calabrese,” he said.

  Christmas gazed at him. His flashy jacket bulged under his armpit. His right pants pocket he could sense the outline of a switchblade knife. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I’m from Brooklyn,” said the Calabrese. He spoke into Christmas’ ear. “An’ I got my own gang,” he whispered. He glanced left and right, then bent to Christmas again. “Whyncha talk about me on ya program? I wouldn’t mind some publicity, ya get what I’m sayin’? An’ den, who knows: Maybe I could tell ya when stuff was maybe gonna happen.”

  Christmas smiled.

  “Wanna know somethin’ funny?” said the gangster. “Ya know my name? Pasquale Anselmo, right? I’m da only guy in alla New York what has two FBI files. See, dey don’t know which one’s da first name or which one’s da last name. Da one file, it says ‘Pasquale Anselmo,’ an’ da udda one, it says ‘Anselmo Pasquale.’” He looked at Christmas, expecting a reaction. “Doncha get it?” laughed the gangster. “Come on. Dat’s a good one. Dat’s funny.”

  “Yeah, that’s funny all right, Calabrese,” Christmas laughed. “Be sure to listen to the program. Who knows …”

  “Oh, so dat how it work?” said a black man in a satin suit. “You gives publicity to white guys; but niggers, no?” He stood facing the Calabrese. “Huh? What you think? You think wops, heebs, an’ micks is the only ones gots balls?”

  “Hey, hey, get outta my way, pimp.”

  “You is in my territory up here, you pale piece o’ shit,” the black man pointed out.

  “Okay, now, y’all jus’ quit dat,” said Cyril. “What the hell got into yo’ haid, Tyrone? An’ you, mothafucka, take yo’ ass on outa here.”

  The Calabrese scowled at the pimp. “One o’ these days I’ll run inta ya on da street. I’m gonna make a pointa it.” He stalked off with a measured tread.

  “Ooh, yeah! Say them pretty words!” the pimp shouted after him.

  Cyril hustled Christmas up the stairs to what had been Sister Bessie’s apartment. “I bought me a house, too. Nice an’ big. Up here in Harlem, houses don’t cost too much,” he told him, turning the key in a lock. The door now bore a sign saying CKC. “Sister Bessie, she livin’ wid us now. She don’ work no more. Her kids is my niece an’ nephew, after all.”

  Cyril opened the door. The apartment had been freshly painted. There were boxes of electrical equipment everywhere, along with dangling cables.

  “It still a mess. But it gon’ be a jewel,” he said proudly. He picked up a microphone and showed it to Christmas. “You gon’ talk inta’ this. It’s mighty sensitive.”

  Christmas looked around. Home. He was home.

  “You find her?” Cyril asked him.

  “I decided to write for the theater,” said Christmas.

  Cyril looked at him silently. Christmas walked around the apartment, distractedly opening cartons, peering in at shiny new equipment. Then he turned. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he said.

  Cyril sat back in a ramshackle chair. He rubbed his knotted fingers, a thoughtful look on his face. “Theater, huh?” he said. “Well, that’s good. ‘Cause I likes the theater.”

  65

  Manhattan, 1928

  But writing didn’t turn out to be so easy.

  The first day, Christmas sat in front of his Underwood without writing a single word. He stared at the sheet of paper without making up his mind to begin. As if it scared him. As if he’d lost the carelessness that had let him confront life with an impertinent smile, that had guided him out of the mean streets of the Lower East Side. It was as if all at once the world seemed like serious business to him, and money, instead of making him even bolder, had made him careful. As if now that he had something to lose, he no longer had the courage to risk it. Almost as if he’d turned into a tightwad. Or that he was taking himself seriously.

  As if something inside of him had been silenced. Or the world itself had grown silent. Or a wall had been erected between himself and the worl
d. As if he’d put on armor and hardened within it.

  Now that CKC had come out into the open, its New York listeners kept writing hundreds of letters, all for him. Letters full of praise, affection, admiration. Women who felt that at last someone understood them, men who dreamed of being brave; boys who wanted to be like Christmas, girls who wanted to meet him and declared their love for him. Suddenly — while Karl was considering a postscript to Diamond Dogs that would feature extracts from these letters — Christmas found himself feeling the weight of all that attention. He had crystallized himself into the public figure that the world sent back to him. Stuck in a stagnant reflection of himself.

  That’s why he hadn’t been able to put a single word on the paper that was waiting in his Underwood that first day. The second day he forced himself, he tried to recapture the enthusiasm that had animated him in office number eleven at MGM. He timidly typed the first words. He tried to hear how they sounded in the air; he tried to listen to the sound of those first words that were going to tear open the silence in the theater. But somehow they seemed lacking. There wasn’t enough to them. And if he tried to correct them, then suddenly they seemed too much. He couldn’t seem to find a balance. He had to face the fact that constructing a story was very different from telling it; that organizing the characters and making them behave and feel and do things convincingly with one another was much more complicated than the simple outline — the treatment — he’d done for Louis B. Mayer. The life of a story’s protagonist was no guarantee that the story itself would live and breathe.

  The third day he decided to dive in head first, confront the keyboard. He’d make up scenes and write them down. Later he’d put them together; finding the end of the skein, he told himself. He closed his eyes and imagined. He saw a smoke-filled pool hall. Then slowly a few lowlife thugs appear, in shirtsleeves. They’ve got pool cues in their hands and they’re wearing holstered guns. He sees some bottles of contraband whiskey in a corner. And now he sees a guy come into the room. He thrusts his shoulder against the door and opens fire on the gangsters, killing them all, one after the other. He listens to the silence after the sudden explosion of shots. And the laugh of the killer who picks up a bottle, gulps down some whiskey, and then — with a cold sneer on his face — pours whiskey over the blood-soaked bodies. Then the man goes over to the door, still open, and strikes a match. He holds it up for a second, smiles cynically, and then tosses it into the puddle of alcohol and burns down the pool parlor. Blackout.

  Christmas opened his eyes and began hammering the keys, excited. A scene like that was going to get applause, he told himself. Blackout. Applause. When he finished the scene he pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and put it on his left. He took another sheet of paper from the pile on his right, rolled it past the platen, looked hard at it for an instant, and then closed his eyes.

  He imagined an apartment on the Lower East Side and a woman weeping desperately, sitting on the floor with her back against a couch. She holds a photo in her hands. A photo that her tears are smearing. She presses the photo against her dress, trying to dry it. Holding it where her heart is supposed to be. Against her breast. She’s a beautiful woman, young. A knock at the door. A man comes in and stands in the shadows. We can’t see his face. He stays there without moving, staring at the woman, who is desperate weeping. The woman looks up at him. “They killed him,” she sobs. “They killed my Sonny, down at the pool room.” Now the man comes out of the shadows, leans over her, lifts her up, embraces her. And everyone in the audience recognizes him. He’s the killer. “I’m gonna find the bastard what done it,” he tells the woman. Then he strokes her hair. Blackout. Applause.

  Christmas kept pressing the typewriter keys, describing details of the apartment and the woman’s face. And only when he typed the final dialogue did he raise his eyes from the page and realize that ever since he’d decided to write, he hadn’t looked at the bench in the park below his window. The bench that was the reason he’d bought this apartment. He felt uncomfortable. As if he’d betrayed Ruth.

  Quickly he wrote the end of the scene, took the page out of the typewriter and put it with the other one. Then he went out and walked toward 125th Street. It was time to do the broadcast. But he avoided the park. He was still feeling uncomfortable. He shrugged. He was writing, he told himself. He had a goal now, to write plays. He couldn’t keep on thinking about something that wasn’t there anymore. He hadn’t wanted it that way. He had searched for her, yearned for her with a constancy that nobody else would have had. She was the one who had sent him away. She had betrayed him. He was Christmas Luminita now, a man who was rich, famous, important. He got dozens and dozens of fan letters. He had to look after himself, his career. His life. He had to continue along the path he’d chosen.

  “How’d it go?” he asked when the broadcast ended, a smug smile on his face.

  “I think you’re a little bit rusty,” said Karl.

  “What does that mean?” Christmas said stiffly.

  “Well … mechanical,” said Karl. “It sounded as though you’d memorized it … that is, like–”

  “What’s wrong with you, Karl? It felt fantastic to me,” said Christmas aggressively.

  ”I mean, it sounded like …”

  “Like what?

  “Like you were doing an imitation of yourself.”

  Christmas got out of his chair. “Well, you can go fuck yourself, Karl. Don’t start playin’ artistic director with me.” He gave a nervous little laugh. “What the hell do you mean, I’m imitating myself?” He laughed again and looked at Cyril. “Did you hear what he said? Imitating myself? Shit, I AM myself. It was a great program, I had ’em in the palm of my hand; I could feel it. Am I right, Cyril?” He laughed again, seeking complicity. “What the hell does ‘doing an imitation of myself’ mean?”

  “You really wants to know?” said Cyril.

  Christmas frowned. Then he spread out his arms with an arrogant smile. “Go ahead,” he said, daring him to speak.

  “It mean you soun’ swole up like a balloon,” said Cyril.

  Christmas didn’t move, as if he were petrified. Just for a second. Then he felt Cyril’s words bounce off him. As if he wore a suit of armor. He laughed. A laugh full of haughtiness. His features looked hard and cold, and he shook a finger at Karl and Cyril. “There’s something you two need to remember,” he began in a low voice, “Without me …”

  “Don’ say it, boy,” Cyril interrupted.

  Christmas stopped, with his index finger still menacingly in the air.

  “Don’ say it,” Cyril said again, not looking away. His look was strong and commanding, filled with loving authority.

  Christmas took a step backwards, lowering his hand. A sarcastic smile. He opened his mouth to speak. Then he walked out of the studio.

  He stormed out into the street, where he recognized a rattletrap Model T. “Santo!” he said, with a forced happiness, opening the door on the driver’s side. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Hey, I came t’ see you, boss,” said his longtime friend. Santo slapped the steering wheel. “Gee, you don’t know how much I miss kidnappin’ folks for ya.”

  Christmas laughed, leaning his elbows on the roof of the car. “Yeah, now they come right over here and line up outside, wanting to be guests on my program,” he said.

  “You’re a real boss,” Santo said proudly, laughing.

  “Did you catch today’s broadcast?” Christmas asked him.

  “Naw, I was still at work, sorry. But Carmelina, she woulda listened, for sure …”

  “It was fantastic,” Christmas broke in. “I had ’em eating out of my hand.”

  Santo looked at him adoringly. “Didja know I bought a house?”

  “Ah?” Christmas said distractedly.

  “Over in Brooklyn,” said Santo. “I’ll be payin’ it off for a long time, but it’s a nice house. Two stories.”

  “Good for you …”

  “Wanna come see
it?” Santo asked excitedly. “Wanna have dinner with us? Carmelina, she’d be so happy.”

  “No, I have to–”

  “Come on, boss. Italian home cookin’.”

  “Sorry, Santo.” Christmas stepped away from the car and put his hands in his pockets. “I have to see some people,” he lied. “You know, theater stuff.”

  A veil of disappointment spread across Santo’s face. But then he smiled.

  “Yeah, you’re a big shot now. We’ll hafta make a reservation.”

  Christmas gave him an embarrassed smile. “One of these days I’ll come see you.”

  “Really?” cried Santo, delighted.

  “That’s a promise,” said Christmas, stepping back a little. “As soon as I’ve got a minute, I’ll come to Brooklyn.”

  “I miss you, boss.” Santo looked at his idol in silence for a moment. Christmas didn’t say anything. “Hey, remember when they tossed us in jail?” Santo laughed. “And da time when–”

  “I have to go, Santo,” Christmas said. “When I come to Brooklyn we can talk about old times, okay?”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “So — who are we?”

  “The Diamond Dogs,” said Christmas tonelessly.

  “Damn right! Diamond Dogs!” cried Santo.

  Christmas smiled. “Okay, get going. Carmelina’s waiting for you.”

  Santo switched on the engine and moved the gearshift. “Diamond Dogs,” he said softly, almost incredulously. He looked at Christmas. “My life wouldn’t a been worth shit if I never met you, boss. Doncha know that?”

  “Move it, ball-breaker.” Christmas shut the car door, then thumped the roof of the car. He stayed there in the middle of 125th Street watching Santo drive away. “A great broadcast,” he muttered. “Eating out of my hand.”

  He heard voices behind him. He turned and saw Karl and Cyril coming out of CKC, laughing and joking. Christmas moved into a dark doorway. He waited till they were gone; then, slowly, tiredly, he started walking home. Alone. Wearing his armor.

  He sat down alone at his desk. He put a new piece of paper into the typewriter and started hitting the keys. The killer is trying to get the woman into bed. The woman whose lover he’d killed. And while the creep tries to seduce her, it comes out that the murdered man was his best friend. “Life is shit,” says the killer. “Life is shit. Then ya die.” Blackout. Applause. Next scene.