by Peter Watson
Silvio remembered that Anna-Maria had talked about a new music in New Orleans. But something still puzzled him. “What’s a quadroon?”
“Come on,” hissed Nino. “For fuck’s sake.”
“One more block,” said Francisco. “Then we’re home.” They crossed Conti Street and, after another fifty yards or so, turned into a little alley. A door off the alley led to a small garden. Across the garden they climbed an outside staircase to a balcony, where a middle-aged woman was watching them. She had black hair and wore a long black dress.
“Tomassina,” said Francisco, “don’t just stand there. Some wine for our guests … Don’t worry,” he said, turning to Nino and Silvio. “Tomassina knows who you are, and you aren’t her favorite persons. But she’ll get used to it. I’m being paid for this. Please sit.” He indicated a table on the balcony. They sat down.
Tomassina brought a jug and some glasses, and chunks of bread with sliced tomatoes on them, doused in olive oil. It was very welcome.
“You can stay here,” Francisco said. “In my sister’s room. She’ll sleep with Tomassina, and I’ll sleep in the living room. For two weeks. But by then you’ll have seen Angelo Priola.”
Nino looked at Silvio, but spoke to Francisco. “How soon can he call on Anna-Maria?”
“You know Anna-Maria?”
“He fucked her on the boat over.”
Silvio reddened.
“Then I hope Priola never finds out, Nino. For his sake.”
Nino grinned. “Fathers don’t like their daughters being messed with, do they?” He looked Silvio straight in the eye.
Silvio glared back.
Nino turned to Francisco. “Anna-Maria seems to have fallen for him. She invited him to call on her and said she’d help with her father. What should we do? Where do they live?”
“On Chestnut Street, in the Garden District. Nice house. I suggest that, in the first place, Silvio call on Anna-Maria when we know her father isn’t home. If he is, and spots you, he’s liable to turn ugly. He’s only got the one child, so you can imagine how precious she is to him.”
“How can we tell when Priola isn’t at home?”
“Not too difficult. I know for a fact he’ll be at Mattie Marshall’s tomorrow, between four and seven. That’s a whorehouse he has a stake in, on CustomHouse Street. There’s a big poker game there every Tuesday, and Angelo Priola always plays. You can wait for him outside Mattie’s, watch him go in, then know you’ve got three hours of safety.”
“What about the mother?”
“Drinks. By four she’ll be in her room with a mint julep and deaf to the world.” “Why does she drink?”
Francisco looked surprised, then nodded. “Of course, you’ve never met Priola. I tell you, Nino, if you were married to him you’d drink, too. He’s like one of those bantam fighting cocks they have in Palermo. Small, stringy, immaculately turned out. But he knows how to draw blood.”
That night Francisco took them on a tour of the vieux carré. Silvio had seen nothing like it in his life, and even Nino, who prided himself on being hard to impress, was astounded.
By evening, they were no longer Nino Greco and Silvio Randazzo. They had discussed changing their names on the Syracusa but not done anything about it.
Francisco insisted, however. “You must learn English in America,” he told them as they were enjoying another glass of wine before they left the house. “Learn English but pretend to speak it badly. Then the Americans will underestimate you. It’s good advice. Also, Nino, you were not exactly a nobody in Sicily. I heard what happened. You must change your name.”
And so Nino became Nino Grado, and Silvio was Sylvano Razzini.
They started that night at Annie Merritt’s, on CustomHouse Street, then took in Fanny Decker’s, a few doors away, Madge Leigh’s, where there was dancing, then Mattie Marshall’s, ending up at Lulu White’s octoroon house, known as Mahogany Hall, on North Basin Street. Most of these were three-dollar houses, save for Lulu White’s, which, with its cut-glass chandeliers and wood paneling, was a five-dollar house.
They each took a woman at Annie’s and again at Lulu’s to end the evening. Silvio had no idea where the money was coming from but didn’t care. In between women, they drank and listened to some of the new cornet bands, Sylvester Conant at Fanny’s, Professor Bonfant at Madge Leigh’s, the Tio Brothers at Mattie’s.
Finally, Francisco took them to the most unusual place of all. This was on Bourbon Street, which led off CustomHouse Street, and it was called the Old Absinthe House. The chief feature of this bar was a long line of glasses, some with green liquid in them, some with yellow.
“What’s this?” muttered Nino suspiciously.
“This is the greatest drink in the world. Absinthe.”
“What is it?”
“It’s made from wormwood. Same base as goes in vermouth.”
Nino looked at him.
“It’s a plant. Medicine. But it also turns out absinthe.”
“Is that French, too?”
“Swiss. Swiss French.”
Silvio stared at the line of glasses. Above each was a tap, part of a long pipe that ran the length of the bar. Water dripped—very slowly—from the taps, the drops falling into the glasses.
“Neat absinthe is green,” said Francisco. “You add water slowly, so the drops ‘kiss’ the absinthe, and it turns yellow. Then it’s ready to drink.” He took one and handed it to Nino. He passed a second to Silvio.
“Be careful how you drink it,” he said. “It’s addictive. But in small amounts it makes all your troubles fade away. Beautiful.” He took a glass for himself and raised it high. “To Nino and Silvio.” He sipped the yellow liquid. “Welcome to America … and good riddance to Sicily.”
Silvio lay in bed in the Faldetta house and listened to the early-morning noises of New Orleans. He couldn’t sleep and all the drinks of the evening before had dehydrated him. He needed water. He got up and tiptoed out onto the balcony. He remembered where the kitchen was. The jugs were all empty, but he found an orange and, picking it up, began to peel. He went back to the balcony and sat on a bench. When they had been children, Annunziata and he had often competed to see who could unpeel an orange first, making sure the skin came away in only one piece.
He divided the orange into segments. As he slid one into his mouth he again found himself thinking of Zata’s parted lips. He could still remember the moment when he stopped thinking of her as a girl. They had been looking after some younger children, and playing a game, which involved hiding. They had sneaked into a church and, when the younger children almost caught up with them, slipped into the confessional together, standing side by side, very close, remaining silent. He could remember Zata’s familiar smell—straw, from the mattresses they slept on, the coarse soap they all used, the hint of the animals they shared the bivio with. He was a good bit taller than Zata by now, and that day, in the gloom, she was wearing a black dress with a V-neck. Standing close, he looked down to see the gently swelling slope of her breasts. She noticed him looking and whispered, “I know what you’ll be confessing on Sunday, Toto.”
Then a younger child had burst in on them and the spell had been broken.
But the following Sunday she had waited for him after Mass, and after confession. “Well?” she had asked as he came down the steps. “Did you confess?”
He shook his head. “It’s not a sin to think.”
“Yes, it is, Toto. I think about you that way, a lot.”
He stopped and looked at her. “And did you tell Father Serravalle?”
“No. We’re too alike, you and me, Toto. Father Serravalle would only spoil it.”
“Spoil what?”
“Come to the olive press after dark tonight. I’ve got a cigarette. You can kiss me.”
They had met as arranged. They had smoked the cigarette and Zata had shown him how to kiss with his mouth open. She had known more about such things then than he had, but now … now he had the experi
ence. Finishing his orange, he listened to the hoot of a steamer casting off, the occasional whinny from a horse, the din of a band still playing in some far-off bar even at this hour. New Orleans was obviously more sophisticated even than Palermo, but he felt a long way from Sicily. If he had been in the bivio now, he could have gone down to the river, or cleaned some guns, or peeled some potatoes, or visited the traps, looking for rabbits. He was suddenly homesick.
But he couldn’t go home. Nino and the Orestanos had seen to that. He had to get used to it here. He got up and walked back to bed. If he couldn’t go back to the bivio, he’d have to bring the bivio to New Orleans. And that meant Zata.
“Father Livesey, I am most grateful that you could spare the time to come in today. I see that your head is healing. It’s small consolation, I know, but at least there were no complications.”
Henry Livesey shook hands with the Italian ambassador, Pasquale Falfani. The ambassador was a tall man, from Milan, and very elegant. He wore a pale linen suit and a wing collar, hardly a combination an Englishman would wear, but somehow he got away with it. The embassy was elegant, too, a huge house in Belgrave Square with the ambassador’s office on the first floor overlooking the gardens in the square itself. The room had deep crimson curtains and, if Livesey was not mistaken, a portrait of Garibaldi.
Livesey’s letter to the ambassador had elicited a fast response. In fact, Falfani had written, he himself had been on the point of contacting Livesey. He had asked the Englishman to attend the embassy on this very day, for an introduction to someone of importance. So far, however, there were just the two of them in the room.
As Livesey thought this the door to the room was thrown open and another man was shown in. He was a tall, red-faced individual, bald but with a ring of gray hair around his head. The ambassador and the new man shook hands, then Falfani turned to Henry. “Father Livesey, I would like to introduce you to Mr. William Pinkerton.”
“Pleased to know you, Father,” said Pinkerton, shaking hands. Livesey was surprised to note that the man’s accent was American.
The three men sat down. After coffee had been served by an assistant, the ambassador began. “Father, Mr. Pinkerton is the son of Allan Pinkerton, who, as you may know, is a Scot who emigrated to America and founded the famous private detective agency. The Pinkertons and the Italian government have agreed to cooperate in a secret investigation which will, I can say, be close to your heart. We have received information that Nino Greco—the Quarryman—has escaped Sicily and fled to America.”
Livesey set down his coffee cup. “Yes, I’d heard.”
“I’m afraid the information is no more precise than that.” The ambassador smiled ruefully. “These south Italian mafiosi have their own misplaced code of honor and a law of silence, which prevents them from talking to the proper authorities. So, although I am certain that our information is correct, I have no details as to how Greco entered America or where exactly he is.
“In any case, the Italian government has retained the Pinkerton Detective Agency to help trace Greco, and if and when we find him, we intend to arrest him. This, of course, is where you come in. Naturally, there are no photographs of Greco—they hardly have such inventions as the camera in the wilds of Sicily—but you do have a likeness of him, a good likeness by all accounts.
“Now, Mr. Pinkerton has been in London on other business but returns to Chicago—his firm’s headquarters—in three days’ time. What we would both like to know is whether you would be willing to spare your drawing of Greco so that Pinkerton may have it in America. Greco’s exploits in Sicily were so notorious that we feel he must surely have changed his name. But he cannot change his appearance, not by much, anyway. If Pinkerton should come across him, or someone they think is him, it would help enormously to have a good likeness, to make sure we have the right man.”
“We have agents in all the main American cities,” said Pinkerton. “We’re in touch with them all by telegram. We can act very quickly—”
“There’s no need to go on,” interjected Livesey. “The man humiliated and mutilated me! In a cupboard at home, not a mile from here, I have the remains of my own scalp and a drawing of the man who cut it off. I can’t go near that cupboard but I can’t throw those things away, either. I just can’t bring myself to do that.” He looked distraught. “I’m a priest, a Catholic priest. I know the Bible backward. As a Christian, I’m not supposed to think about revenge, an eye for an eye and all that. Let me tell you: I can think of little else. I can’t turn the other cheek. I refuse to. Maybe I’m not suited to the priesthood, but oh yes, I want revenge. I want revenge so badly I can taste it. I want Greco to suffer like I suffered. I want him humiliated like I was.
“So yes, ambassador, you may have your drawing.”
The Priola house was made of wood, on two stories, and at first-floor level a balcony went all around the house. The balcony was carved with a delicate tracery and the woodwork was painted a brilliant white. Baskets of flowers hung from the exposed beams that supported the roof, the baskets alternating with lanterns. The garden, whose main feature was an enormous eucalyptus tree, was lush almost beyond belief, with succulent greenery everywhere and the sound of water flowing. It was surrounded by a high wall into which were let a pair of wrought-iron gates where Silvio now stood. He pulled a knob that, somewhere between the gates and the house, sounded a bell.
Silvio had been dispatched to Anna-Maria in a taxicab, paid for by Nino. But from here on he was on his own.
A Negro appeared from the front door of the house. He had close-cropped silver-gray hair and a slight stoop. He was wearing a gray apron. He walked up to the gate but didn’t open it. “Ye-e-e-s?”
Silvio took out the card, the view of the Church of the Annunciation, which Anna-Maria had given him on the Syracusa. This was the tricky part. He had been coached in what to say, in English, by Francisco. “Please give Anna-Maria card. Here is Silvio.”
The black man did not immediately accept the proffered card. “You know Miss Priola?”
Silvio didn’t understand what was being said, but smiled anyway.
“Do you speak English?” the Negro asked.
Silvio smiled again. “Anna-Maria, please.” He pushed the card through the gate railings.
Just then Anna-Maria herself appeared on the balcony, at the side of the house.
“Anna-Maria!” Silvio called out. “Anna-Maria.” He waved the card.
She looked startled, then recognized him and waved. She turned and headed for the stairs, stopped, and shouted something down to the Negro, something in English, Silvio guessed. The Negro opened the gates and Silvio stepped inside.
In no time, Anna-Maria appeared through the front door on the ground floor and walked quickly toward him. Now she said something else to the Negro and he headed off, back into the house.
Instead of kissing Silvio, as he half expected, Anna-Maria put her finger to her lips, gesturing him to be silent. Then she beckoned him to follow her deeper into the garden. They walked past some lush green bushes with orange flowers, a couple of miniature palms—he’d seen those before, in Sicily—and suddenly they were in a little clearing with a stone bench.
“Banff will bring us some lemonade,” said Anna-Maria. “Father is away, playing poker in the French Quarter, but some of his men are in the house, for a meeting tonight. It’s better we talk out here.”
Just then the Negro reappeared with a jug and two glasses, and Anna-Maria waited while he set them on the bench. She said a few more words in English to him, and he again disappeared. She poured the liquid and offered a glass to Silvio.
He took it and drank it. It wasn’t champagne. It was very sweet.
“So, you made it. You are in America.”
He smiled. She was wearing a white dress and had her hair up, tied by a white ribbon. She looked less Italian, somehow. Her skin and lips shone. Briefly he described what had happened since she had last seen him, dwelling only on the fact that he had t
hought a great deal about her; he did not say he’d thought only about her body.
She laughed. “That was good,” she said. “One of the best I’ve heard. You hear all sorts of stories in New Orleans, about how people come in, hidden in barrels of salt, or in crates of fish, or rolled up in carpets. But it was clever to have yourself put in quarantine. My father will like that.”
“That’s one reason I’ve come, Anna-Maria.” He had thought carefully about this exchange, and decided it would not do to say he had come only in connection with her father. “Maybe you and I could go dancing—I saw a wonderful dance place last night. And you did say your father might be able to help Nino and me.” He explained about the name change.
“Where are you staying?”
He told her.
“Was this dance hall near there?”
He nodded.
“You mean Madge Leigh’s. That’s a whorehouse. I’m not allowed there.”
He raised his eyebrows and she laughed. “Just because I’m not allowed doesn’t mean I don’t go! My, you’ve a lot to learn—about life in general and New Orleans in particular. Have some more lemonade.” She held out the jug.
Then she grew more serious. “I’ve already mentioned you to my father.”
“You have?”
“Yes, but don’t get excited. I mentioned in passing that the great mafioso, Nino Greco, was aboard my ship, traveling incognito, with one of his lieutenants.”
Sono tenente? Silvio asked himself. He supposed he was. “And?”
“He just nodded. But nothing escapes my father. My problem is that I have to think of a way to bring you up in the conversation. I can’t say you came here this afternoon. He’d go mad if he thought you and I had … you know. You certainly wouldn’t get a job then. In fact, you’d probably have your balls cut off.”
Silvio felt an urge to leave, as quickly as possible.
“What I need to do is mention Nino again, in such a way that it gives Father an idea, and then he thinks it was his idea.”
Silvio smiled.