I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  Clara came in. “We didn’t have much time to prepare, Rose,” she said by way of apologizing for the number of cold dishes.

  “You’ve done just fine. Do you know when Papa last ate?”

  “Probably last night. He was called to the police station this morning before he had breakfast and refused to eat all day.”

  Rose went back to the sitting room. Ettore and Vito were drinking the brandy. “Finish your drinks,” ordered Rose. “We’re having a bite in the kitchen.”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Ettore.

  “No argument, Papa. You must eat.”

  Ettore swallowed the rest of his drink, then followed her into the kitchen. Rose prepared platters of food for the three of them, and they sat at the long table to eat.

  “Have you heard from the others, Papa?” asked Rose.

  “Vince’s office called that he would be here about seven-thirty or so. Mike should arrive shortly after him. Tony will get in late tonight. He had trouble making connections. The Red Cross phoned an hour ago that Paul is already on his way, but won’t get here until tomorrow. I don’t know about Dom.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He was in a little town near Monterey, Mexico a month ago. I sent telegrams to the last three addresses, just in case.”

  “Did you send money? You know Dom.”

  “Yes.”

  They ate only a small amount before they began picking at what was left on their plates. Rose stood up. “Lie down for an hour, Papa.”

  Ettore shook his head.

  “Papa, you’re seventy-five years old. You’ll need every bit of energy during the next few days. So, please, take a nap.”

  “All right, Rose,” said Ettore wearily. He got up and started out of the kitchen. Rose motioned at Mario to go along and take care of him.

  “Now you, Rose,” said Vito.

  “There’s too much to do.”

  “It’ll wait. Go lie down.”

  “All right, I’ll rest on the sofa in the living room.” She started out, then stopped and turned back to him. “Vito, I’ve said it often during the past twenty years, but I want to say it again. You’re the best there is.”

  He blew her a kiss.

  In the taxi on its way from the airport to the house, Judge Vincent DiStephano abruptly felt the years pile up on him. It was like this twenty-four years ago when he received the same sort of telegram that Paul probably just got, delivered by the Red Cross. He had been a Captain with the Judge Advocate Generals Office of the First Army when the message came that Mama was dying. It took a long thirty-six hours to get home from Europe, and he had arrived too late.

  He remembered quite clearly what Mama had looked like. That was one of the reasons why he had fallen in love with Bernice, because she reminded him so much of Mama. He saw them both in his mind’s eye, tall, serious-faced women, with a glint of humor beneath the staid exterior. He suddenly realized what it was they had most in common - their unswerving loyalty and devotion towards their husbands. How many times Mama had explained what a wonderful father he had, as if he must learn the meaning by memorizing it as completely as he did his catechism.

  She really loved Papa, he reflected, but most of all when he worked with his hands and came home smelling of slaked lime and cement and stone dust, and sneaked up behind her to place an arm around her waist and squeeze her against him. For a woman who had been selected as a wife by a man who had never seen her, and who had only the vaguest description of the man she was sent to marry before stepping foot in steerage on a battered ship to travel five thousand miles from her family and friends to an English-speaking country before she could speak ten English words, and there find the dream that each woman carries in her heart, it must all have seemed a miracle.

  But loving her husband did not stop her from standing squarely between him and one of the children when she decided that the youngster had enough punishment to fit the offense. That, however, did not spare the culprit a full week’s extra licking by Mama, who was convinced that the child must respect his father no matter who was at fault, and that obedience is next to Godliness.

  “He’s your father,” was heard day in and day out until the refrain became drilled so firmly into the brain that the three words resolved everything.

  Vincent decided he loved his father as much as any man could. Papa had never attempted to elicit the affections of his children, for he considered other things as more important, such as them being healthy, good Catholics, and better educated than he, and Vincent knew as surely as he was seated there that Papa would gladly put his hand in fire to save any of his children a tear, yet he was unable to tell them straight out that he cared for them. He was old fashioned that way.

  But Papa had taught him many of the important things in life. Like the time he placed money in a bowl, called all the children around him to say that he would put the same amount in the bowl every month, and that each was allowed to take whatever he wanted, but to leave a little for his brothers and sister. Someone had taken too much the first week, so there was not enough left for the rest of them to buy their candy or cokes or whatever was important at that time until the end of the month when money was again placed in the bowl. But this time so very little was taken that they had to organize a system themselves to dispense it. That is why I have such good brothers and sis..... a sister, thought Vincent.

  Maria, Maria. Murdered by a lunatic who took your throat in his hands and squeezed it until your beautiful, sweet life was snuffed out.

  Vincent had most of the available details of the murder delivered to him by special messenger as he was about to board the plane, forwarded by his office which had got in touch with the Chicago police while he was preparing to leave. He had known Maria less well than others of the family, except for perhaps Paul, who was always stationed at the furthest corner of the world, since Vincent had been so much older and so preoccupied with his work and his own family that knowing her had been garnered in bits and snatches rather than by a solid, knowledgeable relationship. But he knew his love for her was a deep one, perhaps instinctive and of the blood, and that a vast emptiness had opened inside him at the fact that she was dead.

  Vincent tried to fathom why he felt so deeply about Maria. Can parents pass on a sixth sense or a chemical reaction that makes one instinctively or unconsciously love another with the same blood. Or is this some of that gobbledygook which surrounds the superstition of religion. Tony would be the one to answer that, he thought wryly. Tony was good at presenting confusion in its proper perspective and serving it up in such fine order that even an idiot could make heads or tails of what he was saying. But Vincent knew he’d rather discuss it with Paul, as Paul was on his own wave length, so to speak. And although Tony looked up to him as the oldest, and therefore the wisest, and preferred his company to that of the others, it was awkward to talk to Tony ever since he put on the cloth, for Vincent had seen too much in life to believe that there was a simple answer to everything.

  The taxi came to the house. Vincent stepped out, placed his bag on the sidewalk, and paid off the driver. As he turned up the flagstone walk, the door opened and Rose and Vito came out to greet him. He kissed Rose and shook hands with Vito.

  “I tried to reach you earlier,” said Vito to Vincent. “We had hoped to pick you up on the way here.”

  “I heard you had called, but I was already at the airport.” He turned to Rose. “How’s Papa?”

  She took his bag and led him inside. “He’s upstairs, lying down. I hope he can get to sleep.”

  Mario came up, greeted Vincent warmly, then carried his bag upstairs.

  “Have you eaten?” asked Rose.

  “Yes, I had supper on the plane. Where’s Maria?”

  “She’s at the funeral parlor.”

  “They must have performed a fast autopsy.”

  Rose looked shocked. “Oh, Vince, I never thought of that.”

  “Who’s staying with her?”

  “Papa has so
meone from the undertaker watching over her. We haven’t seen her yet. I thought we should all go together.”

  Vincent nodded. He filled a glass with brandy, sat down heavily in a deep, silk covered chair, and sipped at his drink.

  “Do you have any information about her?” asked Vito.

  “Yes. The police found her body at the edge of town during the early hours this morning. They suspect she died somewhere else and was placed there.”

  “Why?”

  “From the position of the body and the arrangement of her clothing. They also found footprints which seemed to indicate that she was carried, but none of her own footprints. The report was pretty sketchy, as the police hadn’t brought the facts together yet.”

  “Who could have done such a horrible thing?” whispered Rose, placing her face in her hands and sobbing.

  The two men waited patiently until she calmed down, then Vito brought over a box of Kleenex for her to wipe her face.

  “Have you heard from the others?” asked Vincent of Rose to change the subject.

  “Papa said that Mike will be here almost any time, but Tony will be a little late. Paul certainly can’t make it here until tomorrow.” She turned to her husband. “Vito, Paul may not be able to make connections from the coast. Do you think we should send the plane for him?”

  “I’ve already asked my people to check that out. I’ll know by tomorrow morning.”

  “What of Dom?” asked Vincent.

  “Papa thinks he’s in Mexico. He sent telegrams to three places.”

  They heard Ettore coming down the steps, so Vincent got up to meet him at the foot of the staircase. They kissed each other on both cheeks, then looked into each other’s eyes. Although Ettore was an inch taller than Vincent, his bowed shoulders made him appear smaller, especially since Vincent weighed thirty pounds more and seemed twice as big.

  “Are you all right, Papa?” asked Vincent.

  “I’m all right, Vince. You’ve put on some weight since I last saw you. Six months, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Papa. Christmas.”

  “You look tired. You must take a vacation.”

  “I will, Papa. As soon as I get back.”

  They went into the sitting room.

  “Did you sleep, Papa?” asked Rose.

  “A little bit.” He waved away Vito’s offer of brandy and took from the cabinet a bottle of red table wine, poured four small glasses and handed them around. He raised his glass towards Vincent. “It’s good to have you home, Vince.” The others raised their glasses and they drank.

  Michael DiStephano settled back on the rear seat of the taxi and lit a cigarette. He chuckled as he put away his lighter at the thought that here he was, forty-eight years old, with an income of over one hundred thousand dollars a year, married to a woman whose trust fund brought in a quarter of a million dollars annually, a famous surgeon who had earned one of the highest reputations in the country, a pillar of the community and state, a man sought by exclusive clubs, civic groups and intellectuals, and here he was, sneaking in a cigarette before he got home because his father might knock his block off if he caught him smoking.

  Michael really loved his father, as most second sons do who have been somewhat ignored in favor of the firstborn. He loved him for his strength of character and courage and his independence, but most of all because his father understood what was in his heart. Michael’s deep affection for Ettore started way back there when he was in the fourth or fifth grade and brought home a report card containing a number of poor marks. Mama whaled him for days trying to beat some sense into his head while shoving under his nose the report cards of Vincent and Anthony, who seemed to learn everything effortlessly. Ettore finally stepped in with a few quiet words to Mama, then took Michael out to the yard where they squatted in a corner and chewed on blades of autumn dried grass.

  “Mike,” he said. “You’re a lot like me, because you want to work with your hands, and all that geography and history and spelling seems like a waste of time. Maybe it will be when you’ve found your trade. But you’re not going to find the right kind of work for yourself until you look around a little. Going to school is looking around, that’s all.”

  “It’s those tests that bother me, Papa. I always fail them.”

  “Do you remember the things the teacher tells you?”

  “Yes, before the tests and after the tests, but never during them.”

  Ettore thought that over carefully. “What would you like to be?” he asked casually, pulling off a new blade of grass to chew on.

  Michael did not hesitate an instant. “A horse doctor.”

  “Because of that horse that fell in the street?”

  “That’s part of it, Papa. The man said they were going to shoot it, even though it only hurt its leg. Why should they shoot it? It was all right.”

  “They probably didn’t think it was worth fixing up.”

  “Then they should shoot the man if he hurt his leg. That would teach him.”

  Michael remembered clearly that Papa had got up and walked away without saying another word. But a few weeks later, at Christmas, Papa gave him a chemistry set and spent a full week helping him figure out what to do with it, watching him carefully when he weighed the chemicals before mixing them and calming Mama when the house began to stink.

  Michael never could understand what made his grades suddenly become better. He somewhat suspected it was because Papa was a stickler for accurate weighing of the substances and made him write out the formulas a number of times before he would allow the chemicals to be mixed. He also suspected even more strongly that it was Papa’s faith in him, but whatever it was, his mathematic grades picked up a little, then his spelling, which was certainly due to writing out the names of the chemicals a hundred times or more, and like a snowball gathering momentum as it rolls downhill, those of geography, history, general aptitude. The picking up of his grades meant only that he was no longer on the verge of failing and staying behind in school, for Michael had to admit to himself that he never managed to place higher than the lowest quarter in his class. The moment his grades improved, Ettore dropped him like a hot potato, as if he had been shown the way and must do the rest himself.

  The years had passed quietly for Michael, who remained in the background while Vincent and Anthony ran off with almost every prize the schools gave, and although he studied as diligently as he could, his grades never carried him out of that same quarter of his class.

  Michael felt his love for Papa almost drown him on that occasion a number of years later when he was already a surgeon making a name for himself and attended a seminar where he met with the dean of his medical school. The dean could barely wait to relate the story about the time Ettore came into his office and told him he had a son who had got through pre-med school by the skin of his teeth and had been turned down by every medical school in the country. He went on to say that although he was a simple stone mason, he could erect a house better than an architect, and that his son had the same kind of hands. Then he held out a very official looking document which contracted to pay the college an income of twenty thousand dollars each year for twenty years from the rental receipts of one of his buildings, and offered it to the dean with the single condition that Michael be allowed to attend the college for three years. If he didn’t prove himself by that time, no one would be doing anything unethical, as he would need a fourth year to graduate, and the college would not be obligated to that. The dean chuckled when he explained that he had answered Ettore by saying it would be taking a slot away from an applicant who might become a pretty important doctor. Ettore had replied by asking one question; how many young men would his gift put through college? When the dean figured it out and said about one hundred and fifty, Ettore had taken out a pen from his pocket, uncapped it, poised it over the place he was to sign on the document, and said, “Well?”

  “We searched our conscience with utter ruthlessness when your third year was up,” said the dean to Mic
hael, “and to be frank, the opinions were so evenly divided that I think the only reason we allowed you to take your final year was due to the massive upheaval at the conclusion of the War.”

  Michael almost wept when he got off by himself, for he knew how Ettore valued money, and the sum he had given the college would have supported ten families in comfort. But Papa had understood that being a doctor was more important to him than anything could ever be, even to the point of not joining Vincent and Anthony in the army when every fiber in him shouted to do so.

  Michael suddenly stopped thinking of Ettore to wonder why his mind was shutting out the fact of Maria’s death. Of all the boys, only he and Dominic were really close to her, for he got home almost every weekend while at med school, and even more often during his internship at the hospital in Chicago. No one who knew Maria even half as well could keep from falling in love with her, and Michael had been exposed to the full force of her charms. Only he was permitted to pick out the many splinters she got in her hands or paint mercurochrome on her cuts or bandage her sprains or tell her what to do when her belly ached. When she was five years old and her tonsils were acting up, she raised the roof because Rose and Ettore made arrangements with a surgeon in Chicago. They finally had to telephone Michael at John Hopkins to tell him that his sister absolutely refused to allow anyone else but him to touch her. Then when he walked into her room that same day after rushing like a madman to catch a plane which was about to take off, the lines of pain in her face had cleared as she smiled and Michael knew he would have come from across the world just for that smile.

  Maria had also changed his life, he reflected. A number of months before going to John Hopkins, he and Carol had met, and if ever opposites were attracted, he and Carol were the ones. She was the tall, cool, blond daughter of a family so wealthy and firmly entrenched in American society that even Vito Donini whistled when Michael mentioned her name. Carol told him about it several years later, how her mother and father sat stiff as boards and her mother had snapped, “Marry that dark barbarian! Why, not only does he eat spaghetti every day, but he worships the Pope!” She had married him simply because every girl she knew was after him, and it hadn’t taken them more than two months to realize that the marriage was doomed as a result of her social life and his dedication to surgery being a million miles apart.