The Islands of Divine Music

by John Addiego

  THE ISLANDS OF

  Divine Music

  THE ISLANDS OF

  Divine Music

  JOHN ADDIEGO

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Unbridled Books

  Denver, Colorado

  Copyright © 2008 John Addiego

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Addiego, John.

  The islands of divine music by / John Addiego.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-932961-54-6

  1. Italians—United States—Fiction. 2. Italian Americans—Fiction.

  3. Italian American families—Fiction. 4. Family—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.D46I85 2008

  813’.6—dc22

  2008018617

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Book Design by SH • CV

  First Printing

  The Family is the Country of the heart.

  GIUSEPPE MAZZINI

  THE ISLANDS OF

  Divine Music

  A ROSE IN THE NEW WORLD

  Rosari

  Some came from the bottom of the boot to find a new life when theirs was unbearable, and some whispered the word America over and over among their prayers and sought to present themselves new before God in a new world. Rosari left Southern Italy and set sail into the unknown for an additional reason: in order to escape prosecution for her prodigality.

  Her father, Lazaro Cara, was a gentle man, and some would say he was too gentle. When his wife left him he gave up the chase after a week of weeping and lugging his children from village to village in the hilly south of Italy. Rosari’s mother was a beautiful woman with wildly sad eyes, with thick black curls which played across her cheeks even when she tried to keep them bound in a scarf. She dropped the wash in Rosari’s arms one day, put on her nicest dress, and left. Friends and family lent her father a jackass and a shotgun, but he looked silly holding the firearm in his arms like a baby wrapped in bunting. He wept, and Rosari and her older sister wept, and they walked from town to town with the jackass and ate cold potatoes and handouts from strangers and milk from their nanny goat, then returned home.

  Lazaro returned to his vocation, which was cutting the hair of the merchants and land barons and gossips in Reggio Calabria. Word came that his wife had run off with a man named Gulia. Then word was she’d dumped Gulia, or there had never been a Gulia, or that a fat butcher named Benedetti in Napoli, who already had a wife and seven children, was keeping her as a mistress, or that she had been seen among gypsies singing at a saint’s-day fair near Eboli. Then a cholera epidemic hit, and the stories about his wife got swept out the doorway with the hair and were replaced by stories of death.

  The disease took the life of Rosari’s cousin Paolo and a newborn neighbor named Gino Emilio Ravetto. Lazaro had little work and less money, the village had more activity in the cemetery with its ornate crypts and sepulchres than it did in its piazza, so, two years after his wife had left them, he and Rosari and Claudia rode a freight train to Napoli, a crowded, filthy, dangerous place. Maybe they were going to beg her mother to come back from the butcher, Rosari thought, maybe they were looking for people who still cared about the condition of their hair, or maybe they were simply taking their grief to the open road as they had when her mother had left. They hopped onto the moving train and the father held his two girls and wept for miles along the steep and sooty coastline.

  Every dark eye and flowing tress in the city made Rosari’s heart jump for want of her mother. Around the corner would come a young woman holding a basket filled with mushrooms or Swiss chard, and for a moment the girl would think it was she. Through the window of the barbershop where her father snipped hair and she cleaned the floor and shined shoes she might see a woman’s profile, somebody in a black dress with a load of firewood balanced on her head, and Rosari would almost cry out, Mama! Most of the time she kept her feelings to herself, and mostly because she didn’t want her father to get started and have him cry all over the head of some rich customer, but the keening for her mother overtook her now and then in the crowded apartment above the barbershop, and the fact that Claudia soon left them didn’t help.

  Her sixteen-year-old sister was engaged to a Neapolitan stonemason within a month of their arrival. Plump, quiet, simple-minded Claudia got married and moved into her mother-in-law’s house the night of the wedding. Rosari, who had learned to read by age seven with the help of her father and the sisters at Santo Giovanni, her home church, lost herself in newspapers and books as a way to cope with the loss of her sister and the lost hope of finding their mother. She found many books to choose among in the big city, on racks in a tobacconist’s, in the houses of the merchants. The girl would run down the narrow streets, dodging carts and mules, and deliver clean linen to ladies who would lend her books about knights and damsels in distress. She was just eleven years old, a dark-skinned, scrawny girl with disheveled hair and her nose in a book, when Gratiano, a local criminal who liked a close shave and a shoe shine, studied her.

  Debonair, articulate, yet hopelessly illiterate, Gratiano sat in the chair under Lazaro’s nimble fingers and watched the girl read a book half as big as she was. She reads and writes? he asked the barber. At that time only one of every ten Neapolitans could read.

  Smart as a whip, Lazaro replied.

  If I could do that I’d learn English and go to America. And the girl thought of how she would marry this handsome man with the dark eyes and sail to America, where he would earn an honest living trading prosciutto or pelts with Indians, and she would read books in Italian and English to him and their three children.

  The next morning, as she was carrying pane rustico from the baker’s, the criminal and his friend stopped her. They were seated on the sidewalk before a bar, each man holding a demitasse. Gratiano waved her over and introduced her to the large, bald man in a blue suit. My friend doesn’t believe you can write. Would you be so kind as to demonstrate? He handed her a fountain pen, such as she’d never seen before, and she wrote the words he dictated to her on a piece of butcher paper which enveloped a pig’s leg. Both men clapped their hands and slapped their knees enthusiastically. Gratiano placed three lire on the table and said he’d like to pay her to write a letter for him, provided she could keep it secret. Rosari set down her loaves and straightaway put the criminal’s words to pen on a piece of parchment:

  Esteemed Sir, it began, Please excuse this intrusion into your private affairs. Financial difficulties, as well as recent illnesses in my family, have forced me into the position in which I find myself. My associate and I must come to your hotel this afternoon and kidnap you. Be entirely assured that no harm will come to you, and that your freedom will be immediately reinstated once a ransom of five thousand lire, or the equivalent in your British pounds, has been transferred to you by wire from your most highly esteemed family in Great Britain. It is my greatest hope that, once I have received this money, you will continue your travels in the sunny South. Perhaps you will see the ruins at Pompeii? Of course, that is your affair, not mine. I only wish you the least inconvenience during this kidnap, as well as many happy returns to our beautiful city.

  With Sincere Regrets and Fondest Hopes,

  Mr. Z

  She read it back to the criminals, and they leaned back in their chairs and closed their eyes, Gratiano sighing now and then while the bald man nodded and murmured words of praise. She didn’t understand some of the words she’d written, and she wondered how an Englishman might
decipher their idiom, but the robust approval of the two men made her chest puff out in its baggy, hand-me-down dress. What a prodigy! Gratiano exclaimed. A genius, the bald man said, and he added two more lire to the three. But he didn’t like the Mr. Z part and wanted it changed to The Shadow. Gratiano said Mr. Z was fine since nobody’s name began with a Z, and he pinched the girl’s cheek and winked at her. Rosari’s face colored. She took her bread and money and ran back to her father, resolved to tell him nothing of the adventure.

  There was constant talk of America in her neighborhood, particularly in the barbershop and the piazza. Cholera and malaria, starvation and poverty, all manner of suffering were driving rural people to the crowded city or to caves in the mountains, and as they huddled before their fires they dreamed of America. The hill folk had used the ancient cave dwellings as goat stables for as long as anyone could remember, but now the goats were being eaten or turned out for miserable human families to reclaim. Rosari had seen them from the train, the little archways dug into pale limestone cliffs high above the coastline, the women in black shawls and head coverings squatting before them. In America there would be fresh air to prevent disease, work for good money, and open space to plant gardens and keep animals, people said. Lazaro, contrary to his neighbors, maintained that he was more apt to return to his hometown than to leave the country. Once the plague has passed, and all the rats have left the sinking ship, he told his daughter, we can return to our home. Perhaps your mother will come back to us, too, he added with a sniffle.

  About three weeks after she’d written Gratiano’s letter a policeman came to the barbershop, and Rosari heard that an Englishman had been kidnapped from the local hotel. She swept the floor and averted her eyes. Her father told her to go upstairs and make the soup, but she wanted to hear the conversation, so she knocked over the glass filled with combs and spent another five minutes cleaning up after herself. She heard the men laugh, whistle, and cluck their tongues, but she didn’t catch much of what they said.

  In the books beautiful women were sometimes kidnapped by scoundrels and rescued by knights or gentlemen. Gratiano was far from a scoundrel in her eyes, and some Englishman at the hotel was hardly a beautiful woman, so she hadn’t really sensed that her use of the word in the letter could amount to something like real kidnapping until now. It had seemed more likely that the word might have other meanings when used in other contexts. She prepared the soup with the wife of Fratelli the barber and brought it and the bread out to the steps where the three families usually ate in the heat of the day. There were twelve altogether, the wives and children of the two other barbers spread out along the shade of the busy street, and they all spoke of the kidnapping now, the three barbers, sworn to secrecy moments before by the carabinieri, having spilled the beans to their wives and children instantly.

  Among the more urbane of the criminal society, particularly la mano nera of Napoli, a prekidnapping note such as Rosari had written was common practice. The wealthy victim was given a chance to put his things in order, prepare his family and finances for the inevitable, perhaps even pack a few necessities. Resistance was, essentially, futile. Organized criminals of the South could afford to extend this courtesy with little risk, and the families of victims generally paid the ransom, which was never exorbitant, immediately. But this Englishman’s father hadn’t followed custom; rather, he’d sent twice the ransom to local military and police, who had arrested Gratiano and his partner in the bar where they and the Englishman had been sharing a chianti and playing pinochle. The word on the street was that they would soon hang from a tree in the piazza, but that the judge was waiting to arrest a third conspirator first because, clearly, neither of these men could write their names, let alone the kidnap note found on the victim.

  Rosari felt sick and asked to be excused.

  For three days she didn’t eat, and Lazaro sent for one of the local fortune-tellers to diagnose her illness. The old woman poured olive oil into a bowl of water and gasped at the shape it took on the surface. Lazaro, Claudia, Fratelli the barber’s wife, and two of her children gasped and cried out as well, although none of them knew what the shape signified. Herbs, entrails, and other measures were recommended, but before Lazaro went to get a few coins for remedies the girl pulled him close and, weeping bitterly, confessed.

  The room fell silent. Then the fortune-teller shrugged and said, Well, that would do it.

  Lazaro applied for work permits to America and Argentina that very day. He would work in a steel foundry, a coal mine, a gaucho ranch, a fort surrounded by Indian tepees, anywhere, yes. And he could read and write, and he was a highly skilled barber trained by the army outside Roma when he was a youth, and he had no physical ailments, and no, he had no . . . He paused, then reported that he had no wife, that the woman had died two years previous, but that he did have one child still living with him, just a little girl. Only a simple little girl who tried to help out around the barbershop, but, bless her heart, she was very slow and stupid, poor thing.

  For the next few weeks Lazaro forbade his daughter to hold a book or a newspaper. When she delivered the linen she had to turn down the romances offered by the merchants’ wives, and sometimes she told the ladies that she couldn’t read and had only been looking at the drawings. Articles about the kidnapping and the trial lay curled on the barbers’ chairs, tempting her like the serpent in the garden, and opinions about the case were aired by the magistrates of the piazza and the orators of the street corners while their hair sloughed off their heads and fell onto the floor, but Rosari kept her mouth shut. Some said that the Englishman wanted to drop the charges and had found the experience a lark rather than an ordeal, but that his father and the police saw the matter differently. Others claimed that the police, emboldened by the infusion of money and the rhetoric of a British prefect from Rome, had suddenly remembered that Gratiano and Umberto were already under suspicion for previous crimes, particularly for perforating the bodies of a dishonest landlord and a known child molester with butchers’ knives and dumping the same into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  The day before their departure two remarkable things happened, the first of which came in the form of a court summons. Father and daughter had just packed what they could into a trunk and two sheets made into shoulder sacks when a scrawny officer told them to follow him. They walked on stiff and trembling legs behind the little man’s quick strides, a train of the other barbers’ children, some nosy neighbors, and a few unemployed curiosity-seekers hitching behind. The little man ordered the others to stop at the foot of the steps, then led Rosari and Lazaro into the courthouse.

  They descended a dank, smelly stairwell to the row of jail cells. The top of Umberto’s bald head could be seen at the end of a blanket where the big man slept with his face covered. A stink of piss and excrement came from one end of the dark corridor, and Rosari pulled her scarf across her nose. The little officer had them raise their arms and, begging their pardon first, he patted their clothes, then led them to Gratiano.

  The criminal sat in sleeveless shirt and suspenders, an unlit, hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. He put on his coat and fedora after he looked up and saw the visitors. Even in the squalid jail cell, with his rumpled clothes and the bruised and swollen skin about his eye and nose where the interrogators had left the mark of their work, he looked, to Rosari, the most handsome man in the world.

  I wanted to thank you for your kindnesses to me. They are letting me say all the farewells I wish, he said in a husky voice. His eyes darted to the policeman, who stood a few yards off, then turned to Rosari’s. He continued in a whisper, You should never worry about nothing, and he made a gesture indicating that his lips were sealed. Then, in a louder voice, he told Lazaro to be thankful for having such a little jewel of a daughter, and he tapped his forehead with his index finger. What I would give for such a mind.

  God bless you, Gratiano, Lazaro exclaimed through his tears. He made the sign of the cross and kissed the criminal’s hand. Tomorrow
I take this little jewel with me to America.

  Ah! Gratiano’s eyes filled with tears. America!

  They were crying when they stepped into the brilliant light and noise of Naples, and drying their eyes when they got back to the barbershop, where the second remarkable thing happened. A scrawny, hunched woman sat on the steps beside Fratelli the barber’s wife. The woman’s black dress and head covering hung about her bones, and though her drawn face was vaguely familiar, her eyes were the most foreign things Rosari had ever seen. These eyes had lost most of their hue, as if some brush with the sun had singed them. Nevertheless, Lazaro knelt beside the woman and repeated the word Eleonora, Eleonora. This was the name of Rosari’s mother.

  She seemed a kind of zombie. Her gestures were stiff and slow, her eyes more in the world of the dead than that of the living, and Rosari was scared of her. There was some debate that evening about whether she should stay in Naples with Claudia, whose mother-in-law clearly didn’t want her, or come with her husband and youngest girl to America. The mother, sitting stiff as a mannequin on Lazaro’s bed, said very little during the debate. Fratelli, who threw his weight around the shop and apartment, said in a loud voice that if he were Lazaro, he’d throw the woman back out on the street, and Lazaro stood with arms folded and said that he was considering doing just exactly that. He assumed an uncharacteristic air of severity, standing with arms crossed and chin thrust out. At one point he paced with hands behind his back, a soldier wearing a barber’s apron as his uniform, and turned suddenly to point his scissors at his wife. I have not yet decided, he told her, what we shall do with you.

  In the morning they started for the wharf. No decision had been made, except that Lazaro allowed Eleonora to carry one of the bundled sheets. She trailed behind her husband and daughter, bent under the burden. When they reached the gate, Lazaro produced papers, and the agent snorted at him.