A Prince Without a Kingdom

by Timothee de Fombelle

  “Padre . . .”

  “Not another word, Vango.”

  Vango left.

  In the morning, the waitress from La Rocca restaurant, in the district of Little Italy, found a young man asleep on the doorstep when she arrived to open up. She rolled the body to one side and instantly recognized Vango.

  He opened his eyes, and the young woman smiled.

  “Hello, Lupo. I told you that you’d run into trouble. . . .”

  Vango clutched his bag. Next, he stood up and brushed down his clothes. He had only met her the once, but he had thought of her right away. He didn’t know anybody else in New York.

  “I’m looking for somewhere to stay for a few days,” he ventured without crossing the threshold.

  She was already inside, grinding the coffee.

  “Close the door!” she called out.

  The delicious aroma enticed Vango inside. He watched the waitress at work as she concentrated on turning the coffee grinder handle.

  “Miss, I’m looking for . . .”

  She stopped and looked at him, her eyes emphasized by black eyeliner.

  “I heard.”

  Then she picked up a coffee bean and crunched it between her teeth. She was glad he was there. She didn’t want to let him go.

  “My boss has two bedrooms upstairs, but he’s a rat. He drives a hard bargain. You’ll have to pay.”

  “That’s just as well; I don’t accept gifts from rats.”

  She smiled again and kept grinding.

  “Wait for him here. He’s called Otello. And my name is Alma.”

  She grabbed a bucket and mop and, for twenty minutes, she made the old wooden floorboards shine until Vango’s chair became an island surrounded by water.

  Vango kept drifting in and out of wakefulness, still dazed by the night that he had just spent. He understood that the padre was probably saving his life. But was his life worth saving? He had nobody now. Even Ethel, in a small parcel that he had collected from the post office, had told him not to write anymore. And, cruelly, she had sent back to him, neatly folded, the blue handkerchief that bore Vango’s name and the mysterious phrase: Combien de royaumes nous ignorent.

  He had just left the handkerchief with Zefiro, like a souvenir he no longer wanted.

  A cup of coffee slid across the counter in front of him.

  “He’s dead, I saw,” said the girl.

  “Who?”

  “The man you’re looking for . . . Cafarello.”

  “Where?”

  “At Sing Sing prison.”

  “Where did you see that?”

  “Someone cut . . .”

  Vango shuddered.

  “Who got cut?”

  “The article, someone cut it out of the newspaper.”

  “Ah!”

  “An article with his photo. It was pinned up here.”

  She pointed to a wooden board beneath the liquor bottles.

  “I threw it out with the trash yesterday.”

  “Threw out what?”

  “The cutting from the newspaper. It was too scary.”

  “Why?”

  “He used to come here sometimes. He would be right there, in front of me, just like you are now. And . . .”

  She was leaning on her elbows in front of Vango, staring at her hands.

  “And?”

  “Well, when you think what he did.”

  “What did he do?”

  “You mean you don’t know? Then why were you looking for him?”

  “What did he do?”

  “It’s why he was arrested, two years ago. He threw a girl off the new bridge above the Bronx Kill.”

  Vango stared at Alma. Why had he never wondered what crime the condemned man at Sing Sing stood accused of? He stared down at the white halo floating on his coffee.

  A girl thrown off a bridge.

  The horror of this crime changed everything for Vango. Curiously, he had never wanted to accept that the now-dead man really was Giovanni Cafarello. But, on hearing Alma’s account, he suddenly felt as if he recognized his parents’ murderer. So perhaps the real Cafarello was dead after all, buried in the communal grave at Sing Sing?

  Vango’s confusion proved that his whole life had depended on revenge. The desire for revenge was what had kept him going. It was what he’d lived for. There are some very old houses still standing because of the ivy that is destroying them.

  “Why did you want to talk with him?” Alma repeated.

  “Who was the girl he threw off the bridge?”

  “Her name was in the newspaper. I can’t remember it now. Nobody knew anything about her. Maria, I think . . . or Laura. Yes, Laura. She had only come to America six months earlier.”

  Just then, the owner of La Rocca walked in. He was carrying a ham over one shoulder and rolling a small barrel with his foot.

  “Help me, bella.”

  Alma went to help roll the barrel to its rightful place, and the two of them disappeared at the back of the kitchen.

  “Who’s your boyfriend?” the owner asked her.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Otello was surprised to see Alma blushing. After all, she had enough experience when it came to jokes. And boyfriends.

  “He’s a customer; he wants Wendy’s room, upstairs.”

  “Does he realize that Wendy isn’t in there anymore?”

  He burst out laughing, presumably as he thought of dowdy Wendy, who had just moved out.

  “Stop it; it’s serious.”

  Otello screwed up his eyes mischievously.

  “Ah, it’s serious?”

  Alma had done her boss a disservice by calling him a rat. He was a good man and, by and large, honest. He was kind to her. He liked to joke and was always quick to laugh. Otello was only a rat when it came to money.

  “Right. Has he got the means, your boyfriend?”

  The owner of La Rocca had become serious again. As a matter of fact, he resembled a hamster more than a rat.

  “I don’t know.”

  He went back into the bar. The discussion didn’t take long. Vango agreed to the asking price, which Otello was only moderately pleased about. In the kingdom of the greedy, if the other person doesn’t haggle, then you wish you’d asked for more in the first place.

  “Sheets aren’t included. Nor is gas. Did you want pillows?”

  Vango signed up for all the optional extras.

  He stayed in his bedroom for two days and two nights without coming out, tucked under two blankets that he had also rented, his head buried in the pillow for which he was paying. The feathers were extra.

  When he finally got up, he had slept a lot and thought a lot. He stretched in front of the window. Two or three bills had already been slid under the door. He put them in his pocket and went downstairs. It was lunchtime. Vango had to go outside in order to access the restaurant. It had snowed, and the cars were passing by in slow motion.

  Vango walked inside and sat down on one of the bench seats. The kitchen was bustling. Alma pretended not to have seen him. When he ordered an egg, she gave him a little wave from a distance.

  The customers arrived in dribs and drabs. From the way they paused after walking through the door (to sniff the air as they shook the snow off their shoes, to greet Otello, who kept saying “Easy does it, easy does it. . . .” because he was worried about his doormat getting worn out), you could tell they were happy to be there, and that in a single step they had passed from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, where they were at home again, in shorts. Sunday back in the home country.

  “I’m eighteen, but they take me for their mother,” Alma told Vango.

  She put his fried egg down in front of him.

  “What was he like?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Him. Cafarello.”

  Alma seemed hesitant.

  “I don’t know. Don’t talk to me about it anymore. I mean, it takes you three days to come out of your bedroom . . . and then the on
ly thing you order is an egg!”

  “But you knew him.”

  “As a customer, that’s all. I didn’t even know his last name until he made the papers.”

  She went to take the hat of a man who had just arrived. As he crossed the threshold, the customer made it look as if he were still cold, whereas in fact it was the warmth and the aroma of fried bread crumbs making him quiver with pleasure.

  Alma passed in front of Vango again. She stopped.

  “I remember that he was kind. That’s what scares me, thinking about it. Does everybody hide their cruelty? And the girl he killed is buried in Woodlawn Cemetery; I read that. Cafarello was a kind man. He didn’t speak English. He was a bit lost in New York. I think he’d worked for a long time in the West, looking after cows. He knew all about meat.”

  “A kind man . . .” echoed Vango.

  “That’s what scares me,” repeated Alma, before heading into the kitchen.

  Vango didn’t know what to think anymore. He ate his egg. The yolk was just as it should be, creamy. The white was merely fried at the edge, as crisp as a sliver of caramel. It had been sprinkled invisibly with white pepper.

  Cafarello’s kindness didn’t surprise Vango. A girl like Alma tended to bring out the best in people. But why, with a fortune in his pockets — namely the treasure stolen from the boat — had he started out by looking after cows in the West?

  Vango waited for Alma to reappear.

  “Was he rich, your cowboy?” he whispered when she came to take his plate away.

  “Yes. He always had money. A lot of it. And he couldn’t count. The boss noticed that.”

  She seemed embarrassed by what she had just said.

  “The boss notices those kind of things . . . but he is honest.”

  This time, it was all heading in the right direction. Vango was starting to believe in the evidence: that Cafarello was indeed Cafarello; that he had died because of his final crime, the murder of a girl on the bridge over the Bronx Kill.

  Vango pushed back his chair and went outside. He took a few steps beneath the swirling snowflakes. Alma was watching him through the restaurant window.

  There was no sense of relief in Vango’s heart. In the act of dying, Cafarello had robbed him both of his revenge and of the truth.

  He walked all day long. He stopped several times to sit on benches and watch the people passing by. He knew where he was going, but he was heading there via a thousand detours. Sometimes he lost a whole hour, just watching. Time moves to a different rhythm when it’s snowing. And it’s easier to fathom people against a white background.

  Vango’s footsteps had long been covered up. He left his bench when he felt too much weight on his cap and shoulders, just before he disappeared altogether beneath the snow.

  He passed by several bridges, and each time he stared at the icy waters flowing beneath.

  Vango reached Woodlawn Cemetery as daylight was beginning to wane. It was a huge field of snow dotted with trees. He went to knock on the caretaker’s door, in the knowledge that his quest was ridiculous: the cemetery stretched to dozens of hectares.

  The man who opened up had bandages on his hands. He was wearing a coat and a woolen hat.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Vango. “I’m looking for somebody.”

  The man held out a spade.

  “Follow me.”

  Feeling rather alarmed, Vango allowed the man to lead the way. They skirted the house. The man walked stiffly. It was snowing more heavily now.

  “Dig there,” he ordered. He had come to a stop and was pointing to a mound of snow.

  Vango was speechless. He had no desire to bury or indeed to unearth anybody.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the man explained, when he noticed Vango’s reluctance. “I did my back in two weeks ago.”

  “But . . . who is under here?”

  “Who?”

  Vango took a step backward.

  “You’ve got some very odd ideas,” the man remarked. “I haven’t been able to warm myself up all day,” he added with a smile, “because my wood is buried right here under the snow.”

  Vango was embarrassed and uncovered the wood in a few shovelfuls.

  “So, you’re looking for someone?” the man asked him on the way back, when Vango was laden down with the logs.

  “Yes. A girl who’s buried here.”

  “Last name, age, date of death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re joking. Not even her name?”

  “She might be called Laura.”

  “Might?”

  “Yes.”

  They came to a halt in front of the door.

  “Put the wood down here. Keep the spade. There are a hundred and fifty thousand graves to scrape the snow off. You’ll find the right one in the end.”

  The caretaker had removed the bandages, which had been standing in for gloves. He went back inside his home.

  “Wait,” Vango called out after him. “You might remember. She was a young woman who was murdered last year, or two years ago.”

  The man reappeared. He went over to Vango and put his hand on the shovel.

  “Did you know her?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So why was I the only one digging her grave in the middle of June?”

  He stared at Vango for rather a long time.

  “All right, you rescued my logs, so we’re quits. Take that path, just there. It’s the fifth turn on the left. A wooden cross between two trees. Poor girl.”

  Vango nodded, already heading off in that direction.

  “Did you hear about the murderer’s attorney?” called out the caretaker, whose stiff legs couldn’t keep up.

  “No.” Vango sighed.

  “The worst attorney in the world. He pleaded self-defense. Do you know what he said?”

  Vango didn’t answer.

  “He said that it was the girl who had attacked the man.”

  Vango let him talk, but he didn’t want to listen anymore.

  “He turned it into a whole saga. People were laughing in the courtroom. He showed a notebook that had been found with the girl, made out that it was a case of revenge for old crimes.”

  “Thank you. That’s all,” said Vango, standing very still.

  The caretaker hobbled over to Vango and shook his hand.

  “My condolences,” said the man, and off he went.

  Vango kept walking, his feet sinking into the snow for a few minutes more. He arrived in front of the cross. What had he come to do at this grave?

  There was no particular spot where he could go and reflect on his parents’ lives. So this young victim, murdered by the same man who had killed his parents, buried in the ground between two trees, had attracted him. And this cross inclining under the snow soothed him now.

  He crouched down, searching deep inside himself for the prayers or cries that would help him reach the other side of his anger. He wondered why he had survived Cafarello’s cruelty that night in 1918, in the waters of the Aeolian Islands. He thought about Mademoiselle. Was she also lying dead somewhere with her secrets? Was there a glimmer of life in anyone who could reveal Vango’s past to him?

  He glanced up at the caretaker’s chimney, which was smoking now in the distance. He tugged on his coat sleeve to cover his hand, like a mitten. Leaning forward, he brushed away the snow on the stone that had been laid in front of the cross.

  He saw Laura’s name appear. He rubbed some more and revealed the boulder on which the paint hadn’t yet flaked off, and read:

  Laura Viaggi

  Salina 1912 – New York 1935

  Vango dug both knees into the snow.

  The man described by both a prison warden and a cemetery caretaker as “the worst attorney in the world” had his offices in a handsome building on Broadway.

  There were life-size mythological characters sculpted across its facade. At night, by the light of the theaters that surrounded the building,
there flickered an army of shadows, including Jason, Odysseus, Antigone, and Hercules. They had watched over the lives of ordinary New Yorkers down the years.

  But this evening, in the midst of these statues, twenty meters above ground level, one face in particular might have intrigued an attentive observer. The eyes of this hero moved in the dark.

  Vango was standing on a narrow ledge, waiting for the crowds below him to disperse after their big night out at the theater. Hot on the heels of the dancing throngs that emerged from the Ziegfeld Follies at the Winter Garden, came a wave of tragedians, followed by spectators in hoots of laughter, and then the sleepwalkers who had found the show too long. Finally, a calm began to settle again over Broadway. This time of night belonged to the artists. The lights shining onto the pediments were switched off. Dancers, still sporting hairdos from ancient Chinese dynasties, dived into snow-covered taxis.

  Just opposite, a theater boasted: WALTER FREDERICK, SOLO ON STAGE, in letters that were four meters by two, alongside an outsize picture of the actor. And the performer himself had just appeared, solo on the sidewalk, a diminutive figure whistling a tune by the light of his name. Vango would never have guessed that three years earlier they had flown together, two stowaways aboard the Graf Zeppelin. After his arrival from Germany, Walter Frederick had quickly sprung to fame on Broadway and in Hollywood.

  Vango stayed where he was, balancing on his heels halfway up a thirty-story facade. He was waiting for the lights to go out in the window above him. The worst attorney in the world was working late this evening.

  But instead of the lights being switched off, the window opened and a man leaned out.

  Hidden in the folds of a Roman goddess’s plaster dress, Vango didn’t move. The smell of tobacco wafted over to him. He could even hear the gentle sigh accompanying each puff.

  “Snow, snow, snow,” the man remarked, because you don’t need to sound clever when you think you’re alone.

  For the same reason, he muttered stupidly, “There goes another one!” as he tossed his cigarette butt and shut the window.

  The lights went out shortly afterward. Vango waited for the man to leave the building, and for the gray hat belonging to the worst attorney in the world to disappear around the corner of the street.

  Vango put his hands on the windowsill and scaled the window. He took a sharp implement out of his pocket, and the lock soon gave way.