Antonio looked down at his dog, who whimpered. “He’ll be off smoking cigars in a velvet room and forget about you. Don’t worry. They’ll be no vaudeville act for my dog.”
That sent Lu’s tail wagging.
Antonio and Luigi kept moving down the sidewalk. “We’ll stop into an all-night cafe for coffee and a biscuit, what do you say?”
Antonio had never gone searching for employment before. So far his work had come from referrals and now he realized how much he preferred it that way. He paused to gaze up at an electric sign. Glass bulbs spelled out New York in letters that arched like a sun peeking over a horizon. Underneath it spelled Burlesque Ballet and Varieties. The architecture of the building resembled a fine theater, but those gaudy light bulb letters suggested otherwise.
The overwhelming thought that he was more out of place here than he’d been on Mulberry Street swam in his mind. Burlesque, from the Italian word burla, a parody, a joke. What had he lowered himself to?
He clicked his tongue and Lu jumped up. They approached the massive structure of Hammerstein's Victoria Theatre at the corner of 7th Avenue and 42nd Street. Variety theater was everywhere, and that was good for musicians and actors alike, but the times were changing, or so the newspapers kept saying. Moving pictures would take over someday. Maybe these pictures would swallow up variety shows and burlesque ballets, but not concerts and operas that had been around for centuries. Definitely not. We would always have Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Strauss, and Wagner. So long as there were European opera houses and music academies, there would be music performed in front of audiences. Oh, how he longed to study at Oberlin, where folks understood the beauty of a well-performed piece of music and also the value of a well-rounded education, like Papà had wanted for his only son. Song plugger? Not him.
The Fourteenth Street Theater was probably his best bet. He’d go back and talk to Mac. But first coffee for himself and a treat for his dog. He was near the construction site of the new Times Building. Despite the crowds still on the street, the walkways were dark and treacherous, so he had to pick his way carefully. He lifted Luigi and carried him beyond a pile of lumber and bricks until his feet hit sound pavement again. At the rate they were building in this city, there would be no more room for people.
It was not difficult finding an open cafe in this district of late night theaters and vaudeville, but finding one with an open stool was quite another matter. After placing his dog outside of two cafes and then coming right back out again when he found them too crowded, he finally ducked into a corner cafe called Healy’s and sat on a stool where he could see out the window and keep an eye on Luigi.
He ordered coffee. Putting his elbows on the bar, he closed his eyes. Voices drifted to him from a nearby booth.
“Honestly, Viola, if you take a break from plays now you’ll cost yourself a lot of earnings.”
Plays? He wondered if he was overhearing a conversation with the famous actress Viola Allen. Women weren’t normally admitted in saloons, and this place was more tavern than restaurant. She had to be someone famous to garner such an exception.
He turned just enough to get a glimpse. A man in a striped shirt and suspenders was talking to a woman. She outdid him in elegance, wearing one of those French evening gowns, the kind with flowing, frost-like skirts. The bodice dripped in lace, as did the sleeves.
Distracted by the grumbling in his stomach, he glanced up at the man tending the bar. He should get something more substantial than a biscuit. “Hard boiled egg, please.” It was all he could afford.
The man barely moved.
He had to get something for his dog. “Two, that is. Thank you.” Antonio hoped he had enough in his pocket to cover the bill. No wonder this place had open tables, what with the prices he saw written on a board above the bar.
“If you want a meal, we have a dining room in the back.”
“Uh, no thank you. Just coffee and eggs, please. Do you mind if I have it in here? I can see my dog out there.” The place was virtually empty.
“That will be fine, sir.” He glanced quickly at the lady and then back at Antonio. “She will only be here a moment.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Antonio said.
The barman huffed. “It is not your sensibilities I’m concerned with. See that you mind yourself while a woman’s in the room.”
“Of course.” After the man left behind a door, Antonio couldn’t help but observe what was happening nearby. A man approached the booth where the fancy woman sat and she left with him. The other man waited just a moment and then rose to throw some money on the table. He must have felt Antonio staring because he turned to him. “Beautiful but temperamental.”
“Are you an agent for performers, sir?”
The man took the stool next to him and chuckled. “Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. I’m an author, of short stories, but don’t look so worried, son. She’s more likely to show up in one of my tales than you are, or at least her attitude is. Sydney Porter’s the name.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” He wasn’t sure why, but at that moment he remembered Mrs. Adams’s father, the short story writer she’d dedicated her library to. “Have you heard of a man named Marty Gallagher, who wrote under the name Luther Redmond?”
The man smiled and accepted a cup from the waiter although Antonio had not seen him order anything. “Who hasn’t?”
Antonio told him about the charitable library and about Hawkins House.
“I’m all in favor of benefaction, my son. Now tell me your name. What brings you here tonight?”
“Antonio Baggio.” He extended his hand. “I’m a struggling pianist, I’m afraid. Trying to get to Oberlin to continue my studies.”
“Oberlin? That’s in Ohio, right?”
“Yes, have you been there?”
The barman interrupted them to bring Antonio not only his coffee and eggs but toast and sausages, as well.
He held up a hand. “There has been a mistake.”
The waiter smiled for the first time. “Anyone who is a friend of O. Henry is a friend of this establishment. No charge at all.”
Antonio reached for his wallet. “But I must insist. I pay my own way.”
The man seated next to Antonio held up his palm. “Please, it’s my treat for allowing me to bend your ear.”
“Thank you, Mr.…Henry, is it?”
“Just Sydney is fine. Go ahead and eat.”
Antonio dug in.
“Ohio, you say?”
Antonio nodded.
“Indeed, I’ve recently come from that state. The people there were…shall we say, most hospitable. Oberlin is a fine choice, if you like the Midwest. Nothing like New York, though, where you can meet people late at night at a cafe and have a conversation. Very Twain-like, that Ohio, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I only know about the college.” Antonio felt so at ease with the man that before he knew it, he’d told him the story about his father. Tiredness, or perhaps anxiety, had been loosening his tongue lately.
“Nasty business what goes on in this city sometimes. My condolences and sympathies.” He waved the barman away when he tried to bring him a scotch. Cupping his coffee between his hands, Sydney leaned over the bar.
“Let me tell you something, Antonio.” He cleared his throat and straightened his neck the way an actor would before beginning his lines.
And then he talked till the sun went down
And the chickens went to roost;
And he seized the collar of the poor young man,
And never his hold he loosed.
Antonio wasn’t sure if he might have just bared his soul to a drunken man.
“From a poem I wrote a few years back. You will have to tell me, young man, if I talk until the chickens roost. Sometimes I am unaware of the possibility that I might be becoming a bore.”
“Not at all. Please, continue.”
“Thank you.” He twisted his hand in the air as though he were about to take a bow.
&
nbsp; Antonio swallowed the last bit of egg and toast and tipped his head forward to hear over the banter of a group of men who had just entered.
“A writer, you see, has to be an excellent observer of human activity. He has his ear to the wind during every party and in every conversation on the train and in the street. This is not rude eavesdropping, you understand. It’s much more important than that. If he does not do it, how else will he create characters that charm and intrigue and stimulate the modern reader?”
“I suppose you are correct.” Antonio slipped the uneaten shelled egg into his pocket. He would need to make his apologies and get back to Luigi soon.
“I’m glad you agree. Then you will not think less of me when I tell you that due to my keen observation I may know just the man who could help you.”
Antonio set his water glass back down on the rough oak surface of the bar. Here he was as removed from The Bend as one could be, and he meets someone who knows something. “What did you hear, Mr. Porter? Something about my father?”
The man chuckled. “Call me Sydney, son, or I might be tempted not to tell.”
“Sydney.” One of these monikers—Henry, Porter—was probably correct. The man obviously used a pen name. Like Annie Adams’s father. Like Dolly at The Fourteenth. He tipped his chin to show he was listening.
“Now, Antonio, I am not in the habit of…well, ever since I returned from Ohio…uh, from Honduras for that matter, I do not put myself in situations where anyone will think I’m doing anything unscrupulous.”
Antonio stiffened. What did he know? “Please, if you have knowledge about how or why my father was shot, tell it.”
“I wish I could, but I know nothing about that.”
“I thought you said—”
“I said I knew someone who could help you. Help you get into Oberlin, or concert halls. Shucks, as Twain would say, maybe both.”
“Oh.” Antonio swallowed hard, embarrassed that he’d guessed incorrectly. Of course the man, an artist of words, would be more interested in Antonio’s musical aspirations than his personal troubles. “Who might that be, sir?”
“A benefactor.” He pulled a scrap of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and grinned. “A writer must always be prepared. In fact, I’ve written several stories right over there in that booth.”
Luigi barked. Through the window in the dim lamplight Antonio could see some street urchins teasing his dog with a stick, boys who should be in bed at this hour.
The author scribbled something on the paper. “I live in a section sometimes dubiously referred to as Genius Row. It’s really mere red brick row houses on Washington Square South between Thompson Street and the 5th Avenue el, a place where musicians, artists, and writers dwell. One man in particular is in residence there for only a short time. This man, Paderewski, is a concert musician. You’ve heard of him?”
Antonio had. He was quite famous. “He is Polish. Just performed the American debut of his opera last year. I wish I had the funds to attend his concerts. Solo recitals. No one else sells tickets to a solo performance, but he does it to great success.”
“He gives very few, as I understand. I have had the pleasure of meeting him through an acquaintance. Here is his New York address. As I said, he is in the city at the moment. You should go see him because an opportunity like this may come only once in a lifetime.”
Antonio glanced out the window again. Luigi was holding his own. “I don’t think the man would see me.” Certainly not without someone to make introductions. “And I don’t see why he should.”
“I happen to know, my keen observations you understand, that he endorses aspiring young musicians. He supports them with cash. A charitable sort, like that library you were telling me of.” He held out the paper.
Antonio stammered. “Uh, why, if I may ask, would you, a stranger an hour ago, want to help me?”
“Because someone assisted me once. Take it from a middle-aged man with more life experience than you, son. If you don’t grasp the brass ring when it comes around, it could be forever out of reach and you’ll be left with regrets. No one wants that.” He lit a cigar. “And besides, strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Antonio thanked him, took the paper, and hurried outside.
Chapter 17
Sofia could not control her yawns as she worked in the dim corner that had been assigned to her. It was not that she hadn’t been tired on other days, but the darkness and lack of conversation with co-workers made the work especially wearisome. She glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Richmond was watching her much too closely. If she hadn’t won the design contest that the management had promoted for seamstresses, he would have fired her already. She needed a plan, a way to make herself so valuable to the company he would never be allowed to dismiss her. But today was not a day for plans. Mamma and Serena, her long lost twin, consumed her thoughts, making concentrating on her work extremely challenging.
She focused on the leather sole in her machine. Work was essential. She had to keep her head about her. When the whistle blew Sofia rose from her chair and stretched her back. A boy collected her work while Mr. Richmond looked on. She smiled at him even though he glowered at her.
When she got to the cloakroom, she found Maria. “Last night I brought books I borrowed from Hawkins House to English school and my teacher said we could bring in any American or British reading material we would like to practice with, so long as it did not come from the Free Library on Mulberry.”
Maria whispered. “What’s wrong with that place? My younger sisters go to a sewing club there. They are teaching them so they can get jobs better than working here.”
“The teacher believes the evangelicals over there are trying to convert us. In any case, I’ve been practicing my English with books I got from Hawkins House. You should come by, bring Luisa Russo.”
Maria’s dark eyes widened. “I should bring her. She spends too much time over there, listening to conversations.”
“Oh, she is not happy at home.”
“I suppose that is it.”
They walked outside and toward the trolley. “Mr. Richmond is worried about a worker’s strike even though there has not been one yet in this company,” Maria said.
“Strike? You mean walk away from our jobs?”
“Sì.”
“I could never do that.” As much as she didn’t like the man, she would have to assure him she was faithful.
Sofia hurried toward Mulberry Street. She wanted to catch Signora Russo before her husband came home, maybe even talk to Luisa. Between them, they had to figure out how to convince Papà to get Mamma the help modern American medicine could offer.
She shooed the tabby cat away from the interior stairs leading to the Falcone rooms. “I have not been away that long,” she said to the cat in English, out of the strange notion that cats living in America listened to you better in the native tongue. Joey did it, too. Edging the cat to the side with the tip of her boot she mused about how cats, whether they knew what you wanted or not, made up their own minds about when to move. When she got to the door, a thumping sound came through the walls like someone knocking a chair against the baseboards. “Signora Russo?” Sofia put her hand on the doorknob just as it turned from the other side. She let go as Carla Russo opened it.
“Oh, Sofia, your Mamma…I just don’t know—”
Sofia pushed the door wide. Mamma sat on the edge of a chair, thumping her head against the wall.
“Stop it, Mamma!” Sofia tried to urge her away but the woman kept doing it, each time with more force. A trickle of blood appeared at her temple.
Carla ran for a pillow and placed it between Mamma’s head and the wall and after two more thumps Mamma stopped and hung her head toward her lap.
Sofia could not get her mother to meet her gaze. She looked up at the healer.
“She is despondent, Sofia. My herbs and tinctures cannot help with this.”
A sour burn rose in Sof
ia’s throat. “We will take her to the hospital. Papà will just have to accept it. I will work extra shifts.”
Sofia and Carla worked together to bathe and dress Sofia’s mother. They left her head uncovered because she complained of a headache and wailed whenever they brought a scarf near. “I have money for a cab,” Sofia offered.
Carla sucked in a deep breath. “Good, because I cannot go with you.”
“Oh, please. I need help.”
Carla’s deep shadowed eyes spoke of more worry. Her husband, most likely.
“All right. Go home. But please stop and tell Gabriella where I’ve gone. She and the children can wait here for Papà.”
Carla helped her find a cab and guided them inside. “Go with God,” Carla said, shutting the door of the carriage.
“Bellevue,” Sofia told the driver. No matter what it cost, Mamma would have the best care.
But once there, to her surprise, they were directed to a waiting room filled with people who coughed, gagged, cried, and even bled in plain sight.
“There are not enough nurses for all these immigrants,” a woman in a pressed white uniform told her when she complained.
“But my mother is not ill, not like that. She does not have…” Oh, how she despised it when her English failed her.
The woman looked at her over her wire spectacles. “Are you saying your mother suffers from, shall we say, an unstable mind?”
Sofia nodded.
“You do not belong here, my dear. I’ll have an orderly give you directions.”
She returned to the hard wooden chair next to Mamma. A serene looked passed over her mother’s face as she watched some children playing with a top at their mother’s feet. At least there had been no more wails or complaints about her head. Sofia’s presence did not seem to bother her mother anymore. Papà had been wrong about that. He’d been wrong about a lot of things.
They waited quite a long time as people moved in and out of the room. Mamma seemed entranced by them and hardly acknowledged Sofia. Perhaps this was the only treatment she needed, to go out among other people, folks who had not come from Benevento.
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