Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  Sofia tried to relax. The sun was getting low, casting waving fingers of light across the floor. Papà would be coming home soon and hearing from Gabriella that Sofia had defied him. Sitting there with nothing to do allowed Sofia’s mind to wander. She thought about Pope Leo who had died last month. An account of his last days had been printed in the New York Times and Claudia had read it to her on lunch break. The article mentioned how his mind betrayed him in his last days. He’d seen someone in his room who wasn’t there. He’d acted afraid. These were signs that he was on his deathbed. Mamma had seen things that weren’t there. She’d been afraid. Please, God. Do not take her. I need her.

  Maybe Papà wouldn’t come, but if he did he might not know where the orderly had taken them. She returned to the nurse at the desk. “Mi scusi.”

  The nurse frowned. Sofia had fallen into Italian by mistake. “I…uh, where will the orderly be taking us?”

  The woman had a puzzled look.

  “My mother.” Sofia moved to the side so the woman could see Mamma waiting in a chair along the opposite wall.

  “Oh, certainly.” She rose and disappeared behind a door. When she returned a man, also dressed in white, followed her.

  “Come along,” he said. “We will begin the assessment for Ward’s Island.”

  “Where?” Perhaps she had misunderstood.

  “Ward's Island. You said your mother is mentally unstable, yes?”

  “Uh, no.” Sofia grabbed her mother’s arm and urged her down the hall to the foyer where they descended the steps and left the building. They would have to walk home. Papà would shout the roof off their building, but Sofia could not worry about that right now. After what Claudia had said, and the way the nurse looked at her, she knew she could not take Mamma to such a place. But when they were away from the distraction of the children Mamma had been watching, she began to fade like dying embers. As Mamma’s mood became more agitated, Sofia noted a change in herself. The lonely feeling of isolation crept up her arms to her neck. If only she had her twin with her. Someone. Gabriella was entirely self-absorbed, and her brothers were working so much they hardly even noticed their mother’s decline.

  “No!” Mamma wrenched away from her and ran down an alley.

  As Sofia rushed after her, she realized that while her shoes gave her greater visibility and protection from muddy, muck-filled streets, they were no help when it came to hurrying after a disturbed woman bent on escaping her. “Wait! Help!” She shouted, quite naturally in Italian. But she was nowhere near Mulberry Street and no one bothered to help her.

  It was getting dark and Mamma was leading her through a labyrinth of alleys. Shadows faded into garbage cans, boxes, and alley cats so that she couldn’t tell what was what. She held to the corner of a brick wall. Where was she? She called out again.

  Voices came from the windows and fire escapes. Nothing she could decipher. Someone grabbed her arm. Surprised, she cried out. A beggar held out his palm. She pushed past him, dark thoughts swirling with the fading light. She should never have left the hospital. The danger to Mamma on the streets was probably worse than what the doctors had planned. She shouldn’t have let Claudia spook her with stories.

  “Mamma? Please, where are you? Mamma!”

  As she rounded the corner and crept into the depths of an alley behind a stable, she heard a scuffling and people yelling in English.

  “Get out of here! ’Tis a mad woman if I ever saw one.”

  Mamma!

  But it wasn’t her. A woman in a long black cloak was handing something toward the people who cowered back as though she offered the plague on a platter.

  “God’s Word. It’s free. Take it.”

  Sofia approached her and accepted the book she held out, hoping that in return she would help look for Mamma. “My mother, have you seen her? She is not well. She ran…” Sofia caught the woman’s eye, hoping her pleading look would say what she was having trouble expressing.

  “Oh, my dear. What is the trouble?” The older woman wrapped an arm around her, shielding them both as they turned away from the others. “Whatever it is, you will find the answers right here.” She pointed to the small black volume.

  “No!” Sofia smacked it against her palm in frustration. “Did you see my mamma?”

  “No, dear. Is she lost?”

  Sofia’s chin trembled. The two of them hurried out of the alley toward the street. They approached a carriage. A policeman stepped out to meet them. Tall, imposing, but with a kind expression. The woman gestured toward him. “Sergeant McNulty, this woman is in distress.”

  Sofia glanced around, doubting the New York police would care to search for a lost immigrant woman.

  “Tell him what your mother looks like, dear.”

  Sofia struggled to find words.

  The kind lady inclined her head toward the tall man. “Go on. You can trust this man. He attends my church.”

  “My…mamma,” she spurted out.

  “Has your mother gotten lost out here?” Sergeant McNulty asked.

  “She has. She is…ill. Please help me.”

  He held some kind of lantern and began peering down the dark alley, shouting the name Sofia had given him.

  “That will scare her away!”

  He turned toward her and nodded, lowering the volume of his voice.

  Sofia ran down the street, searching in window wells and behind iron fences. “Don’t be afraid, Mamma!” she shouted in Italian.

  “Over here.” A boy selling newspapers waved wildly with his free arm.

  She rushed over to him and found Mamma huddled on the sidewalk weeping. Sofia spread her arms over her mother’s head like an umbrella. “Thank you,” she said to the boy. She got Mamma to her feet when the policeman approached.

  “I will transport you home. The police wagon is right over here.”

  “Sofia,” Mamma whispered as they sat in the darkness, the horses trotting along at a good clip.

  “Sì, Mamma. I am here.”

  A low groan emanated from deep in Mamma’s throat. “I cannot bear it.”

  “Mamma, you can. Remember what you taught me when I was a little girl. It can’t be darker than midnight. You remember that old Italian proverb? You told me that so I’d know things would get better, not worse.”

  “Sofia?”

  “Sì, Mamma?”

  Sofia’s mother gazed out at the street lamps. “It is always midnight.”

  ***

  Papà was in a rage when they arrived. The policeman stayed by the door, probably wondering if he needed to intervene.

  “Sofia, she could have been harmed. Killed! Isn’t that right, Mr. Policeman?”

  The large uniformed man took one step forward before Papà stopped him in his tracks with his ranting. Mamma rubbed her hands over her face and then retreated into the bedroom. Gabriella sat on the sofa, eyes wide.

  “This is no place for her. She has to be safe,” Papà insisted, stomping his foot.

  “Signor Falcone,” Sergeant McNulty shouted above Papà’s rising temper. “There is no harm done. I have seen both your daughter and your wife home. Please try to remain calm.”

  Papà narrowed his eyes and dipped his chin. “My daughter does not live here. Please take her to her boarding house.”

  Sofia tried to explain on the trip back to Hawkins House, but Sergeant McNulty was driving the horse and couldn’t hear her. After he helped her from the wagon, she tried again. “My papà, he wants to send Mamma away. But I am sure she will be better now. I upset her. That is why I stay here.”

  He turned kind, warm eyes toward her. “You owe me no explanation, signorina. I know Mrs. Hawkins will take good care of you here.”

  They trotted up the steps toward the door together. “You are familiar with Mrs. Hawkins?” Sofia asked.

  “Oh, yes. My wife Grace used to be one of the girls here.”

  The door opened before Sofia grasped the door handle. Minnie gave her a surprised look, her large chocola
te eyes widening. “Oh, my gracious. I was just about to pay the neighbor a visit to borrow a cup of brown sugar for the Apple Betty. Thought I’d get a jump on tomorrow’s baking. Well, no matter. Come in, you two. What brings ya around, Mr. McNulty?”

  “Just escorting this young lady home, Minnie.”

  “Please come in and sit down.” She shook a finger at the sergeant. “Don’t you be running off, ya hear? We don’t see enough of you and Grace around here. I’ll just pop over to get the sugar and then come right back and put the tea kettle on.”

  “I would not miss it,” he said.

  Sofia was weary and would rather go to bed than socialize but she saw Mrs. Hawkins marching down the hall toward them and knew she would have none of it.

  Chapter 18

  Antonio rose early on Tuesday because his thoughts would not let him rest. As much as the writer’s suggestion intrigued him, he had other things to attend to. “Come on, Lu. We will accomplish something today. Off to Banca Stabile.”

  Antonio did not know much about the Italian bank, just that it catered to Italians, helping them send steamship tickets to family members or wire them money. He imagined, like most banks, they also lent money. This was where the padroni often loitered, waiting for unemployed men to show up. As they walked up Mulberry Street, Antonio patted his dog’s head. “Let me know, pal, if there are any perfidious characters I should avoid.”

  Lu let out a whine, echoing Antonio’s own apprehension. But the lovely Sofia needed his help. Her aunt had certainly insinuated as much.

  They passed a business with an Italian sign: Farmacia Italiana. The Italians’ pharmacy. He congratulated himself on knowing that bit of Italian. Perhaps his limited Italian would assist him on this venture. He was aware that in this neighborhood he was as out of place as a fly in soapsuds. His skin was lighter and his hair not as dark as the Southern Italians. He remembered what Nicco had said. Perhaps he should present himself as wholly American.

  As they continued down the street, only stopping once so a girl could pet Luigi, he paused outside another storefront bearing Italian words. A man standing in the doorway bid him to enter. “For a respite.” He indicated that Lu should come in too.

  “Thank you.” Antonio ducked through the doorway after checking his watch and determining that he had a few minutes to spare. He shook the man’s hand.

  “You are not Italian, are you, sir?”

  “Yes. I mean, I was born Italian but have lived in New York since I was a boy. And…I am not from this neighborhood.” Whatever he had considered before as an appropriate way to introduce himself around was now lost due to his nervous tongue. He’d always believed honesty was best anyway. “Name’s Antonio Baggio.”

  “I am Lieutenant Delfino. Please come in.”

  The hall was filled with empty wooden chairs. Banners hung from the walls. One read, “All For Jesus.” But it was the red sign, “Salvation Army,” that told him where he was despite the Italian writing on the outside windows, which must say the same thing.

  The man offered Antonio a cup of coffee. “If you are not from here, mind me asking what brings you to Mulberry Street?”

  “It’s a fair question.” The coffee tasted good. He hadn’t taken time to make any for himself before he left home. “I suppose no one would come down here for no reason. Uh, not that it’s not nice. It certainly is. I mean no offense.”

  The man chuckled. “We cannot deny poverty, son. There is no way to cover it up here. We are happy people, hardworking and proud, but no one who lives in these tenements would say it’s a wonderful place.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “But as to no one coming here without reason? Ah, that’s not entirely true.” The man spoke with an accent but his English was very good for an immigrant.

  “Oh, I understand, sir. You are here to distribute charity. I did not mean any disrespect. I have attended your doughnut fundraisers and I always drop a coin in the bucket when I see one.”

  “None taken. But I am happy to hear you’re aware of our efforts.” He raised an eyebrow. Antonio had not yet answered his question.

  “I have come to aid a friend.” Yes, honesty. “And to have some questions answered for myself. I need to go over to the bank, but…I fear they won’t talk to an outsider.”

  “Just be friendly. Wear a smile. Hold your head up as though it’s the most reasonable thing for you to be walking through the door. So many Americans in this city harbor morbid contempt for the Italian. They dislike the vast numbers arriving daily. They turn their ignorance to fear and declare that the Italian is of low intelligence at best and a rapscallion at worst.”

  Antonio tapped a finger on the side of his cup. “I believe that is prejudice. A disillusioned evaluation of newcomers. My friend is a good example of how untrue such perceptions are.”

  The man nodded his head. “If you show that you will treat them well, they will respond. In time. Be persistent if you need cooperation from the bank in order to help your friend. We have had great success reaching out to the poor here, and God bless them, they arrive in such desperate circumstances.”

  Antonio lifted his coffee cup. “I appreciate the advice. Perhaps you can tell me, have you heard of the name Ernesto Baggio?”

  “No, I can’t say I have heard that surname around here.”

  Lu whimpered.

  “Down,” Antonio ordered and Lu immediately quieted.

  “Fine dog you have there, Signor Baggio. Well trained.”

  “He is a good dog, but I cannot take credit for his training. His temperament seems to come naturally.”

  “A loyal companion. If you and your dog ever want to join us here and become soldiers for Christ, stop by for a meeting.”

  “You are very kind.” Antonio rose to leave. “May I ask one more question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you know the Falcones from Benevento?”

  “Gabriella Falcone? She brings some neighborhood children to the reading room a few doors down. Sometimes accompanied by her neighbor, a young lady named Luisa. I can’t say that I know either family well, though.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Antonio chided himself for asking that question. The man wouldn’t be able to tell him if the Falcones were in peril from a padrone. Still, he stored away the information about this Gabriella and Luisa in case it could be helpful in some way.

  As he marched down the sidewalks, he tried his best. But an organ grinder barely tipped his chin at Antonio’s greeting, and a grocer pushing a straw broom across the step of his store did not even lift his head to return Antonio’s, “Buona sera!” He focused his eyes straight ahead. Short of faking a southern Italian accent, there was nothing Antonio could do to fit in when he opened his mouth. Be friendly. Smile. Hold your head up. He concentrated on Lieutenant Delfino’s advice. He glanced down at Luigi. Isn’t that what his dog always did? It worked for him.

  Leaving Lu outside, Antonio entered the bank and stood in line behind several men, all of them with thick, black hair. They spoke rapid Italian. Many wore ragged clothes they had brushed and straightened to look as much like businessmen as possible. Several had probably just arrived from Ellis Island.

  When it was Antonio’s turn to approach the teller’s cage, he smiled broadly. “Parla l’inglese?”

  “Sì.” The man’s dark eyes bore into him, making Antonio’s hands perspire.

  “I am looking for the padrone, the one who works with Benevento men.”

  The man huffed. “What business do you have with this man?”

  “I…uh, for a friend. I need to ask a few questions, is all. Might he be here?”

  “No.” He motioned for the next man in line.

  “Wait. When will he be back? What is his name?”

  The man just shook his head.

  “Please, help me. You see, my father…something happened that I do not understand. But I’m told my father was known around here, for…helping. And now my friend has some trouble. Som
ehow there is a connection to the misfortunes we are having. Have pity on me, won’t you? I know I don’t belong here. You don’t want me here. But I must be heard.” Antonio’s words surprised even him.

  A man stepped out of the queue. “The Benevento padrone? The man who employs Benevento men, you say? You are looking for him?”

  Antonio approached him, excited. “Yes. Sì. Can you help me?”

  “Not here, signore. This is an honest bank. That man is no…he is…not here. That is all I know.”

  “But where?”

  The whole line shrugged their shoulders. Giving up, Antonio returned to Lu and slid his back against the wall until he was seated on the pavement with his dog. Those men knew something. They all knew something. Only one person was willing to tell him things, but that was in parables and anonymously. Their lips were shut tighter than a clamshell.

  It had begun to rain steadily. He watched rivulets flow from puddles down to the street gutters, his resolve slipping away with the rain.

  The door to the bank opened and a man walked out at a quick clip. He made a motion with his hand that Antonio should follow. Leaping up and pulling on his dog’s leash, Antonio trailed the man to a bakery and then ordered Lu to wait. When he went inside he waited patiently while the man purchased something. The man spun around and held out a pastry. “Anisette.”

  “Grazie.” Antonio took it and followed the man to an aisle near the rear of the shop where bins of flour were stored. “Another bank you are looking for. West one block and then north three. A small place where Signor Parrella recruits men. That is who you look for, sì?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The man cocked his head the way Luigi sometimes did when he didn’t understand a command.

  “No one told me his name,” Antonio explained. “Perhaps if I can just ask him if he knew my father. Then I would know if he was the correct padrone.”

  “No!” The man grabbed his arm. “I do you a kindness, sì?”

  “Indeed. Grazie.” Antonio began fishing in his pockets for something to give in appreciation.

  “No, no. You do not understand.” He let out a frustrated breath and glanced around before speaking again. He lowered his voice. “Find out first if he is the right one. Ask your friend. You are an outsider walking on shards of glass, my friend. Take care you are not cut.” He spurt out the final word as his eyes flared. “I must go.”