“Good. But I want to check these people out with my own man before I buy. If I do.”
“Fine,” Nora said.
Cindy went over to the bar and freshened up her drink, then took Nora’s and freshened it up. Then came back over and sat down next to her.
“Well, how about the races?” Nora said.
“Whatever you want, darling,” Cindy said, taking Nora’s hand. “It’s wonderful seeing you again.”
Nora smiled.
“I’ll dress,” she said.
“All right,” Cindy said. “I’ll come along and talk to you.”
They got up and went into the bedroom. Nora set her drink down on the dresser, and turned and took off her robe. Cindy was sitting on the bed.
“God, but you’re beautiful,” Cindy said. “Firm.”
“Thank you,” Nora said almost demurely.
“Come over here a minute,” Cindy said. “Sit down next to me a minute.”
“The races,” Nora started to say.
“Please, babe,” Cindy said, and got up and shut the door and went over and took Nora’s head in her hands and kissed her.
They made the last two races. Nora looked for Nick in the clubhouse where the party was supposed to be. She saw Raul, and Raul’s father, and a young girl with Raul, and Tuttle and his wife-to-be. But Nick was not there.
CHAPTER XVIII
THAT same day Pierro got up a little after eleven. He had planned to work at least six or seven hours. But in the bed, tired, still angry and ashamed at the way Nick had acted and the impression he had made on Marci, and angered at himself for exposing her to him, not only earlier in the evening but then again later at Los Caballeros, tired and still angered, he decided he would not work. Anyhow, he hadn’t taken a day off completely in over three weeks. A day off would do him good, would probably even help his work tomorrow, he told himself. So he decided to stay in bed as long as he liked, then get up and walk leisurely through the park, maybe along the beach.
He sat up and lit a cigarette, wondering again what was wrong with him; why he wasn’t able to express himself when rarely he felt that he really wanted to express himself. As he did with Marci during the drive from Lake Forest to Los Caballeros. And what was it about her that made him want to express himself? Every time he had tried, his tongue had become as twisted as the feet on a six-foot-seven fifteen-year-old, and he had been only able to stumble and mutter, and finally told her that what he had started out to say wasn’t really important.
Finally he had ended up talking to her about Europe, which he talked about with ease and authority, and how maybe someday he would live there permanently, unable to add (to express himself)—permanently away from the stigma of being a Chicago Stratton. As if the entire world revolved around the axis of the Chicago Strattons! What had stopped him from adding that, expressing that sudden sense of sarcasm (betraying an even deeper sense of bitterness), what had stopped him from adding that was Marci’s admiration for Old Pete, which she had expressed admiringly and sincerely right after they had left the house.
It had always confused Pierro, this impression that Old Pete made on almost everyone that he met. It was an impression that demanded respect. And no matter what the person had heard about Old Pete, no matter how detrimental, after they had met him they seemed to grant him a full pardon for everything disreputable that they had heard he had done. Either that or they couldn’t conceive, wouldn’t believe, that he possibly could have done it.
It had always seemed to come off the same way—introducing one of his friends or acquaintances to the Winnetka Strattons (as differentiated from the tenement, practically, Chicago Strattons); it had always seemed to come off the same way. Mary—oh, Mary was nice. Attractive. And Yvonne—Yvonne was sweet. And Nick—well, he was a lot like his father, but he’d never be his father. But that Old Man, that Old Pete—he was something. Really something. Strong. Granite. Something he couldn’t hide. Yet it didn’t push on you. It was just there. Like a rock. A huge rock that was on a certain hill that you remembered from your youth.
But maybe, Pierro thought suddenly, they didn’t really admire him. Maybe what they thought was admiration wasn’t admiration at all. But a kind of comfort for themselves rather than admiration for him. Maybe, because in feeling that strange granite quality—was it strength? or force? or power? or a form of virility?—in feeling whatever it was in Old Pete, or maybe seeing through him rather than feeling through him, that it was possible (at least he made you think it was) that it was possible for a man to achieve in one lifetime a way of life that was not only his very own, but satisfyingly his very own.
Maybe he became to them, unknowingly then, a kind of symbol. A hopeful symbol, Pierro thought, that it was in this day and age not only possible but quite feasible not to have to conform to society’s game. (Wasn’t Old Pete living proof?) But to establish your own. Your own living. And live it without letting society interfere with you. Actually letting society help you to achieve your own living. Maybe that’s what so many people mistook for admiration for Old Pete—not admiration at all, but a kind of comfort for themselves which they passed off as admiration. It was, Pierro suddenly remembered, always the young-seeking, the young-wanting-to-live, that seemed attracted to Old Pete. Seldom the old, really. Hardly ever the old. Actually, Pierro never could remember any of the old, meeting Pete for the first time, showing any kind of special admiration.
Pierro put out the cigarette, and sat up in bed, and looked out the window at the dirty brick wall of the building next door. He reached over and picked up the hose and began blowing on it, forcing the water from one gallon jug into another, strengthening his one lung. He blew for half an hour, then got up and put on his old red flannel bathrobe and went out into the kitchen.
His old bent-from-arthritis mother was cleaning up, and Sophia, his sister, was sitting at the kitchen table dressed, Pierro could tell, to go out—probably shopping for the wedding with Mary. Pierro kissed his mother and sister on the side of the cheek.
“You were late, Pier-roo,” his mother said. “I worry for you.”
“Nick’s back. I was out with Nick.”
“Nickie, mou, back,” his mother clasped her old wrinkled hands in front of her. “Nickie—safe.” She began to cry, tears of happiness. “I’m so happy—so happy for Pe-terr, and for Mary. Oh, thank God for Mary.”
Pierro put his arm around the little old woman, so thin, so frail, he could feel the sharp corners of her thin bones.
“I’m so glad,” Sophia said. She was medium height, dark Grecian-skinned like Yvonne, but heavy-boned like the hill Greeks. And she had bleached-blonde hair and a beautiful face. A kind face, not bright. But kind and a little sad, as if perhaps she had not been raised here, but had just come over and was a little lost, or awed and afraid.
Pierro patted his mother on the back. She took a clean little old handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Sit down, Pier-roo, mou, my love,” she said. “Sit down, and I fix your breakfast. Now we will have a full wedding. Now that Nickie is back, you will have a full wedding, Sophia. Thank-God for Nickie-mou,” she said.
Obediently, obviously reverently, Sophia bowed her head and crossed herself. Her lips moved softly, silently, then she crossed herself and looked up, looked sorrowfully and reverently and almost pityingly at her mother for a moment, then turned to Pierro.
“How is Nickie?” Sophia asked in a soft, very soft and respectful voice.
“He looks terrible, Sophia dear. Old. He must look thirty-five years old. I don’t think I would have recognized him on the street, had I run into him.”
“He was hurt bad, I know. Like you, Pierro,” his mother said. “I felt it with him as I did with you.”
“Yes, Mother. He was hurt bad.”
She had begun to fry the bacon, and Pierro could smell it. He was very hungry this morning.
“It will be wonderful for Pet-err now. To have help in the business.”
“Nickie’s n
ot going in the business. At least not right away,” Pierro said. Then, afraid that he might alarm his mother, “I mean he’s not out of the army yet.”
“But he’ll be here for the wedding, won’t he?” Sophia asked. “For my wedding?”
“Yes, he’ll be here for that,” Pierro said.
“Mother, I can’t find my slippers,” Pierro looked at his mother. He was barefoot, wearing the old red flannel robe.
“You know, my love, you are supposed to put your slippers in the closet.”
“You didn’t throw them out the window again?” Pierro asked.
“Of course,” she said firmly. “You must learn to put your things away.”
“But Mother, I’m not a child any more.”
“To me,” she smiled sweetly, “you will always be a child.”
Pierro looked over at Sophia, who was smiling the same kind of smile as was his mother, sweet and gentle and somehow sad. Pierro grinned too. Then suddenly laughed loudly. Ever since he and Sophia could remember, anything that was not in its proper place in their rooms, their mother would throw out the window. Rain, snow, or sunshine—it made no difference. She would throw it out and they would have to go down the two flights of stairs and edge their way between their building and the one next door and pick it up.
“Yvonne must be happy,” Sophia said.
“We are all happy,” his mother said. “Happy that our family is whole again. That our sons have come back from the war whole. We are fortunate. And this Sunday, tomorrow, we must pray our thanks,” she said. “You, Pier-roo, mou, must call Nickie and ask him one night to dinner soon. I cannot wait until tomorrow, at the church, to see him.”
“I will call him. Can we ask Yvonne, too?” Sophia said.
“Of course, we have Yvonne, too,” the mother said. “But Pier-roo will call. It is his duty as the son to call. And because he and Nick are like brother since they were babies. More like brother than cousin. After breakfast then, Pier-roo, you will call.”
“Yes, Mother dear,” he said politely. He had picked up the paper and was reading it, and did not look up at his mother when he answered her. He read about the bombing in Peru, Indiana. But did not say anything. And folded the paper so that the front page was no longer exposed. He knew, though, that his mother must have read it. She read the paper religiously from front to back every morning and every night. He read a little while longer, then looked up at Sophia, and from the look on her face, he didn’t think that she had read it.
It was an old kitchen with an old ice box and old stove, and old linoleum on the floor. It was a clean kitchen, but musty of smell, as small apartments are musty of the smell of the cooking and the living over the years.
“I have news,” Sophia said. “There is a chance Mother will come live with me for a while after I’m married. Uncle Peter said he would try and arrange it. Because I will live in a strange place, and not know anyone, and my husband will be working hard to establish himself for us. Uncle Peter is so thoughtful,” she said sincerely.
“He is like a god,” Pierro’s mother said. “His kindness is great, like that of a god. Ask the people of Verdamah.”
She handed Pierro his plate of bacon and eggs.
“Will we give up the apartment, then?” Pierro asked.
“Uncle Peter said nothing of that,” his mother said. “Nothing is definite.”
“I don’t know how I will ever repay Uncle Peter for this beautiful wedding. The clothes. The things he has promised my husband-to-be.”
“You will repay him,” Pierro said. “Some way. Some day.” He did not mean what he said in the kind way he had said it to her.
“Sophia, clean up,” the mother said. “I think I will go call Mary. To tell her myself of our happiness for her.”
“Yes, Mother dear.”
She left, and Sophia began to clean up silently and Pierro sat there silently eating the eggs and looking at the paper and not knowing what he was reading.
Old Gus had early that morning tied up his goats and begun the long walk down towards Halstead Street near Madison where the Greek town was, to pick up the baby lamb that he would slaughter the next day for the dinner Monday night for Yvonne and Nick.
It took him an hour and a half to make the walk, and because of the earliness there was not too much sun, even some dew still on the small grass of the apartment house lawns that he passed. It was good to walk in the early morning when the dew-fresh smell was still in the air, and the sun was not too high. Your mind was fresh and clean like the morning itself, and it was not important that you think, only that you live now in the freshness of the day. Without or with thought, it made no difference.
He went first to the barn where the lamb was and inspected it and talked to the old man who was feeding it for him. They spoke in Greek, and Gus could tell that he had taken good care of the lamb, and felt of the lamb under its shoulders, and could tell by the feel of it that it would cook out well. It was a little after nine when he left there. He decided he would go see his cousin Joe, who was also related to Old Pete, but on Pete’s mother’s side, and did not have the Stratton name.
Joe had a small hamburger stand on a street one block off Halstead. He was old and had one eye and was very small, wiry small, and was famous in Greektown for his dancing.
He was almost seventy, and when he was young, had been decorated by the King of Greece himself for being the best dancer in the whole Greek Army. He was also famous for his humor, especially when he had much wine to drink. And he had a reverence for priests, a reverence that was almost a fear. He would practically bow down when confronted by a priest, and there was one young Greek priest with a good sense of humor who came into Joe’s hamburger stand (nine stools) to kid with Joe, because he knew that with him, Joe would not kid back, only revere him. When this priest would come into his place, the word would spread around Greektown as if by radio, and in no time at all Joe’s place would be filled. He would become so nervous because of the presence of the young priest that he would get the orders all mixed up, and sometimes just walk out of the place after taking the money from the register.
Also, Joe had a great fear of fires and would never go above the second floor of any building. Thirty years before, his wife and two children were burned to death in a fire in an apartment building in Valparaiso, where Joe had another hamburger stand right in the middle of the village square. After that, Joe had gone’ back to Greece and stayed there for two years and no one had heard from him. Then he had returned to America and opened a popcorn stand on the north side of Chicago. He never kept a place more than four years. And when he sold out, it was for no apparent reason. He just seemed to be tired of the place, and would sell it. He always took a trip after he sold out, visiting his relatives and friends all over America. On the west coast. The east coast. In the south. Then he would return to Chicago and open another place, always paying cash, cash that he kept in the lining of his coat.
When Old Gus walked into Joe’s Place (that was the name of it) there were hardly any customers. One sitting at a middle stool and Joe was down at the end of the marble counter drinking coffee. When he saw Old Gus he grinned almost ear to ear, and came around and embraced Gus, and tears streamed from his good eye (his left bad eye was sewn shut). They spoke in Greek, and embraced again, and Joe led Gus over to the end of the counter and made him sit down and went into the back of the place and got a bottle of ouzu, a licorice-tasting, watery-looking cordial that was made only in the Cyprus Islands. They had a drink and talked about how things had been with them for the past six months since they had seen each other. And Old Gus told Joe that Nick was home, and Joe crossed himself Orthodox fashion and said a small prayer of thanksgiving. Then Joe asked Gus what he was doing this day, and Gus said he had come to pick up the lamb and shop for other things that were old-world Greek—like oregano and wine and honey-sweets.
When Joe heard this he went over to the solitary customer and told him he would have to leave, he was closing u
p the place. Then Joe went and took all the money out of the cash register, and when the customer left, Joe locked the door behind him. Several other customers tried to get in while Joe and Gus were talking and drinking the ouzu, but Joe just waved them away. He was going to spend the day shopping with Old Gus, he had decided. The hell with the business today. It was his business, he told Old Gus, and if he wanted to close it he would close it. That’s why it was so important to have your own business, he said. Not a big business, either. But a small your-own business. Where you only had to depend on yourself. A big business was not really your own, Joe said. You became its servant instead of making it serve you as you originally intended. That was the great tragedy of people who extended their business, hoping that in the extension of their business, they would gain additional freedom. They never gained the freedom, Joe told Gus. That was truly a tragedy.
They decided they would go over on Halstead to George’s coffee house and play casino and drink ouzu leisurely, then later have lunch with wine. The coffee house was almost filled this early morning, not only from those that came in the morning, but those who had played cards all night. The coffee house was a long high-ceilinged room with a wooden floor, and wooden tables and chairs. The plaster walls were cracked and barren except for a solitary calendar; and there was not one woman in the place, and the faces of the men, many of them bearded and unshaven, were faces of the old world: The faces of hardworking laboring men; lined faces, Mediterranean faces, you knew at once.
Someone was playing a lament on a banjo near the back and some of the men were humming. Almost everyone was playing cards and drinking, and some tapped their feet to the music. The minute Old Gus came in, several of the men who knew of him and feared his powers—such as his ability to cast the bad eye, several of these men got up and practically ran out of the place, turning their heads from Gus. Some of the customers laughed, and Joe laughed, but Joe noticed that others sitting at tables would not look at Gus, though everyone was aware of his presence.
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