The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  Freckles stared at the coffin and the body covered by the lacy white veil. He lifted the veil briefly with the barrel of the pistol to peek at the corpse’s face, and seeing the red lipstick, he let the veil drop back in place. He turned to his friend, completely ignoring Saro from that point on, as if he’d never existed.

  “Let’s go look in the other rooms,” he ordered his crony, and the two went back out to the corridor.

  Saro hurriedly reclosed the coffin lid and secured it with the screws. After a few minutes six pallbearers arrived, followed by Enzo Carruba.

  “Have they gone?” he asked Saro, who picked up his razor from the floor. They heard loud thuds as more doors were being kicked in.

  “Hear that?” said Saro. “Quick, hurry up, load the casket on the wagon.”

  The six young men lifted the coffin, balanced it on their shoulders, and headed toward the front door where the hearse awaited them, adorned with a profusion of black plumes and ornate spiral posts bearing skulls, hourglasses, and every other icon meant to recall the transience of our existence.

  The two coal-black stallions had grand ceremonial harnesses decorated with brass studs and blinders adorned with two silver skulls and long plumes. They began champing at the bit when they heard people murmuring; the driver had a hard time restraining them, reining in and pushing the hand brake all the way.

  Some women were weeping, others prayed, children were yelling and slapping one another on the head. The dead girl’s mother was on the brink of collapse.

  Saro accompanied the casket to the wagon and then climbed up onto the seat beside the driver.

  The six young men deposited the casket on the floor of the wagon with extreme care, a final earthly consideration toward the young woman who had gone forever. Then they arranged the wreaths and bouquets of flowers, brought by friends and relatives, as a last fond farewell on the lid of the coffin. The deceased girl’s father’s eyes were red, but he held back his tears. Her mother, supported by two of the girl’s older brothers, was inconsolable and angry at destiny.

  Enzo Carruba stood at the door of the funeral home rubbing his hands, satisfied that, despite the unplanned disturbance, everything was going smoothly. In a few seconds, the procession would leave for the cemetery.

  But all of a sudden, violent pounding startled the people closest to the coffin. At every blow, the casket shook. Then some wreaths and bouquets of flowers began to fall off the top of the coffin. Stifled cries could be heard coming from inside the casket. After a number of thumps, a deep silence fell among the crowd. They all held their breath and strained their ears, even those furthest from the wagon. Two more violent knocks made the casket jiggle.

  Immediately people began clamoring and jostling to get closer to the coffin, some exclaiming, “It’s a miracle,” while others, more skeptical, shook their heads. One man shouted, “She’s alive! She’s alive!” Then as if it were a signal, other shouts rose among the crowd:

  “The Madonna performed a miracle!”

  “Quick, open it, take the casket down!”

  One of the relatives seized a long iron bar that a street paver was wielding to tear up cobblestones, and several men used it to pry open the lid of the coffin. The screws holding the wood shut popped out, and the lid flew off as though raised by a superhuman force, landing outside the wagon. Everyone plainly saw the bride sit up inside the coffin. Then a collective gasp arose from the group, a mixture of joy, tears, disbelief, and fear. Some applauded, while others fell to their knees. Children shouted wildly for joy.

  Enzo Carruba had never seen anything like it in his entire career as an undertaker. Carmelo Vanni, wearing the bride’s clothes, his lips painted red, and minus the showy mustache that Saro had quickly shaved off, took in deep lungfuls of air. Panic, triggered by claustrophobia, had left him breathless. But there was no time to lose.

  Enzo Carruba had been making the sign of the cross, when behind him the two Irish killers appeared at the doorway, angry and frustrated at having their prey get away. “What’s all this?” Freckles asked as he ran out, followed by his sidekick.

  Not far away, he saw what should have been a corpse, in a wedding dress, standing in the middle of the coffin, with everyone shouting and raising their arms in prayer. It took him several seconds to take in what he was seeing.

  Those few seconds were enough for Saro to yell to Carmelo Vanni to jump onto the seat. Then Saro gave the driver a shove, knocking him to the ground, and with a kick released the brake. He grabbed the reins and whipped the horses, who couldn’t wait to get going. The two stallions lurched, and the heavy carriage rolled forward, amid the alarm of all the onlookers who didn’t understand why the young bride was climbing onto the driver’s seat.

  Behind him, Saro heard several gunshots. He turned and saw the two killers pushing their way through the crowd to get to the hearse. Carmelo Vanni, still ludicrously wearing the white dress, joined Saro, who tossed him the reins. Lithely leaning down from the seat toward the rings to which the horses’ traces were harnessed, Saro pulled out his razor and with a sharp stroke cut the straps. Then he jumped astride one of the horses, holding the other by the reins so he wouldn’t run away. The black stallions were spooked by the gunfire and all the commotion. Saro motioned Carmelo to get on, so the man screwed up his courage and jumped on the horse.

  Behind them, all hell broke loose. Relatives and friends watched, incredulous, as the person they still thought was the former deceased nimbly leaped onto the stallion. Then everyone started running after the wagon, yelling for it to stop. Mixed in with the group were the two hit men, guns in hand; pushing their way through the crowd, they didn’t think twice about shoving and tripping the poor souls who got in their way. The dead girl’s mother fainted.

  Meanwhile, the two black horses had come unhitched from the shaft. As soon as it lost the stability of the shaft, the carriage, which had picked up some momentum, lurched. The two front wheels suddenly swerved, and the hearse tipped over and crashed to the street with a great racket, shattering into a thousand pieces of wood and putty.

  The two killers were knocked over and fell to the ground. Freckles swore and from the ground aimed his pistol at the fugitive disguised as a bride. A couple of shots rang out, but by now the target was too far away.

  In desperation, Enzo Carruba’s hands went in search of what little hair he had left on his pate, shiny with sweat. “I’m ruined, ruined,” he muttered, slumping against the door frame of his fine funeral home.

  In the distance, Saro and Carmelo Vanni galloped toward Columbus Park. When they reached the park, they separated, going in opposite directions.

  Chapter 29

  Ferdinando Licata had made the voyage in first class, so on arrival at the Port of New York, he had gone ashore along with all the other first- and second-class passengers, without having to go through the Ellis Island inspectors. Waiting for him on the dock was his niece, Elisabetta, his sister Lavinia’s daughter, who had brought her seven-year-old child, Ginevra, to the port with her.

  Licata recognized his niece immediately in the crowd. Unlike his sister, she was a little overweight, but she had the same magnificent face: aristocratic and strong willed.

  Though the passing of the years had modified his temperament somewhat, Prince Ferdinando Licata was not a man who was easily moved. Yet at the sight of his adored Elisabetta, he was unable to swallow the lump that rose to his throat. He held her to him for a long time, murmuring, “Elisabetta . . . Elisabetta . . .”

  The young woman closed her eyes, as though recalling the sensations and scents of her far-off land. Smiling to cover her emotion, she drew away from her uncle and introduced him to the little girl she was holding by the hand. “Zio, this is Ginevra.”

  The child was distracted by the confusion that surrounded them on the landing dock, intrigued by the huge ship tied up behind that grand gentleman with the graying hair. Leaning down to match her height, Ferdinando Licata gazed at her and then clasped her to h
is chest as well, pinning her arms at her sides. Elisabetta watched them nostalgically as all the lost opportunities, far from the warmth of a real family, flashed through her mind.

  Ferdinando released the child from his embrace and, straightening up again, could not resist giving his niece another kiss.

  “That one is from your mother.” It was not intended as a reproach, but Elisabetta bowed her head to hold back tears.

  “She told me to tell you that she prays for you—for all of you—every day.”

  “I should write her a letter. But there’s so much to do here. I don’t have a moment free,” the young woman said in excuse.

  “You don’t have to explain, Elisabetta.”

  “Mommy’s name is Betty,” the little girl piped up.

  “Oh, is that her name?”

  “Uh-huh, Betty. Only I call her Mommy.”

  “All right, Betty it is . . . But her real name is Elisabetta,” Ferdinando teased.

  “No, Betty!”

  “Oh, all right, Betty . . . But it’s Elisabetta!” The prince laughed, as did his niece, but Ginevra crossed her arms and repeated stubbornly, “Betty!”

  One would think that Ferdinando Licata had had a dozen children of his own. He could communicate perfectly with them.

  “She’s just like her grandmother. She resembles Lavinia in that painting in the parlor. She was the very same age,” he said taking a better look at the little girl.

  “Yes, I know, she has the same forehead and the same eyes as Mama.”

  “And the rest of the family?” Ferdinando asked, changing the subject.

  Betty took her uncle’s arm, and they started walking toward the exit. “Nico stayed at the trattoria. You know, we can’t afford a cook yet, and he can’t leave the stove.”

  Betty and Nico had arrived in New York in 1926, and for five years, they had worked more than fourteen hours a day, scraping together every penny for a dream they’d always had: to open an Italian restaurant. Lavinia opposed the plan from the start, considering Nico unworthy of her daughter. Proud like all the Leicesters, Betty left Italy with what little savings she had set aside, to show her mother that she didn’t need her money, only her affection. She and Nico had started out in a basement location on Crosby Street, just south of Houston Street. Later they found an opportunity north of Houston, in an area that had formerly been inhabited by New York’s upper middle class. However, due to its proximity to the burgeoning working-class neighborhoods of Little Italy and Chinatown, it had been abandoned by the well-to-do families, who gradually chose to move uptown. Little by little, the houses were occupied by immigrants: Irish, Germans, Poles, Jews, Ukrainians, and Puerto Ricans. The extreme density of diverse ethnic groups made the area one of the most explosive and difficult for the police to control, which was why commercial space there could be rented at bargain prices. Betty and Nico patiently sought a place with the right location.

  Finally, in 1931, the opportunity arose. The venue was located on East Second Street, and along with the restaurant, they rented a nice apartment on the second floor of the same building. They named the restaurant La Tonnara and finally decided to have a child. Ginevra was born in March of the following year.

  Not that the sacrifices ended with the opening of La Tonnara. On the contrary, the debts were unrelenting, and Betty, up until the time the child was born, continued working mornings as a milliner in the hat company of a Polish man. In the evenings, she served meals prepared by her husband at the trattoria.

  When Ginevra was born, an elderly neighbor took care of her during the hours when Betty and her husband were busy at the restaurant.

  The early thirties was a tense time, not only for them but also for Americans in general, for the Great Depression spared virtually no one. The trattoria struggled to remain afloat, and only her enormous pride kept Betty from returning to her mother in Salemi.

  La Tonnara was furnished with objects that recalled Sicily. A closely woven fishing net, a tonnara, covered the ceiling. On the walls were lobster traps and harpoons for deep-sea fishing. Two large specimens of stuffed swordfish heads near the doorway were a great marvel to those who had never seen anything of the kind. The walls were painted with imaginary fishing scenes. But on one side, near the entrance to the kitchen, Ferdinando Licata recognized the landscape and the village of Salemi perched on a hill. Surprised, he questioned Betty about it.

  “A man from Salemi, Salvatore Turrisi, painted it,” Betty told him. “We fed him for a month. Then he disappeared, as suddenly as he had come.”

  Ferdinando looked at the painting more closely. “Salvatore Turrisi. . . was a campiere. I didn’t know he could paint so well, and I didn’t know he’d come here to America.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know—” She was about to add “about your people,” but stopped herself.

  “You’re right. We persist in looking for certain qualities in others without realizing that they may have entirely other virtues, equally remarkable.”

  “It’s a fault most of humanity shares,” his niece agreed.

  “Did you know that back home this Salvatore Turrisi is wanted for murder?”

  Just then Nico came in. He was back from the market and had his arms full of bags. Ginevra ran to him. “Daddy, look who’s come from Sicily!”

  Nico set down the bags on the table and went to greet the prince with open arms. “Prince Licata! Welcome to America and to our humble home.”

  The prince embraced him. “Nico, call me Ferdinando here, or at most, Uncle. Otherwise the snot-nosed kids will make fun of me.” They laughed and clasped each other again.

  “You’ve done a wonderful job. Well done. I’m proud of you both,” he said, indicating the room. “But the real masterpiece is this little picciredda.” He opened his arms, and Ginevra ran to him. Then she pulled away and scampered off into a corner of the room: “Daddy, look what zio Ferdinando brought me.” She came running back with a replica of a small Sicilian carrettu, showing her father the little cart like a trophy.

  “And another surprise.” She disappeared behind the kitchen door, reappearing soon afterward with a large Sicilian puppet almost as tall as her. “It’s Orlando! For you and Mommy.” She held it out to Nico, who gave her back the little cart and took the puppet. “Mamma mia, how heavy it is! We’ll put it here, in La Tonnara.”

  They smiled, like a family content with the choices they’d made so far. It hadn’t been easy, but in the long run, sacrifice and honest labor yield lasting satisfaction, and after years of hard work, Betty and Nico were now beginning to reap the first fruits of their efforts.

  * * *

  Saro ditched the black horse as soon as he reached Columbus Park, having eluded his pursuers.

  Now his problem would be finding a place to sleep, for he couldn’t go back to the funeral home anymore.

  He decided to get as far away as possible from that area. He had to mingle with the crowds, disappear—and in such an immense city that would certainly prove easy. Saro began looking for businesses displaying the barbershop pole, thinking that if he was lucky, he might find a job. Or else he could go back to the port, where Vincenzo Ciancianna could direct him to some other work.

  He was walking along the Bowery, beginning to get clear signals from his stomach that it was time to put something in it. A hot dog cart was parked on the corner of Bayard Street, giving off a faint smell of burning rubber. He approached and saw a man stuffing long rolls with strange, pale sausages that he had never seen before. Apart from the smell, they looked inviting and succulent, with that odd yellowish cream spread on top.

  “Are they good?” he asked naively.

  “Of course. They’re hot dogs,” the German replied.

  “I have no money.”

  “Get lost, then; you’ll scare away the customers.”

  “I can give you a shave and trim your mustache,” Saro said, pulling out his razor so quickly it frightened the man.

  The vendor fingered
his rough beard. “Why not?” he thought. Business was slow, not many people around, so he agreed.

  Fifteen minutes later, the German looked as if he were spruced up for a special date, and Saro was able to taste a hot dog. He sat in the shade of a doorway and savored it as though it were a five-course dinner. He was able to relax now that his stomach was no longer rumbling. Finally, a little peace after the morning’s excitement.

  He reopened his eyes, convinced that he had spent only a few seconds dallying with the image of Mena. But the light had changed completely, the hot dog vendor was no longer on the corner, and the sound of a band, composed of a bass drum and a trumpet, had rudely awakened him. The musicians were dressed in dark blue uniforms, and as soon as they finished playing, a woman, the third member of the group, started shouting something into a megaphone.

  Saro pricked up his ears.

  “As long as children go hungry, we will fight for them! As long as human beings are imprisoned, we will fight for them! As long as there are casualties of addiction, we will fight for them! As long as individuals are forced to sell their bodies, we will fight for them! As long as there are people in need of the Lord’s light, we will fight for them!”

  At each refrain, the bass drummer struck his instrument with resounding force. Small groups of children had formed in front of the musicians and were pretending to conduct their own orchestra, waving their hands in the air.

  “Come!” the woman went on shouting through the megaphone. She was a plump, matronly lady with enormous breasts that swayed each time she moved. “The doors of the Lord are always open. A word of comfort could save your life. You, girl!” She turned to a young woman who stood beside a door, waiting for customers. “Forget your wanton life. Return to the straight and narrow. Think of your mother.”