The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  “And you think of your sister!” the woman retorted. “It’s thanks to my mother that I know all the tricks of the trade!” She laughed coarsely and retreated into the shadow of the doorway to avoid being bothered again.

  The matron did not give up and looked around for another passerby. Her gaze fell on Saro, who was still stretched out in the doorway next door to the prostitute.

  “And you, brother”—she walked over to Saro—“turn your back on the siren called ‘the bottle.’ Look at the state that vice can reduce you to. Look, all of you!” Now she addressed the audience of children and a few curious adults. “Children, you might become like this poor young man if you start drinking: a drunk who can’t even find his way home.”

  Saro stood up. “Actually, I was resting. I’m not drunk.”

  “That’s what they all say. You’re Italian, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, you see, everyone knows that Italians like to drink wine until they become sloshed.”

  “But I haven’t been drinking! How many times must I tell you!” Saro had raised his voice, sounding hostile.

  A policeman approached the small crowd that had formed around them. “What’s going on here? Are you threatening her?” he asked Saro harshly.

  But the woman intervened, stepping between Saro and the cop. “Everything’s all right, officer. He’s one of ours. There’s no problem, really.”

  Though still doubtful, the policeman saluted the Salvation Army lieutenant by touching his nightstick to his cap and walked away.

  “Brother, come with us to the Outpost, become a soldier, enlist in the Salvation Army for the joy of the Lord.” The woman was ecstatic. Saro looked at the man who was playing the bass drum. The drummer, thin as a breadstick, shrugged his shoulders; whispering so that the woman wouldn’t hear him, he said to Saro, “It doesn’t cost anything; plus you get to eat twice a day.”

  For Saro, those words were magical. He had found a place to hide as well as a way not to starve. They were right to say that America was a great nation.

  He was taken to the nearby Madison Street Outpost. It was a large cellar; at one time, it must have been a warehouse for wines and spirits, since the walls seemed infused with a typical tavern aroma. He was welcomed by a lady in a blue skirt and white blouse with red military epaulets on which a star was pinned. She must have been around fifty, but wrinkles had not yet formed at the corners of her eyes. She had long blonde hair braided and wound around her head; the hairdo made her look like a granny who baked oatmeal cookies. Her face was still beautiful, though, and her kind blue eyes seemed at odds with her pompous, militaristic manner. She greeted Saro with a broad, affected smile. “Come in, brother. Welcome to our Outpost. Here we fight for all of our unfortunate brothers like you.”

  She led him to a sideboard in a corner of the room, laid with sandwiches and bottles of orangeade and Coca-Cola. “Go ahead and help yourself. It’s easier to pray on a full stomach.” She left him and joined another group in civilian clothes. Shortly afterward, the two musicians whom Saro had met on the street came up to the table. The bass drummer, reaching for a sandwich, noticed that Saro was having trouble with his second sandwich. “You don’t have to stuff yourself,” he said, “they never run out. It’s a real gold mine, I told you.”

  “How long have you been with them?” Saro asked him, his mouth so full he could hardly talk.

  “A month, and I assure you I won’t be too quick to leave. I’m a soldier now,” he said with some pride.

  “But do you go around playing that drum all day?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s not for me.”

  The woman who had received him came back. “Brother, what is your name?”

  “Saro. Saro Ragusa.”

  “I’m Captain Virginia. Come, let us go to the Altar of Thanks to pay homage to the Lord.” Without waiting for him, she walked to the center of the room, where there was a kind of dais, and knelt down there. A few people imitated her, and Saro, after wolfing down the rest of his sandwich, felt compelled to follow her, though the whole thing really didn’t appeal to him. He knelt down, and Virginia started singing a hymn. Soon everyone present joined in singing, and the chorus could be heard even out in the street:

  As long as there are women who weep, I will fight.

  As long as there are children who are hungry and cold, I will fight.

  As long as there are alcoholics, I will fight . . .

  When they had finished, Virginia asked him, “Do you, Saro, want to become a soldier of Christ?”

  The question startled him. “Well . . .”

  “Oh, Lord . . .” The woman raised her arms to heaven, quickly followed by everyone there, including Saro. “Thanks be to You for your benevolent kindness, for having guided this lost sheep to the path of light.” Then she rose and, turning to Saro, said, “Now come and sign the Articles of War.”

  He let himself be led like an automaton. At that moment, if he’d been asked to jump into the fire, he would have done so. With his signature at the bottom of a mimeographed sheet listing the twelve points of the Salvationists’ creed, the formalities were finally completed. Saro was now, for all intents and purposes, a soldier in the glorious army. Those looking on applauded and started singing the “Hallelujah,” but this time all the trumpeters and bass drummers played in unison, rattling windows throughout the entire building. At the end, they all flocked around Saro, congratulating him on his decision. Some kissed him, and others heartily shook his hand. Then Virginia claimed everyone’s attention. She climbed up on the podium of the Altar of Thanks in order to be heard and seen better. “Gentlemen? Gentlemen, please!” She clapped her hands to call the soldiers to order. “After having taken ‘refreshment’ ”—she used that word to drive home the point to her audience—“let us return to our joyous battlefields. And please, capture some other fine trophy for us,” she said, eyeing Saro with the satisfaction of a hunter who has just hung an elk’s head over the mantelpiece.

  The small groups reassembled—bass drum, trumpet, and barker—and spread out through the streets of the city to resume their mission of conversion.

  Saro had fallen in with a group, thinking to slip away unnoticed, but Virginia stopped him, gripping his wrist and leading him toward a door. “One moment, Saro. We’re not finished with you yet.” She took him into a dressing room with a bench and a rack hung with a large number of uniforms: pants, blouses, and skirts, all regulation blue, except, of course, for the blouses, white as snow.

  When he left the dressing room a few minutes later, Saro was wearing the uniform of the Salvation Army: blue pants and a white shirt with red epaulettes, though without any stars.

  A girl with fiery red hair, just back from a “war” expedition, was munching a sandwich and saw him come out of the room. Sitting beside her was her group’s trumpeter. They watched Captain Virginia come out behind Saro and with great nonchalance walk over to the organ that stood on one side of the room. She sat down on the stool and started playing a melody of great emotional impact. The new aspiring soldiers were brought to the Altar of Thanks, for the initiation ceremony.

  Meanwhile, Saro was approached by one of the organizers of the groups to be sent out on missions. The man had a clipboard that held a stack of papers with lists of names.

  “You are soldier?” he asked and then waited for Saro to tell him his name.

  “Saro Ragusa,” he replied, somewhat annoyed by all the rules.

  The lieutenant checked the register and didn’t find his name. “You’re a new soldier, right?” He wrote his name, date of birth, and work experience on one of the sheets. “Can you sing? Are you tone-deaf?” the man asked, lowering his clipboard.

  “Of course I can sing. Italians sing and drink wine, everybody knows that,” Saro said, smiling defiantly as he glanced around in search of agreement.

  “Okay, there’s no need to get offended. This is your first time out, if I’m not mistaken.
Let’s see which group I can add you to.” He studied the list, searching for a team that would be a suitable match for a novice.

  “Hey, boss—er, I meant to say, lieutenant.” A female voice came from behind them. The lieutenant turned and saw the girl with the flame-red hair coming toward them. “Dixie and I are ready to go out again. He could come with us.” She pointed to Saro, who was still disoriented by the day’s overwhelming events.

  Saro was now able to see her up close. She was quite tall, despite the fact that she was wearing a pair of flats. Her tight-fitting blouse showed off a perfect body. Her narrow waist and broad hips and shoulders lent her an athlete’s appearance. Her breasts were small, a feature that gave her an aura of elegance and refinement.

  “You’re Isabel, right?” the lieutenant said, consulting his list again. “You’re with Petrova and Dixie?”

  Isabel nodded, still chewing her sandwich. She glanced at Saro without interest, and he was dazzled by her sea-blue eyes. Dixie and Petrova came over as well. Saro looked at the young man. The roguish mustache made him seem congenial from the very first glance.

  “By the way,” Dixie said, “this is Lieutenant Petrova.” He indicated the Russian, a woman around forty, neither fat nor thin, but pleasantly plump. “And she’s Isabel.” Isabel was an explosive Irish concentrate. She threw him a disdainful glance. “And I’m Dixie.”

  “Dixie, tell me your real name.”

  “In Naples they called me Mimmo. But my name is Domenico. Here everyone calls me Dixie. As you see, I have an international name.” He grinned broadly.

  “Okay, then,” the lieutenant concluded, adding Saro’s name to the trio. “Saro, you’re with Petrova’s detachment.”

  * * *

  The souls they had to save were prostitutes, drug addicts, alcoholics, thieves, and common criminals, and since they had to go looking for them in their own surroundings, Broome Street, in the Bowery district, was one of the busiest streets where the Army’s recruits made their rounds. Petrova was the barker, while Dixie played the trumpet and Isabel, the drum. Saro was assigned to take up the collection in a tin can. From time to time, some old man slipped a few pennies into the can. A drunk might stop to listen to Petrova’s preaching, but when he realized that the gist of it was that he shouldn’t drink anymore, he swore at her and hurried away. So did the addicts, whereas the prostitutes, unable to leave their station, made fun of her.

  Every morning, in certain neighborhoods, there were at least a couple of deaths. They were those who had succumbed to an overdose, or others who had been consumed by cirrhosis.

  Saro, overcoming his instinctive shyness, approached people he thought might be able to give a little money to charity, but the refusals were ten times greater than the donations. After a time, the wheedling and cajoling became frustrating for the Army’s soldiers, which is why the captain advised them not to spend longer than an hour at a time out in the field.

  The first days were the hardest for Saro, but then it was like his friends had predicted: “You’ll soon get used to it, and then it will become a job like any other.” Petrova’s group continued to make its rounds on the Lower East Side, sometimes crossing into Little Italy. But Saro, with the excuse that he was Italian and didn’t want to be seen by his friends, talked Petrova into staying on the west side of Broome Street. Actually Saro was fearful of having a nasty encounter with Stoker’s men.

  On the fourth day, he had another unpleasant encounter. Near Sullivan Street, in a blind alley, there was a garbage dump piled with cartons and trash cans. The alley was dark, but he could clearly see a petite young woman being shoved around by a man.

  When he walked into the alley and approached them, Saro saw that the young woman’s face was swollen, her lips smeared with blood. Saro recognized the woman. It was Titina, the girl he’d met on the ship.

  “Titina!” he called, as the man stood with his arm half raised, poised to give her yet another smack.

  Titina saw Saro in the distance but didn’t immediately recognize him, lost like so many others in the fumes of alcohol. Still, he was clearly someone who knew her, so she ran to him to escape the man’s rage.

  She looked up, one eye half-closed because of the swelling. “Help me! Help me!” she cried through her tears.

  “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Saro. We met on the ship.”

  It had only been a few months since they arrived, but in that brief time, Titina had seen a battalion of men tramp over her body.

  “Oh, Saro. Of course I haven’t forgotten you . . .” But she was interrupted by the bully.

  He must have been no older than twenty-three, but he was strong as an ox. He pulled Titina away, shouting, “Hey, you, stay away from my woman!”

  Then he grabbed her by the throat.

  By now Saro was joined by the other three members of his group. Petrova stepped in with her usual sermon, but this time her timing was wrong. “Brother. Calm your rage. Don’t do anything that will offend our Lord first of all,” she spoke directly to the man.

  His only response was to pull out a knife and, with a swift, imperceptible move, release the switchblade, brandishing it at the newcomers. “Keep away from me!” He gave Titina a violent shove toward the back of the alley, causing her to stumble and collapse on the mountain of cartons and packing straw. Saro was just as swift and gripped his ever-handy razor. The two men faced off for a moment, undecided whether to fight.

  “Brothers, no! Not that!” Petrova cried.

  Dixie intervened, grabbing Saro’s arm. “Forget it! These people don’t listen to reason.”

  “I know him; he’s one of Stoker’s gang,” Isabel added. “These people aren’t normal. Let’s go. Saro, come on!”

  Saro straightened up, lowering his guard, and so did his opponent.

  Petrova, Isabel, and Dixie went back to the drunk woman lying on the ground, while Saro stayed behind and watched Titina get up from the heap of cartons with the man’s help. When she was back on her feet, the man took his suppressed anger out on her, ruthlessly punching her in the stomach and making her crumple. She spat blood and began whimpering, begging him not to hurt her again and promising she wouldn’t drink anymore.

  Saro bit his lips, outraged. In that brief episode, he’d witnessed humanity’s worst side and had come to the realization that violence was the only weapon by which to survive in that infernal city. He would have to renounce all of his father’s teachings: honesty, moral integrity, ethics—all rubbish that didn’t get you very far in New York. Other values took precedence. Saro knew quite well what they were and vowed to himself that he would become a true American citizen, worthy of his new country.

  Chapter 30

  The Father, as everyone in the neighborhood now called Ferdinando Licata, was relishing sensations and emotions that he had never felt before. He had never known the meaning of a real family. The affection of his little grandniece, the quiet, hardworking life led by Betty and her husband, their genuine love, strengthened by the struggles they’d had to overcome when they arrived in a strange land, were making him change his prior thinking about family and more generally about the meaning of life.

  The difficulties he had endured in recent months had blunted his iron will. The prince had never run from anyone or anything before. But now he was reassessing the old Sicilian saying “Calati juncu, ca passa a china.” “Bend, reed, until the flood passes” was not a show of weakness but rather of strength and character: The strength to be a great strategist and to know when to lead the retreat to avoid being vanquished; being able to wait for the right moment, even if it meant waiting a very long time.

  Ferdinando Licata’s life had experienced an abrupt change of direction. Before, he never would have thought of going to the market to do the shopping; that was something servants did. Now, to help the family, he took his niece’s large bag every morning and went down to the street, mingling with the women and elderly men designated to perform that daily ritual. The first few times, he obs
erved what the housewives of Little Italy did, and quickly learned the women’s tricks of the trade. Now he could haggle over the price, add a fruit when the produce had already been weighed and the price set—“I’ll take this; it has all the sunshine of Sicily in it”—and knew the names of the shopkeepers and fruit vendors. Before long, everyone came to recognize him. It took him a few more days to become skilled at choosing the best fruit. He felt the oranges one by one, examined a pear’s stem, checked to see that there were no wilted leaves on the lettuce.

  Sometimes, if he had to go shopping for just a few things, and Ginevra didn’t have to go to school, he would take her by the hand, and they would go out in grand style. He was extremely proud of his grandniece, partly because she resembled him and could be mistaken for his daughter, but mostly because she was so charming that the women in the neighborhood would stop to give her candy and sweets.

  Like all children, Ginevra took advantage of the privilege of being a pretty little girl and would ask her uncle to buy her some cookies or cotton candy or chocolates. Whims that Ferdinando Licata, after first flatly refusing, invariably ended up satisfying, fully expecting another reprimand from Betty, who didn’t want the child to grow up spoiled.

  Later uncle and niece made a pact of omertà, secrecy, whereby Ginevra swore she would never tell her mother what he’d bought her.

  * * *

  La Tonnara was bringing in a rather decent income. Betty and Nico had learned to economize on the dishes they served, and at the same time, they cooked Sicilian specialties, drawing on the same spices and ingredients they used at home. Sicilians who came to the restaurant left with tears in their eyes, recognizing the flavors of their homeland. The trattoria was therefore a success: every evening, it filled up with customers not only from the neighborhood but also from other areas of the city.