New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The other fellow had thought quicker than he had, then. Instead of running away, he’d barged straight into him, knocking him over and kicking the gun out of his hand. Then he’d run fast up the street, dived round the corner, loosed off a couple of rounds that had only just missed. Paolo had his gun by then. He’d returned fire, and given chase. But his victim had vanished. And he’d seen Paolo’s face.

  So now there were some very angry people in Brooklyn.

  The question was, what to do? Probably best to leave town. But where should he go? Maybe Madden could suggest something.

  The orchestra was playing “Gin House Blues.” A Henderson composition. A couple of years back, the Henderson sound had been enriched by a young trumpet player named Louis Armstrong. He’d departed for Chicago, unfortunately, but maybe he’d be back. Paolo knew that Madden also had his eye on another up-and-coming band leader, Duke Ellington, who played over at the Kentucky Club. That was what was so impressive about Madden. He was always looking for something new.

  Paolo glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. He doubted Madden would show up now, but he decided to wait a little longer.

  His thoughts turned to the conversation with Charlie and his friend. How strange that the friend should have met Anna. He remembered those terrible days after her death. He recalled his anger, his sense of rage and impotence. That was what had set him on his path, really. This rocky, dangerous path, to this high, dark place, from which he now feared to fall. He had loved Anna. Loved all his family, really. If only, he told himself, they weren’t such losers. He shrugged. Maybe he was going to be a loser too, pretty soon.

  He signaled for the check and paid it. No use waiting any longer.

  As he stepped onto the sidewalk outside, he buttoned his coat tightly. The temperature had fallen, and it had begun to snow. There was half an inch on the street already. He looked around carefully; he could only see a few black people. It was white men he had to beware of. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, partly to hide his face, but mostly against the snow that the wind was whipping along the street. He started to walk.

  As a precaution, he’d moved lodgings three days ago, to a place off Eighth Avenue where he wasn’t known. He’d walk to the subway, make sure he wasn’t being followed, and take a circuitous route home. He turned down Lenox Avenue.

  Hell, it was cold.

  Salvatore didn’t see Teresa during the month of October. There wasn’t a telephone at his lodgings, but there was a payphone nearby, and Teresa’s family had one in their house. He waited ten days before calling and asking to speak to her. He listened carefully to the tone of her voice. She sounded pleased to hear from him.

  “My parents say thank you again for the picture,” she said. “Will you tell Angelo?”

  “Sure.”

  “I won’t be coming into the city for a little while.”

  “Is that because of your parents?”

  “My parents say I have to go with my cousin and she’s not free right now,” she said. It sounded like an excuse. “But I’d like to see you,” she added.

  “I’ll call again,” he promised.

  Was there some hope? He had a long talk with Uncle Luigi about his finances. “You may not have much,” Uncle Luigi advised, “but at least increase what you have. Put your savings in the stock market. You can’t lose. It’s going up all the time. The whole country’s getting richer every day.” He grinned. “Let your little boat rise with the tide.” It seemed to make sense. But the childhood memory of his father’s savings and Signor Rossi still weighed on Salvatore’s mind, and for a while he hesitated.

  It wasn’t only a question of money, either.

  “Her family may want a man with a business,” he told his uncle, “but even if I had the money, what would I do?” True, the work he did was hard, physical labor, but his body was strong, and he liked being out in the open, even when the weather was cold. There was a freedom to it, too. You went to work, you did the work, you were paid, and then you were free. There were plenty of jobs for a skilled laborer like himself too. He had no worries. But if he had a business of his own to run, he knew very well that he would always have worries. He’d have to sit in an office or a store, instead of working as a real man should, in the open air.

  He thought about this for a week or two. In the end he decided that if this was the price of getting Teresa, then it was worth it. Whether he could do anything that would satisfy her family, though, was another matter.

  In late October, Angelo fell sick. Nobody knew what the sickness was. It began like the flu, but although his fever left him after ten days, he remained very weak, and coughed continually. Uncle Luigi nursed him by day, Salvatore in the evenings. By late November, Salvatore sent for their mother, who decided at once that Angelo should come out to Long Island.

  A few days later he telephoned Teresa’s house to tell her what had happened.

  “Maybe I could go and visit him,” she suggested, “if you think he’d like company. It’s not far to bicycle.” She paused. “If you came out at the same time, I could see you too.”

  He grinned. She’d found a perfect excuse to see him. He promised he’d be out there before Christmas.

  It was a cold December evening when the two Irish cops came to the door. There had been snow the night before and it was still lying by the roadways. Uncle Luigi was out at the restaurant. He knew he’d done nothing wrong, so he wasn’t alarmed when they asked for him by name. Then they told him why they’d come.

  The morgue they took him to was up in Harlem. There was a big bare room in the basement. Maybe it was so cold because of the snow outside, or maybe they always kept it cold. There were quite a few pallets in the room, each covered with a sheet. They led him to one near the middle and pulled back the sheet.

  The gray corpse lying there was in evening clothes. His jaw had been bandaged to hold it up, and the face looked quite handsome. The white dress shirt he wore, however, was covered with great blackened bloodstains.

  “Five bullets,” one of the cops said. “Must’ve killed him right away.” He looked questioningly at Salvatore.

  “Yes,” said Salvatore. “That’s my brother Paolo.”

  The family gathered in the city for the funeral. Neighbors and friends came too. The priests tactfully spoke of Paolo as a much loved son and kindly brother, the victim of unknown hoodlums up in Harlem. Everybody knew the truth, but nobody said it.

  At Christmas, the family gathered out on Long Island. Salvatore had spoken to Teresa to tell her about the death, but he didn’t suggest a visit.

  Angelo was looking pale. His mother wouldn’t let him go out of the house during the cold weather, and he spent part of the day resting, but he didn’t seem in bad spirits. “Mostly,” he told Salvatore, “I feel bored.” He had managed to get hold of all kinds of newspapers and journals, some of them a little out of date, but he waved toward a great pile of these and said he’d read them all.

  Uncle Luigi decided that this was a good opportunity to work his financial magic, and had a long talk with Angelo about investing his savings. Rather surprisingly, Angelo said: “Maybe you’re right. I should do that.” And he listened to his uncle most carefully for more than an hour, nodding his head gravely from time to time. “I only have a little to invest,” he said, but when his uncle asked how much, he just smiled gently and answered: “A little.”

  “He is like me,” Uncle Luigi cried delightedly. “Never tell anyone how much you have. Keep them guessing.”

  As for Uncle Luigi’s help in making any transactions, Angelo said that his uncle could put him in touch with a trustworthy person to buy any shares for him, but that he’d make the decisions himself. He said this in such a quiet way that Salvatore was impressed. His little brother seemed to be growing up.

  Giuseppe and his wife had persuaded Angelo to take a small commission. They wanted him to make them a nice sign with the name of her family’s farm on it. Although he disliked working to o
rder, Angelo had agreed, and on Christmas Day he presented it to them. He had taken the piece of wood they had given him, painted it white, and put the name, Clearwater Farm, in blue letters, together with a little picture of a farmstead, floating like Noah’s Ark, on a blue sea. It was so ingenious and memorable that they were quite overjoyed. And Salvatore could see that Angelo was flattered and pleased by the attention his effort received.

  Two days after Christmas, however, Angelo said he felt unwell, and he rested during the remaining days that Salvatore was there.

  In the third week of January, when Salvatore next went out to see his parents, Teresa came over, she and her cousin arriving on bicycles. The visit was a big success. Teresa was polite and respectful to his parents. “You can see that she comes from good people,” his mother declared. Salvatore also noticed with pleasure how kind and gentle she was with Angelo. She sat quietly with Angelo and told him stories to make him laugh.

  Angelo was looking a little better and his cough was almost gone. But he was still very pale, and spent most of his day indoors, sitting in a big chair. He had obviously been active, though. On the table beside him, Salvatore saw a number of cuttings from the newspapers’ financial pages, some of them ringed in red pencil. There were also designs for a storefront for the local bakery. This was a commission that their father had arranged. They were only paying a little money, but Angelo seemed glad to have something to keep him occupied. When Teresa made a suggestion for an improvement to one of the designs, Angelo looked at the design very intently for a few moments and then said quietly, “No. That is not what I want,” and for a moment Teresa looked a little offended. But then she smiled and lightly remarked: “The patient knows what he wants.”

  After that, Angelo said he would make two drawings, one of her and one of her cousin, which he would give them to keep. This pleased both girls, and while this work was in progress, Salvatore went over to see Giuseppe. Then he and Teresa went for a walk to the seashore and back, while her cousin remained, keeping Angelo company. As they were walking together, Teresa told him she’d be coming into the city again soon.

  After the girls had gone, he found Angelo looking thoughtful.

  “Do you think I shall ever get married?” Angelo asked.

  “Of course you will,” said Salvatore.

  “Maybe.” Angelo looked uncertain. “I think you should marry Teresa, Salvatore,” he said suddenly. “As soon as you can.”

  “She’d have to agree first. And her parents.” Then he laughed. “Maybe you should marry her cousin.” But to his surprise, Angelo looked quite serious. “They are a good family,” he said quietly.

  A few minutes later, his mother said: “Don’t let Teresa get away, Toto. That’s the one for you.”

  “Maybe, Mama,” he said. But he still wondered what he could do to satisfy her family.

  It was two weeks later, on a Friday, that he returned from work to find a tall, thin man waiting for him. The fellow was in his fifties. His black coat was buttoned tightly up to his throat. He handed Salvatore his card.

  “I am a lawyer,” he explained. “I represent your late brother, Paolo Caruso. My firm is the executor of his estate. May we go inside?” When they were upstairs in his lodgings, the lawyer asked: “Were you familiar with your brother’s affairs?”

  “I didn’t even know where he’d been living,” Salvatore confessed with a shrug.

  “He’d moved,” said the lawyer. “We have his clothes, by the way. I still have to issue probate, but he has left the residue of his estate to you.”

  “To me? What about the rest of the family?”

  “His will is very clear. I will let you know as soon as everything is completed. Then you will need to come to my office so that we can complete the formalities.” He paused. “There is more than ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand? For me?”

  The lawyer gave him a faint smile. “In his will you are called ‘Salvatore Caruso, my brother and best friend.’ He wished you to have it all.”

  That Sunday, out at his parents’ house, Salvatore decided to say nothing. Perhaps it was superstition, but until he had the money in his hands, he did not wish to tempt the fates by speaking of it.

  He had already decided what to do with the money. Giuseppe was already set up. Their parents were looked after, and if anything more were needed, he could supply it. His sister Maria was married and not in need. Uncle Luigi had everything he wanted, and God knows what his investments were worth. So that just left Angelo. The money would help him look after his brother.

  The rightness of his decision was confirmed that very day.

  Teresa and her cousin had arrived again, and while her cousin sat with Angelo, Salvatore and she strolled over to spend time with Giuseppe and his family. They chatted about family matters, and then the talk turned to Angelo. Salvatore noticed that at the mention of his name, his brother’s two children looked at each other and cried “Uncle Angelo.” Then they laughed. Giuseppe’s wife explained.

  “Angelo’s been helping them with their lessons. He draws pictures for them at the same time.”

  “That’s good,” said Salvatore. “He likes to be occupied.”

  “Actually,” said Giuseppe, “Angelo can be quite useful. I had to write some business letters about the farm, and he did them for me. Better than I could have done.”

  “I hope you’re paying him something for all this work,” said Salvatore. But Giuseppe only shrugged.

  “He’s my own brother. Let him be useful to the family.”

  “He doesn’t ask for anything,” his wife concurred.

  This did not please Salvatore. It seemed to him that the family were taking advantage of Angelo’s good nature a little too easily, but he did not say anything. He couldn’t help thinking, however, that if anything happened to himself and Uncle Luigi, Angelo would only be valued by them to the extent that he was useful. Then it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to test Teresa on this subject, too. On the way back to his parents’ house, therefore, he said: “I worry about Angelo, you know. Before my sister died in the Triangle fire, she told me that I’d always have to look after him. And I think she was right.” He paused. “So whatever I do, even if I have a wife and family some day, my house has to be a place where Angelo can live if he needs to. Does that seem crazy to you?” He watched her carefully as he put this proposition.

  “Of course not.” She gave him a warm smile. “How could I like you if you’d said anything different?” She considered for a moment. “People may not appreciate Angelo, but he is talented, and he is kind.”

  “He approves of you too,” Salvatore assured her. Then he laughed. “He says one day he’d like to marry someone from a family like yours.”

  “He does? What a compliment. We’ll have to find him someone like me, then.” She looked at him playfully. “But this will be difficult. I hope you don’t think that people like my family grow on trees.”

  “I don’t. There is only one of you.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  It seemed to him that the conversation was going very well, so he decided to take the subject a little further. “Perhaps,” he went on cautiously, “if I can get the money, I’ll set up some kind of business. Maybe in the city, maybe here, near my family. Only I don’t know what.”

  She did not answer for a moment or two, but when she did, he had the impression that she had already thought about the subject.

  “Don’t do anything you don’t want to, Salvatore,” she said. “I can’t imagine you working indoors. Maybe you could grow things out here, or get into the fishing business, like my brothers. But you must do what makes you happy. This is what I wish for you.”

  She said it so earnestly, and with such kindness, that he almost told her about his good fortune there and then. But he made himself hold back. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her. And she kissed him back, before pulling away and laughing. “It’s lucky my parents didn’t s
ee that,” she said. But he could tell she was happy.

  The lawyer summoned him late in February. The inheritance was as promised. That same day, Salvatore deposited just over ten thousand dollars at the Stabile Bank on Mulberry Street and Grand.

  On Sunday, he was due to go out to Long Island and meet Teresa at his parents’ house again, but a cold prevented him. When he telephoned Teresa to tell her he couldn’t come, she asked if Angelo would be disappointed. Certainly, he replied.

  “Do you want me to visit him?” she said. “So he won’t be lonely? I know you worry about him.”

  “You would do that?”

  “For you? Of course.” It was said so sweetly.

  “Go,” he told her. “Next time I come, I shall have some exciting news to tell you.”

  The proposal took place in the living room of his parents’ small house, on the third Sunday in March. The afternoon was rather gray, but there was a fire in the grate, whose soft light seemed to reflect the kindness in her face.

  First he told her that he had ten thousand dollars. Then he told her that he would be happy to live in the city or out on Long Island, or anywhere else for that matter, but that there was only one thing that could bring him happiness. Then he told her he loved her and asked if she would marry him.

  He was rather surprised by her reaction. She did not answer at once, but looked down, as if she were considering.

  “May I have a little time?” she said at last.

  “Time? Certainly.” He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” She seemed to hesitate, and looked troubled.

  “Perhaps you do not like me.”

  “Salvatore, you are the best man I have ever met. I am honored by your proposal. I did not say no.”

  “It’s your parents, isn’t it? I will speak to your father.”

  “No.” She smiled. “Not yet. Give me a little time, Salvatore, and I will give you my answer.”