Bellagrand: A Novel (37 page)

“
Santa Madre di Dio
, it’s hot here. Gia, baby girl!” He opened his arms.

She ran to him. They embraced with joy. “How did you get here, Salvo?” When he told her, she threw her hands up. “You walked?
Pazzo!
”

“What is wrong with your voice,
sorella
?”

“Never mind that.” Stepping away from him, she gestured to the house. “So? What do you think?”

Salvo glanced around, trying not to whistle or look too impressed. “It’s nice. A little small. Where am
I
going to sleep?” He twisted her hair, inspected her. “Gia, you’re black like the Sicilian drunks who lie all day in the sun.”

“Yes, the sun is merciless here,” she said, wearing a light cotton housedress, her curls piled every which way. “You’ll see soon enough. Would you like a tour of the house?”

“House, house. I’ve seen houses before. How about a tour of the child? Where is he?”

“Oh, Esther has him.” She leaned to Salvo. “She never puts him down, Salvo. She’s going to ruin that baby. Oh, Esther! Salvo is here.”

Rosa and Esther came in from the kitchen, carrying Alexander. “Do you see how it requires two grown women to carry one baby?” she whispered to her brother.

Salvo let his duffel fall to the floor. He reached for the infant, while simultaneously assessing the two women in front of him. Gina tried not to laugh watching the cogs spin in her brother’s devilish mind. Some things never changed. Salvo was terrible at hiding anything he was feeling. After a three-second appraisal, he correctly determined that Esther was going to remain forever impenetrable to his copious charms. So he wasn’t going to waste a speck of his gifts on her. He turned his attention to Rosa. A toothy smile opened his face from ear to ear. Alexander stared up curiously at the new face above him.

“Alessandro,” Salvo said, momentarily taking his eyes off Rosa and looking down at the nephew lying in his arms. “I’m your Uncle Salvo.
Zio Salvo
, can you say it?” He held the child to the light. “What’s happening, little cowboy?” He bounced Alexander up and down. The boy’s unsupported head bobbed. “You like fishing?”

The two-week-old stared.

“Hold his head, if you would, please,” said Esther, prim and already disapproving.

Salvo continued bobbing him, but held his head. “I’ll take you fishing, if you want.”

“Maybe not yet, Salvo.”

“I don’t mean now, Gia. When I teach him how to hook a worm.”

Gina chortled. “First
you’ll
have to learn how. When was the last time you fished,
fratello
? Twenty-five years ago in Catania?” She pulled him forward. “Esther, this is my brother, Salvo. This is Esther, Harry’s sister.”

Holding the baby in one arm, Salvo bent theatrically and kissed her hand. “The pleasure is
all
mine,” he said into her closed and critical face. “And I mean that sincerely. The pleasure is
all
mine.”

Gina almost laughed out loud.

“But who is the
donna
bella
by Esther’s side?”

“That’s Rosa, Esther’s companion.” Gina pulled on Salvo’s shirtsleeve. “But she is not lovely.”

“Thank you very much, Gina,” said Rosa.

“She is not for you, Salvo, is what I meant,” Gina said. “Rosa is entirely too mature.”

Rosa didn’t seem to agree that she was too mature for feisty, adorable, friendly, handsome Salvo.

“
Matura
?” Salvo sparkled. In Italian it meant
ripe
.

“No. Mature in English. As in, too grown up for you.”

“I disagree with you,
mia sorella
,” Salvo said, rolling his r’s, his vowels, caressing each word on his Italian tongue. “My eyes do not lie. Rrrrosa is the verrry
picturrra
of loooveliness.”

Gina dragged the blushing, giggling Rosa away into the relative privacy of the butler’s pantry. “Rosa, you’re a grown woman, and of course you will do as you please, but as his sister, I’m going to give you one word of
caveat emptor
. I love my brother and he has many fine qualities . . .”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you had such a brother?” In the seclusion of the pantry, Rosa was busy rearranging her hair to drape more loosely around her face even as Gina kept trying to save her.

“But there is one thing my brother is especially good at . . .” she continued.

“I can hardly guess what that might be.” Rosa tittered.

“And that is,” Gina said, “breaking the heart of every girl he’s ever been with. Every single one. He’s breathtakingly good at that. So approach at your own peril.”

Judging by Rosa’s flushed expression as she flattened out the folds of her day skirt, this only inflamed her, approaching peril be damned. Gina rolled her eyes as they returned to the Great Hall. She could only do so much. At the end of the day, Rosa was going to have to save herself.

Harry walked in from the outside in his casual linen house clothes and stood warily next to Gina, saying nothing, watching Salvo flirt with Rosa and coo over the baby. “What’s happening over there?” he asked quietly.

“What does it look like?”

“Trouble.”

“Exactly.”

Finally Salvo looked away from Rosa and at Harry. “Hello, Salvo,” said Harry, stepping forward.

“Hello, Harry.” Salvo paused a second, swallowed, and then stepped toward Harry’s proffered hand. The men shook.

“How have you been?”

“Not as good as you, I see,” Salvo said, appraising him, smiling lightly.

Harry shrugged. “Yes, I’m like a tree-climbing crab. All day in the sun.”

Salvo agreed. “It’s fantastic here. I walked four miles in the heat with such joy.” He put an affectionate arm around his sister. “Hot like Belpasso, eh?”

“Much hotter.” Winking at Harry, Gina kissed her brother’s cheek. She was so happy to have Salvo with her. “And there are no volcanoes.”

“Let’s not stand here like pillars,” Harry said. “Come in, Salvo, let’s have a drink, relax before dinner. Gina told me you can stay for a few weeks?”

“Two at most,” said Salvo.

“Wonderful.”

“But now I realize,” the Italian man suavely continued, “that two weeks won’t be nearly enough to partake of the pleasures of this great state.” He smiled widely at Rosa as they walked to the kitchen. “Perhaps a few more than two?”

“Oh, I think two weeks is plenty,
more
than enough,” Esther piped up, easing the baby out of Salvo’s arms, as if they were playing musical Alexanders. “What else is there to do here besides carry the baby? Oh, and Rosa and I heard a hurricane was headed this way. Didn’t we, Rosa?” Esther widened her eyes. “Very frightening. Because you know, Salvo, we’re so close to the water. The tides are likely to swell. Right, Fernando?”

“No, no, do not worry, señora,” said Fernando, who had joined them in the kitchen. “We are not in the path of hurricanes. The coast bends favorably for us. Not like the Keys, where it can get quite stormy.” He grinned.

Salvo grinned back at him like a kid. “And who is this?”

“Fernando,” said Harry.

“Fernando! I’m Salvatore. But you call me Salvo.” One handshake and they were off, one speaking Italian, one Spanish, understanding nothing, and yet everything.

They had a seafood feast that night prepared by Emilio, and Fernando and Rosa both joined them on the veranda. Salvo refused to take a guest bedroom upstairs. “Neither gold nor lavender,” he said. He asked instead if he could stay in the mews house with Fernando.

“Like a servant?” Esther stage-hissed as Carmela and Emilio cleared the table.

“Leave him alone, Esther,” said Harry. “He’s a big boy.”

“You’re right.” Esther shook her head. “No use,” she said in clipped English, “in casting pearls before swine.”

Salvo remained coolly cheerful. “Have you considered the possibility, dear sister-in-law,” he said, raising his wineglass to her, “that it is Fernando who may be
la perla
?”

Alexander was baptized. Salvo stayed. One week, twelve days, two weeks, a month. The house readjusted. Salvo and Fernando became fast friends. Salvo even tried to charm Margaret Janke, but when she asked him how much longer he was planning to stay, he couldn’t get even a chuckle out of her when he told her he was thinking of never leaving. “Officer Janke, are you sure you’re not in any way related to Mrs. Esther Barrington over there?” Salvo asked. “Because I am almost certain you must be.”

“Is this a joke?” said Janke. “Why would I be related to Mr. Barrington’s sister?”

“No reason at all, señora.”

After that Gina forbid Salvo to leave the mews house on Monday mornings, just in case Janke decided to take out Salvo’s mischief on Harry, who was plenty mischievous himself.

Every evening after dinner, over Esther’s ignored objections, Fernando and Rosa joined the family outside, and while Alexander slumbered peacefully in one adult or another’s inebriated arms, they had rum with mint, with Coke, with sugar, they had red wine with fruit in a drink called sangria, and under the palms discussed all manner of things: the menu for the next day, the path of Alexander’s bright future, Salvo’s uncertain future, and the best Romance language for songs of love. Salvo and Harry put away their past troubles. They shook hands, sat down to dinner, and rose the next morning as family. They raged in faltering SpanishEnglishItalian about the coming of Prohibition, like the Apocalypse. In January, 1920, a delectable nectar like rum would become illegal to procure and transport. After weeks of nightly harangues against the women’s movement, their right to vote, and their subsequent cursed involvement in men’s politics to the detriment of all drinking men (“And women,” Gina pointed out with a minty drink between her elongated fingers), Harry told them all to rest easy, because for the past six months he had been paying Fernando to travel back to Cuba—four times—to bring back crates of the finest Havana Club rum, white, gold, and aged.

“Because let’s remember, ladies and gentlemen,” said Harry, “we
know
that the people on this lanai are smarter than all the fools in Washington, who decreed it was a good idea to pass the Volstead Act and ratified the Eighteenth Amendment, but forgot to insert a single mention into the new law about the
consumption
of alcohol. So we can’t buy it, or sell it, or drive it from our house to Chuck’s next door, who has plenty of his own, by the by, but we can store it here, and make it here, and drink it here. So fret not.”

“Good man, Harry,” said Salvo. “But what happens when we run out?”

Fernando slapped Salvo on the back. “
Mi amigo
,
por favor
, do not worry. I will teach you how to ferment your own rum.” He flashed his smile.

“As long as it’s not with that devil-spawn molasses,” said Salvo, “I can’t wait to learn.”

Fernando also brought back bottles of Guayabita del Pinar, a potent Vueltabajo liqueur made from sugar and fruit of the wild guava that grew only on the River Pine in Cuba. But this Harry kept just for him and Gina. A gulp or three of this heady drink,
dolce
,
dolce
,
and he and Gina would spend senseless hours living out in full a verse of the Canticles,
Io sono del mio diletto, e il mio diletto è mio.

I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.

Five

AFTER ALEXANDER’S CHRISTENING,
Salvo wasn’t sure of his plans, but one thing he knew with conviction: he was never returning to the snows of Boston.

“I might get a job,” he told Gina and Harry one lazy morning over
huevos rancheros
he was eating above Alexander’s bobbing head. “I like the tanned summer girls.” He grinned. Rosa wasn’t around.

“A job doing
what
?” Harry asked incredulously. “I’m not sure what you’re imagining is an actual paid position.”

Salvo laughed. “Gia, is your husband right,
sorella cara
?”

“Yes,” she said. “But why should that stop you from your wicked plans? Give me the baby. He needs to eat, too.” She nursed him under a shawl right at the breakfast table.

Salvo found a job at a local bakery. A week later he was given a raise, because no one could bake bread as well as Salvo or increase their sales by twelve percent by virtue of his baking skills combined with his bronzed good looks and Sicilian charm. He soon realized the bakery was not a good fit for him. The blazing sun and the nearby Florida beaches with their heady accoutrements were too enticing for him to spend his days in hot basements near broiling ovens. He found a job at the local docks washing the boats. That suited him better. He still worked at the bakery part-time, selling the bread he made there at the outdoor market on Saturdays, greeting the friendly and well-dressed female customers. From the musically prolific Fernando, he learned to play a little guitar, so he bought himself one, rented a tiny bungalow near the marina where he worked, and at night strummed “Rumores de la Caleta” on the Tequesta docks, like a mating call of the Italian swallows.

As the summer waned, he asked Gina for a short-term loan to finance his enrollment in a horticulture course. “I want to learn to be a landscaper,” he told his family. “I’ll be outside all day. It’s a perfect job.” He smiled happily. “I’ll get hired by all the
bellissima
ladies with time and money to spare so I can make their fertile gardens blossom.”

“Salvo!”

“Horticulture, Gia. Don’t be cheeky. It’s my next career.” He raised his face to the sky. He was already black from the sun.

“Are you sure you want to loan him money for this?” Harry asked Gina. “Isn’t it like being an accessory to . . .”

“To what, Harry?” Gina asked, smiling, nursing Alexander. “To love? To joy? To life?”

“I was thinking of something else, but all right.”

Gina bent over her three-month-old son, covering him with kisses. “You’re not going to be like that, are you, baby? Like your silly billy
Zio
Salvo, always searching, never finding? You’re going to be a good boy, right?”