Sofia's Tune (26 page)

She edged her way forward and sat in the chair in front of his desk. He closed the door, causing her breath to catch. She swallowed hard and looked away.

He came in front of her to lean on his desk, uncomfortably close. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to use your telephone.”

“I see. And in return?”

“I…please, Mr. Richmond. Have mercy. I need to get my mamma back home.”

“Yes, so I understand.” He ran his hand over the black telephone as though stroking a puppy. “It’s a wonderful instrument. So handy. But, it does cost the company money and I am not at liberty to loan its use for employees to waste time talking on it.”

“I understand, Mr. Richmond. I am sure I won’t be long, and I am here before the shift begins. Please.”

“Certainly.”

She blew out her breath.

“Go on. You know how to use it?”

Of course she did not. She needed his help. She shook her head.

“Perhaps in return for me helping you make a call…” He put his hand on her knee and she flew back in her chair, sending it against the wall. He came toward her, eyes flaring. “Oh, come now, Miss Falcone, you have been flirting with me since you started working here. Don’t act so surprised.”

“No. I have not. I only want to use the telephone.”

He pinned her against the wall. “And I only want a kiss.” He laughed, breath hot on her neck. “That’s no more the truth than what you just said.” He began kissing her neck. She could shove him painfully, like she had the man in the bawdy boarding house, but he was her boss. What would happen if she did that? When he rubbed his hand down her waist, the debate in her mind ended. She lifted her knee and would have given him cause to crumple to the floor in pain if he had not stepped back just then.

He turned away and moved to the opposite side of his desk, the place he should have been all along. “This is not the time, sadly. That is to say, I would like you to tell me what you have learned from your co-workers.”

She glanced up at the huge clock on the wall. Voices and footsteps coming from the work floor told her she had only minutes to decide what to say. If she gave him a crumb, he might leave her alone.

“Uh, Claudia, she is the only one who talks, uh, she says workers should have rights.”

“So, she is inciting the workers, then?”

“No. She just talks…ideas. Thoughts she reads in magazines. Only talking.” The pounding in her head made it difficult to find the right words.

He narrowed his eyes at her like a wolf after prey. “I see. Claudia. Well, that is good information for now. I shall keep an eye on her. Now, let me help you with that call.”

It took several minutes to get connected.

“I am sorry, miss. No patient information can be given out without the permission of the attending doctor.”

“May I speak to him, please?”

“He is not here on Saturdays.”

Frustrated, Sofia thanked the person on the other end of the line and handed the earpiece back to Mr. Richmond.

“Cheer up, girl. You may call back on Monday. I look forward to our little rendezvous.”

She forced a smile and escaped back to the sewing floor. After routinely punching the time clock, she moved to her machine as if in a dream. Nothing happening around her mattered. Not even her boss’s advances. She would manage him somehow. Mamma was alone in a strange, cold place and needed her.

It was lunchtime before she realized Claudia was not present.

“She was called to Mr. Richmond’s office at the beginning of the shift,” Maria told her. “I have not seen her since. Perhaps she’s ill.”

A man working a row behind Sofia, the fellow who always seemed to be sticking his nose in where it did not belong, leaned his chair backward to speak to them. Sofia didn’t like him. He was the one who had first frightened her with his talk about Ward’s Island and other mysterious asylums. “I hear she’s been dismissed.”

Sofia was getting worried so she acknowledged the man’s intrusion. “What does that mean? Dismissed from what?”

“Her job. The sewing floor. She’s been sacked. Surely an Italian would understand that.” He sniffed. “None of you can hold on to a job. I’m surprised you are here and she’s the one who was sent away.”

Maria marched over and gave the man’s chair a shove before returning to her place.

The man laughed.

Sofia had not imagined Mr. Richmond would send Claudia away just because of what she said. She must make amends as soon as she could but first she had to finish her work or Mr. Richmond would make her stay late.

Finally, she stood to leave her sewing machine just as the floor boy arrived. By the time she finished giving him her completed soles, the shift whistle blasted and workers scurried toward the clock. If she hurried, she might reach the train in time to get to Ward’s Island. If she waited to speak to Mr. Richmond about Claudia, she might miss her opportunity. With a measure of guilt that sank in her stomach like a brick, she got in line to punch the clock, planning to dash off to the cloakroom and then hurry to catch the train.
La famiglia
was her first obligation, and she was somewhat surprised she had briefly considered anything else. Monday she would explain and tell Mr. Richmond it was a mistake. She would make sure someone came with her to his office. Claudia was his best worker. He would want her back, so convincing him should not be difficult. So long as he asked nothing more of her.

Chapter 30

Antonio limped from the nuns’ kitchen toward the train, calling for Lu as he went, though it hurt when he yelled too loudly. He tossed the accordion in a waste can, then backed up and retrieved it. He wasn’t sure why.

He gritted his teeth as he searched about, knowing he could not leave Little Italy without his dog. He slipped into a pharmacy and paid a nickel to use the telephone.

Mac did not sound pleased. “That’s a shame, losing your dog, Tony. I am sure he’ll show up. He might not have the senses of a boarder collie, but he’s a smart one. He’ll take care of himself.”

“I can’t leave here yet, Mac. I have to find him. He’s all I’ve got. Listen, I know you can say a good word for me. Explain to the theater.”

“You better get over there, Tony. There are…talent managers, shall I say, who are coming to hear that opera. I’ll let the manager know you’ve had a mishap and will be late. With the weather we’ve had, he’ll buy it. But you still need to skedaddle if you care about your future career, lad. Believe me when I tell you getting this job for you was worse than navigating the Firth of Clyde under Viking attack, not that I minded.”

Mac always liked to make his point with some Old World reference. But he was right. If Antonio hoped to secure enough work to pay his way to Oberlin, he could not afford to appear irresponsible. He should have never gone to the Italian enclave so close to show time.

“I will be there as soon as I can.”

When he left the shop he questioned some children. “Some say he looks like the Victor dog.”

They gave him puzzled looks.

He tried the Salvation Army, but Lieutenant Delfino hadn’t seen Luigi. He apologized because a planned rally was about to begin and he couldn’t help look.

Next Antonio stopped in what appeared to be a library. Several young people milled about inside. He spotted the girl he had seen in the nun’s kitchen. “Luisa? That’s your name?”

She nodded and moved to the side to pass him.

He stepped in front of her. “Have you seen my dog?”

“No,
signore
. I am sorry your dog is lost.” She turned her sad eyes up to look at him. “You should not be in here.”

“Why?”

“Go,
signore
. Please. It is not safe.”

“Hey, are you the one? Have you been sending me messages?”

Her eyes moistened and she ducked under his arm and got away before he could stop her. He stepped out into the street and yelled Luigi’s name. His voice seemed to wallow in a puddle of sounds—people talking, bells on carts jingling, laughter, singing, and then the toll of church bells. Antonio was not an opera singer. His voice would not carry above the throng. Finally, he decided the sister’s promise to look for Luigi and the lieutenant’s pledge to ask around would have to do and he reluctantly boarded the train.

Later, when he finished at the Twenty-third Street Theater, he would walk over to the Fourteenth. Lu might be waiting for him outside Mac’s theater, like he had so many times before.

At 8:20, Antonio met the attendant at the stage door who led him to the piano and thankfully handed him some sheet music. Even if Antonio had brought what Mac had given him it would be soaked through by now. As the performance before his came to a close, Antonio dropped the accordion and took his place at the keys. Not rehearsing with the singer prior to a performance was not unusual at the Fourteenth Street Theater, but the nervous look from the young woman with a painted face standing stiffly in the center of the stage told him this was not typical here. He had imposed on more than just the stage manager by being late. He hoped to apologize later. Accompanying a congregation at St. Anthony’s had done nothing to prepare him for this venue. This theater was a professional place, not a church service or nickel show where improvisation was acceptable. Why had they invited him sight unseen?

Antonio drew in a breath and shifted uncomfortably in his wet shoes. Then he raised his fingers over the black and white keys. He was capable. All he had to do was push away thoughts about where he was and how he’d left his dog somewhere in Little Italy. His father would be proud to see him in this theater. Antonio had God-given talent. God might be silent as far as Antonio was concerned, but he had blessed him with ability and sent him off into the world. He could do this.

Fortunately, the accompaniment was at a slow enough pace that he could follow the singer without mishap, at least without any that he could detect. Then came his solo piece, a fast paced, bouncy rag he had practiced earlier. His fingers flew over the keyboard in a celebration appropriate to the style of the composer. He actually enjoyed it and the resulting applause.

The rest of the opera, lasting nearly an hour, left him both exhilarated and exhausted. His shoulders ached and his throat had run dry but when the manager insisted he come on stage for a bow, to a thunderous audience response, Antonio knew he had done well. Very well. He would probably be called back for more work.

***

Late that night when he arrived at the Fourteenth, Lu was not posed outside the stage door as Antonio had hoped. The attendant spotted Antonio and motioned him inside. Mac had anticipated his coming by and thumped him soundly on the back as burly Scotsmen are prone to do, nearly knocking the accordion off his shoulder. “How did you do, lad?”

“A standing ovation.”

The man’s ruddy face glowed in the dark hallway. “Brilliant. Just brilliant, son. Let’s head over to the saloon. Whiskey’s on me.”

Antonio refused. “I have to find Lu.”

Mac pushed open the outside door. “Where is he? Wasn’t he outside the Twenty-third while you played?”

“No. I lost him before that. Remember I called you?”

Mac rubbed his chin. “Sure, but I thought he’d make his way up there, or at least here. He may not have the smarts of a sheep dog, like I said before, but he is pretty keen, that one. He’ll show up. But good for you. You made the best of the opportunity, then.” Mac slapped Antonio’s back again, causing Antonio to lunge a step forward.

“I guess I did. They asked me to come back.”

Mac winked. “They’d be off their heads if they didn’t, lad. Say, have you taken up a new instrument?”

“This thing? Nah. It belongs to my uncle. I should throw it in the trash as much trouble as it’s been toting it around. I had thought it was worth something, but not likely.”

“Do not do that, lad. Instruments are hard to come by. Go home and dry the thing out. See what you have left. That is what I would do.”

“Thanks, Mac.” He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for all you did for me. I wish I could repay the kindness.”

Mac’s fair face flushed. “No trouble, not for someone as talented as you, Tony.”

Antonio was beginning to tolerate being called that, especially by someone as generous as the manager of the Fourteenth.

***

Antonio watched the shadows falling over the seats of the trolley in front of him as he rode back to his apartment. Surely Lu would be there waiting for him. Despite the acclamations, tonight did not feel like a real victory when he was no closer to finding out why his father had been killed. And on top of it, he had lost his dog. He tucked the accordion case to his side and thought about how worthless it was. It didn’t play right, never did, even though his father said he had planned to fix it, since the buttons did not push down properly. Maybe there was something inside impeding their movement. The bottoms of the broken keys, probably. But what if it was easily fixed? Mac was right when he said something that can make music should be cherished.

When Antonio got home he found a note shoved under his door. Fine linen paper and exquisite handwriting, definitely not another note from Little Italy. He laid it on his piano bench while he removed his overcoat in the dark, quiet room. Without his companion’s tail-wagging welcome, the room felt empty. First his father. Now his dog. He shook his head. No, the nun would find him. Lu was probably snuggled on a cushion in the parish kitchen right now, perhaps enjoying a better feast than Antonio could provide. Surely that was true. God would not do this to him, would he?

He flicked on the electric light and paused a moment to listen to its buzzing. A neighbor upstairs shouted something he could not understand. It was loud enough, but in another language. Czech or German, he thought.

He washed his hands in the sink. He was not about to pick that note up and soil the paper. Perhaps it was meant for Miss Josephine in Apartment B and had been misdirected.

Finally, with clean hands, he examined it. It was addressed to him all right, from Ignacy Jan Paderewski, probably delivered by a late night courier. He placed it on the music stand and stared at it for a moment. Paderewski—or at least his name, in his handwriting—right here, looking over Antonio’s keyboard. He slipped the note free, leaving the addressed envelope prominently displayed.

Dear Mr. Baggio,

I applaud your performance earlier at the Twenty-third. I hope you will forgive me for not announcing my attendance in advance, and for not greeting you afterward, but by not bringing attention to my presence I hoped to witness your passion for the keyboard without any apprehension my being there might have caused you. I wanted to hear you play in this environment after watching you in vaudeville, which was quite good, by the way, although on an inferior piano. You, my boy, are a natural talent. Now that I have heard you myself, I would like to invite you to become my protégé. I will await your answer, if it is a positive one, at my suite of rooms on or before Monday. I will be traveling soon after. If you decide, as much as I hope you will not, to decline my offer, no response is necessary. But do accept my sincere compliments on your performance.

With all my best wishes,

I.J. Paderewski

The note was signed with a flourishing pen stroke, as a great pianist would be expected to do. Antonio was stunned. This could not be. All his life he had wanted to be someone half as talented as Paderewski, and to have the master compliment a mere ragtime opera performance? It was nearly incomprehensible. But it had happened. He had proof in his hands. This was the reason Mac had pushed him so hard to show up. Why hadn’t he told Antonio what he was up to?

Antonio turned to look at the envelope on the piano, the black ink letters bold against the white linen paper. Mac hadn’t told him because he knew how in awe Antonio was of the man. He didn’t want Antonio to freeze up.

He marveled at the events, how things had unfolded. He’d been struggling to find work when he met the writer in the pub, who had then helped Antonio make the musician's acquaintance. It seemed like happenstance, but things could not have fallen in place without help, without a conductor orchestrating his life. Antonio had not planned this. He could not have even dreamed it. His gaze fell to the Bible on his bedside table. How he had not trusted. How he had pondered whether God heard his prayers. It was Sofia Falcone who had insisted that God hears our prayers always and obviously she had been correct. He must thank her for helping him realize this. She would be the first one he would invite when he finally held a concert in a great hall one day, as an Oberlin graduate.

“Hey, boy, isn’t that something!” He glanced at Lu’s empty bed. He was so used to having him there, and now he felt foolish. If it hadn’t been so late he would have found a telephone and called over to the abbey to see if Lu had shown up. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to share this good news with his most loyal companion.

As he prepared for bed, he noticed again the old accordion. He felt that now was the right time to show gratitude toward his father, and his unwavering support, and to care for his one possession left behind. After lifting it from its case and discovering it had stayed relatively dry, he brought it to the table and dug in a cabinet drawer until he found a screwdriver and pliers. Before he did anything that might render the instrument musically useless, he set it on his knee and examined the keys. The instrument was what they called a button accordion, smaller than most but still weighing as much as a smoked Christmas ham. Running a finger over the lettering, he noted the make, an Italian company called Soprani. Papà had most likely brought it over from the homeland. But he’d never played it, so far as Antonio knew. Antonio had never tried the thing despite his father’s proclivity for leaving it in plain view. Antonio’s father had collected various instruments to see if his son might be drawn to something—harmonica, a guitar, and this. The piano had been Antonio’s choice. He’d never once considered the accordion. Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of shame, he’d deemed it an old world instrument, something for paupers and beggars to use. Had his father been insulted by his choice? If he had, he’d never shown it.

Antonio pressed his fingers to the buttons and tried out the billows. The only thing broken, it seemed, was a few of the keys, one more resistant than the others. When he pushed on it, he heard a clunking sound, as though something was in the way. Why on earth would his father insist Nicco protect this?

He set it down and went to boil water for coffee and to talk sense to himself. There was no possible way this thing contained buried treasure, but perhaps Papà could have put something inside. A note. An explanation of what he was doing at Cooper Union. A clue. If he found something he’d have to apologize to Nicco. If he found nothing, no harm done.