The Coming of Fabrizze: A Novel (Black Squirrel Books) (11 page)

Fabrizze went round the counter. He heard Vivolo speaking in rich precise Italian.

“My dear lady, my dear lady,” said Vivolo.

“What is it, what is it?”

“You're standing on my foot,” said Vivolo.

“I'm sorry!”

“Now it's the other foot,” said Vivolo, confiding.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! A strange dialect you speak.”

“Yours is even stranger,” said Vivolo.

“Vivolo,” said Fabrizze. “Can I help you?”

“Some citrate,” said Vivolo. “The Brioschi. And I'd like some cheese. Let me taste what you have there.”

Fabrizze cut a slice of provolone and passed it over. A man intercepted it and swallowed it, neatly.

“Good appetite,” said Vivolo. “Some bread?”

Fabrizze passed another slice.

“Too sharp and strong,” said Vivolo. “I want something mild. Something to alert me.”

He bought a bulb of mozzarella cheese. Fabrizze walked him to the door and asked his opinion of the business.

“You'll do well,” said Vivolo. “I was watching Mendone. The people gather around him. They'll wait and wait for him. It's good the way he handles the food.”

Suddenly Vivolo was dancing aside. He swept off his derby as Grace guided Paul in his stroller through the door.

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling.

“I'm comical?” said Vivolo.

“Forgive me,” said Grace.

“A pleasure,” said Vivolo.

“It's your derby,” said Grace. “I have the feeling that something will jump out when you do that.”

Something did jump out. A man with an armful of bags blundered against Vivolo and a jar of peppers jumped out. Vivolo caught it before it hit the floor. So quick was his movement that no one could follow it. He replaced the jar and turned to Grace and Fabrizze. His gold pivot tooth flashed in a smile.

“Good luck with the store,” he said. “And good day to you.”

He bowed out.

“Did you see that?” said Grace.

“Rumbone says he's a panther,” said Fabrizze.

“I was still watching the jar,” said Grace. “And he had it!”

“An exciting man.”

“I wonder where he goes in the day,” said Grace.

Mendone came round the counter.

“I'll take the child for a breath of air,” he said. “We'll be closing the store in a while.”

“Go for a walk, Paul,” said Grace. “But why are you looking like that? What's to be done with such a boy?”

Mendone invited him to shake hands.

“What a fellow you are,” said Mendone. “We kiss every morning and still I have to introduce myself in the afternoons. Come along through the market. We'll see our friends again.”

Paul offered his hand and looked away.

“Look, look,” said Mendone. “Your hand fits in mine. But we belong to each other, eh?”

He pushed the stroller outside.

The two rows of market stands were divided by a walk. Late sun slanted beneath the roof as though drawn here for a long look at this feast of color. Owners of stands were lounging and talking in the soft light. They were ready to close down for the weekend. Each one seemed to be waiting for his neighbor to make the move.

The potato seller called out when she saw Mendone.

“It's Mendone,” she said. “He has time for old friends.”

“Not Mendone?” said the owner of the next stand.

“It is Mendone,” said the next.

Suddenly the name was being carried all the way down the aisle. It reached the far stand where Piconi stood smiling over his watermelons. Piconi leaned forward.

“Is it Paul?” he said, shading his eyes.

“Paul is there.”

“Come here, Paul, come here.”

“Watermelon, Paul, watermelon.”

“Peaches, Paul, peaches.”

“Plums for Paul.”

And now the boy's name was round and about like a summons to delight from every side.

“Where is this Paul?”

“Paul is there.”

“Show me this Paul.”

Paul took hold of the bar of the stroller. He rose up as if to make a speech. His eyes opened wide as he heard his name filling the day. He was so thrilled that he lost balance and tumbled backward into his seat. Laughter was everywhere.

“So this is Paul,” said Sisto. “I keep secrets. Tell me what Paul will be when he grows up.”

“Tell him,” said Mendone. “Tell Sisto you'll be a man.”

Paul gurgled with a strange sure emphasis at the end.

“Did he say it?” said Sisto, startled.

“Did you hear it?” said Mendone.

“I thought I did,” said Sisto.

“But then he said it,” said Mendone.

“And not even a year he has,” said Sisto. “Why, it's enough to be a man. A peach as gold as your hair for such a response.”

“And for the teacher?” said Mendone.

“A peach for the teacher,” said Sisto.

Barbieri was leaning over his mound of blue plums. He sniffed the air. He blinked in amazement and looked again.

“Look at this,” he said. “Is it wheels under Paul? But he's on the move before he walks.”

“We must make room for the young,” said Mendone.

“This America, this America,” said Barbieri.

Old man and boy made their way up one side of the market and came down the other side. The boy was fascinated by the colors and shapes. They changed and changed again. His mouth fell open at the swollen green watermelons. All at once there was a full red smiling cut, and the sweetness of it melted away inside him. Here and there Mendone stopped to talk with friends.

“What's this pencil on your ear?” said Teresa. “You've come a long way since cleaning my celery, eh? Can you write something?”

“It isn't necessary,” said Mendone.

“How the child gazes at me,” said Teresa. “No one has looked that long in thirty years! What is it he sees, madonna mia, what is it he sees? Let me clean a carrot for him. I'm a woman of business, Mendone, and so I trade him a carrot for a kiss.”

Mendone started away.

“Wait then,” said Teresa.

“What is it?”

“Take something,” said Teresa. “Wait, wait. Here is a fine red pepper for you. Roast it on the stove. I had it set aside. I was going to take it home.”

“Save it then,” said Mendone.

“I want you to have it,” said Teresa. “I just remembered it. I remembered it for you.”

Mendone and Paul reached the last of the stands.

“Are you leaving then?”

“Come again, Paul, come again.” “Goodbye, Mendone.”

Their names were carried down the cool sweet aisle to Piconi who stood there in the last glow of sunlight. Piconi twirled his moustache in triumph and threw a kiss. Mendone lifted Paul to his shoulder. He was teaching the child to throw a kiss.

“Leave a kiss for your friends,” he said.

Paul hid his face.

“Look, Paul, look,” said Sisto.

Paul peeked out.

“A kiss for Paul!”

Laughter was heard.

“Come again, Paul.”

“Goodbye, Mendone, goodbye

“Mendone—Mendone.”

D
EATH came to Mendone in the night.

He was set forth in the house on Jackson Street. Three days and three nights the candles were burning beside the great coffin. There was the slow black march of the mourners. Hour after hour the anguished cries went up. Grief and sorrow flooded into every corner of the old house. Toward the end it seemed to Grace that death was the wild blind king of the world.

By the third day everyone had told a tale.

“Mendone worked for me in the market,” said Teresa. “When he started I never used to show the prices of things. I'd change the prices for different people. Some of the customers never ask you the price. It's the gentle ones. They're ashamed. You can see it. I'd raise the price three or four cents. And then I'd turn around. Mendone would be watching me. Not a word from him. But something was in his mouth. It was dragging that moustache down. And then one morning I was looking in the mirror. All at once I looked just like he did. From then on I showed the prices.”

“I'll tell you how it was with my husband,” said a woman. “He finished shaving. He was teasing me. He said the funeral director wouldn't have to shave him. He died on the spot! Right there at the sink! And then you think it's over. But it's beginning. They follow you. They follow and follow.”

“Always with that smile,” said another. “And then she had the stroke. She couldn't move. And still she had the smile. I'd cry out to see it. And her eyes would fill with tears for me. For me, I tell you, for me.”

“Two hours,” said another. “Five months old she was. One minute she was smiling. Like an angel in my arms. And then she began to cough and shiver. It came in her eyes. She reached for me. It's like she was falling. She died in my arms. And not even a word could she say. Not one word passed between us. What's the meaning of it? But what's the meaning of such a thing?”

Grace went numb with listening and waiting. It was not until the procession gathered at the cemetery that she gave way. She was holding Fabrizze. Suddenly she was standing over it.

“O my God,” she said. “0 my God! Don't let it happen! Don't put him in there! Don't do it! O, Grandfather! God help him! O my God, my God! Don't let it happen!”

She collapsed beside the black open grave.

For weeks after the funeral she refused to go out of the house. Her eyes would fill with tears at the mention of his name. Night was the dreadful time. Memory was like a hand squeezing her heart. Mendone returned to invite her back into the past. She remembered the day that she had come to live with him. It was as though the wind had swept the house into disorder. And yet there was a white rose nodding in a wine glass on the kitchen table.

“I'm getting old,” he said. “Have patience with me.”

One night she thought of the gay lovely year following her marriage. She remembered the white gloves and the nuts and the wine. She saw him gazing at the violin in a troubled way.

“Why does this violin worry you?” said Fabrizze. “The music is in you, Mendone, and not the violin.” “But it's true, “said Mendone.

Grace sat up in bed in the dark. So sharp and terrible was the sense of loss that she gave a cry. Suddenly her body was shaking with sobs. Fabrizze put his arms around her.

He would leave in the morning and return to find her staring out the window. One day she was sitting before an open drawer that held the pipe and few belongings of Mendone. The violin and the stool were beside her.

“Is this all?” she was saying. “Is this all?”

“You should put these things away,” said Fabrizze.

“My heart is like a stone,” said Grace. “I think of death and death and death. This morning I woke up with an idea in my head. It made me cold. Perhaps we don't belong here.”

The neighbors watched for a time and then they took a hand in it. Soon they were coming to visit her all through the day. First to arrive in the morning was Adelina. The old lady put life in the house with her stinging talk.

“Is there no coffee?” she said, in the empty kitchen. “I came with the snow, old as I am, and not even a cup of coffee to warm me. Come down here, Grace. Out of bed with you.”

“I'm not in bed,” said Grace, coming down.

“Why not?” said Adelina. “You might as well be.”

She was rubbing her finger along the window sills and the woodwork. Paul thought it was a game. He followed her.

“You should be ashamed,” said Adelina, showing the dust.

She washed her hands before unwrapping a loaf of bread.

“Someone must look after your husband,” she said. “And what about the boy? Did you tell him that life was over? Tell him something else. Tell him that your grandfather lost a mother and a father. And a wife and a daughter.”

“The bread is warm,” said Grace.

“I'll show you how to make such bread,” said Adelina. “My aunt used to say she was building a loaf of bread. I put eggs in mine. You can make it while your neighbor sleeps.”

Later in the morning Bassetti came from the market with a basket of endive. He cleaned it leaf by leaf at the sink. Meanwhile he talked and talked.

“Endive is good in a salad of oil,” he said. “Better yet, you can cook it with the white beans. It's no wonder the poor people have strength…. It was a favorite dish with your grandfather, eh? Do you know I chose him to be one of my pallbearers? It was settled between us, and here it was I carried him. The second time such a thing happened. Do you remember the grocer's father? Spracchi?”

Bassetti waited for his answer.

“I don't remember,” said Grace, softly.

“A remarkable face,” said Bassetti. “How I wanted that face at my funeral. And he promised to be there. The man never smiled. He closed his mouth against it. Two deep lines worked into his face. You'd follow the lines up to his eyes. Why, it broke your heart to look at them. The man was stuffed up with grief. He used to go out of his way for a funeral. One night he was at the wrong funeral for two hours…. And so the endive is cleaned.”

The turning point of these visits came on the morning Poggio brought his gift. It was a feather duster. Poggio went upstairs with Grace following him. He began to dust the picture of Mendone on the wall. No sound was in the room. His arm fell. He turned to Grace with a stricken look. Her eyes were bright.

“I meant no harm,” he said.

“There is none,” said Grace.

“My father is right,” he said. “He says that everything I do is wrong. From now on I'll do nothing.”

“But it's a lovely gift,” said Grace, kissing him.

Sweet laughter welled inside her.

At that moment Vivolo slipped out of his room. The cane was on his wrist and he carried a black briefcase. He closed his door as if leaving the scene of the crime. He sniffed the air and was gone.

“I'm going to the store,” said Poggio. “You're staying here. But where is the panther going?”

Suddenly Grace realized that Vivolo had been living in the house all through this mournful time. Never had he come to disturb her. It seemed he was being careful not to intrude on her sorrow. She felt a surge of warmth for the dark lonely man. She would invite him to supper.

Sharp at five he returned. He tapped his cane in warning and hesitated at the kitchen door. Grace put her sewing aside. When she looked again Vivolo was gone. She went out and saw him slip into his room. He closed the door without a sound.

Grace wondered about him. As time went on the mystery of his manner and purpose helped to draw her away from grief. Early in the day he left the house with his briefcase. Returning in the afternoon he took a nap. After a stroll he locked himself in his room where the light was burning long into the night. The neighborhood was fascinated by its own rumors. Misinformation was carefully pieced together. Vivolo was being watched and questioned and even followed.

One morning he stepped out of the house as Cardino was coming down the street. Cardino froze in his tracks with the look of one who is concealed. Vivolo took a golden watch out of his vest. He held it there in the sun. He studied it. He let it swing on the golden chain. Cardino followed the swing. His head was swaying with it. Vivolo put the watch away. He tapped the briefcase and beckoned. Cardino followed him. Vivolo circled the block and went back into the house. He had forgotten his cane. Cardino was waiting when he came out. Vivolo made a motion as if to take out the watch again. Cardino was gazing at the loop of chain. Vivolo smiled and beckoned.

“We'll go around again,” said Vivolo. “And then I'll swing the watch a little.”

“Once is enough,” said Cardino. “I have a favor to ask. I'm going in to see Grace. Tell me what to say. Something cheerful.”

“There is one blessing,” said Vivolo. “The blessing is life.”

“Life?” said Cardino. “But Mendone is dead.”

“There you have it,” said Vivolo.

“But I understand you,” said Cardino. “You mean there's nothing to say, eh? What a deep one you are! Still, we get to know each other. Come closer. Tell me what's in the briefcase.”

“Never,” said Vivolo.

“Bravo,” said Cardino, startled.

Evidence weighed against Vivolo. He lived alone and had no friends. He asked no questions and tended his own affairs. The fact is, he was becoming a kind of threat. Josephine complained that he looked at her as though he needed further proof of her existence. Adelina said he never even looked at her. No one could place his dialect.

“It's from the east coast of Italy,” said Gritti. “And he has that look about him. I've seen it before. There's a cup of the icy Greek blood in him.”

“Sicily, Sicily,” said Poggio. “Go near him and he puts his hand in his pocket. It's to be sure he left his money home.”

“He smiles and smiles,” said Penza. “What's the reason for it? You leave him and it's like he put water in your shoes.”

“Those eyes, those eyes,” said Rumbone. “Like olives.”

Rumbone was gripped by the mystery. Surely he would open the newspaper and find a picture with word that this cunning criminal had been surprised in the midst of conspiracy. Rumbone abandoned all customers when Vivolo tapped his way into the store.

“Some Brioschi,” said Vivolo, one afternoon.

“Brioschi, Brioschi,” said Rumbone, craftily.

“It's a clue,” said Vivolo.

“I had this dream about you,” said Rumbone. “I woke in a cold sweat. They were coming for you.”

“The neighbors?” said Vivolo.

“But what are you up to?” said Rumbone. “Trust me, trust me. Tell me everything. Put it on me.”

“Your face, your face,” said Vivolo. “It tells me everything but your name.”

Vivolo returned to the house. Grace was in the kitchen. He removed his derby and waited in the doorway.

“Please come in,” said Grace. “Have some coffee.”

“Do you have camomile?” said Vivolo. “My throat is raw.”

Grace prepared camomile tea.

“You were sewing the other day,” said Vivolo. “It was the first time in several weeks. I hope it means you feel better.”

“I do,” said Grace. “Everyone is kind.”

Vivolo sipped the tea. His head was cocked. It seemed he was listening to his heartbeat.

“I've been watching Fabrizze,” he said. “He keeps the others behind the counter. He works with his hands. He moves the crates and sacks. He stocks the shelves and sweeps the floor. He scrubs the walls. And all the while he watches the door.”

Vivolo leaned forward. His face had the dark elegant glow of woodcarving.

“And then he gives up,” he said. “He won't lift a bean. He sends for the boy who plays the harmonica. He'll sit on the sacks and listen to music the rest of the day. Last week the boy made a song for him. Just for him. Fabrizze was excited with it. He was moving all the crates again. … Do you know I broke a promise?”

“What promise?”

“I promised to send you to him,” said Vivolo. “It's for you and Paul he's watching.”

Grace woke Paul from his nap. She dressed him and went down to stay with Fabrizze until he closed the store.

N
OW and again Vivolo came for an hour of talk in the long wintry afternoons. Grace was careful not to question him and so she learned nothing beyond the fact that he had traveled widely. One day he was eager to share good news. For the moment he would only reveal that he was caught up in a venture promising a success as brilliant as his talents.

“I had two ideas,” he said. “But it upsets the stomach. Now I have the one. It's like an affair.” “Of the heart?” said Grace.

“Never,” said Vivolo. “The heart never sleeps. Listen then. I'll be down here later. I'd like to talk to Fabrizze.”

Fabrizze did most of the talking. He came home bursting with news of his own. Grace sat there trying to keep up with it. He went round and round the table.

“Here's Vivolo,” he said. “Come in, come in. Sit down. A glass of wine. Did you hear the news? Things are happening, my friend. I sent a hundred dollars to my uncle in Italy. I'll send more. It will build up. He'll put it aside for the people planning to come here. They'll pay it back when they can. And I'll send it again to help others. One thing more. My uncle has two fine sons. He says he'll send them when they're older. They should come as soon as possible. We'll be ready for them.”

“Wait a day,” said Grace. “We need food in the house.”

“There's food enough in the store,” said Fabrizze. “One thing more. I'm buying fifty acres of land in the outskirts of the city. Land is cheap. I'll buy more. Some day we'll build houses there.”

“Five minutes more and we'll have a city,” said Vivolo.

“I was thinking of Adelina,” said Fabrizze. “On the last night of the funeral I went to the kitchen. The old lady was crying. At the same time she was digging the marrow out of a soup bone. ‘Poor Mendone,' she said. ‘What's to be done?' And then she was at the bone. ‘Why should I lose the best of it?' she said. She cleaned the bone white and then she was wringing her hands for Mendone again. ‘What's to be done?' she said. She went upstairs to take a nap and be strong for the burial in the morning. She cried out louder than anyone. ‘What's to be done?' she said. A few weeks later she was here every day to help Grace. An old lady and she does everything she can. It's a lesson for us.”