The Coming of Fabrizze: A Novel (Black Squirrel Books) (6 page)

“What is it?” said Fabrizze. “What was it?”

“Come closer then,” said Rumbone. “So soft it was. How did she say it? ‘It's almost enough,' she said. ‘It's almost enough that you come from the Abruzzi,' she said.”

“Back to work,” said Fabrizze.

“They say she sings in the house,” said Penza.

“She sings to her grandfather,” said Rumbone. “She'll sing to you and your children, Fabrizze, if given the chance.”

“So be it,” said Fabrizze. “I'm for it.”

“I'll take you to meet her,” said Rumbone.

“We'll be uneasy there,” said Fabrizze. “I've seen it in the past weeks. I have a plan.”

“Lose no time,” said Penza. “A proposal was made.”

Fabrizze was ready to make one. The truth is, he had fallen in love. He decided it was time to meet the girl.

He took to walking two blocks out of his way just to pass her house on Jackson Street. Day after day he rushed by holding his breath. Nothing happened. He could bear it no longer. One spring morning he resolved to go round and round the block until dark. It was on his third trip that the upstairs window opened. His heart skipped a beat. Suddenly she was there calling to him.

“Good morning to you,” she said.

“Good morning, good morning,” said Fabrizze.

“Are you going around again?” she said. “I just saw you.”

“I was looking for someone,” said Fabrizze.

“Can I help you? Who is it?”

“I was looking for you,” said Fabrizze.

“My name is Grace Mendone.”

“But I recognized you. I am Cennino Fabrizze. I work for the railroad. And I gather information about you.”

“About me?”

“Everyone tells me things. It's like gathering flowers. You have friends on every side.”

“They tell you about me?” said Grace. “But why?”

“Because I ask them.”

“And what do they say?”

“Some say this and some say that. But they all say that Grace Mendone is good to be with. So good to be with that a proposal has been made.”

“Thank you.”

“It's what they say.”

“And they speak of you,” said Grace. “May I ask you something? Is there work on the railroad for my grandfather?”

“Can he do it?”

“He is good company,” said Grace.

“Can I talk with him?”

“He works three days a week in the market. Do you have time to come and visit us tonight?”

“I'll be here early.”

“We'll be waiting.”

“I'll be waiting longer,” said Fabrizze.

It was a splendid evening.

Mendone never once stopped talking. His bald head was aglow and his fine white moustache followed the joyous curve of his mouth. Fabrizze listened to the singsong of talk and watched Grace out of the corner of his eye. Her pale dark beauty struck him speechless. Suddenly he was afraid to turn and look at her. He leaned forward in his chair and fixed his glance on Mendone. The old man was delighted and drew his own chair closer.

“It's years ago I came to America,” said Mendone. “I had a taste for money and power and corn meal. The com meal was for balance. My brother took me aside before I left. ‘Your appetites change now that you change countries?' he said. ‘No, no,' I told him. ‘I'm changing countries because of my appetites.' ‘You aim low,' he said. ‘Why not put in strength of character as a thing to strive for?' ‘Very good,' I said. ‘From this moment I put in strength of character, and take out the corn meal.' It was all a dream, Fabrizze, except for the corn meal.”

“He is here to see you about work,” said Grace.

“I clean vegetables in the market,” said Mendone. “Lettuce and carrots and cabbage. I'm good for nothing else.”

“Shame on you,” said Grace.

Fabrizze blushed in delight.

“It's a strange thing,” said Mendone. “In Italy I was as sure of my talents as of the fact there were no opportunities. I came here. Now I'm as sure of the opportunities as of the fact I have no talents. I sit in the sun with a cabbage in my hands. What do you make of it?”

“It's nonsense,” said Grace. “You were too old when you came.”

“I lived alone for a time,” said Mendone. “I managed to put a little money on this house. And then I sent for the girl. Her mother is dead, and my son married again.”

“I believe there's a job for you,” said Fabrizze.

“Such an old man?”

“One of the men was over seventy,” said Fabrizze. “His name is Bassetti and he just left off a few weeks ago. I can put you on as my assistant for a while.”

“You mean until they find out,” said Mendone. “Really though, it's kind of you. Let me tell you how happy I am that you are here. And the girl is happier still. Why? Because you came to see me about the work.”

“But he did,” said Grace.

“Which of us is the fool here?” said Mendone. “Let it rest then. Stay a little, my boy. Mancini is coming downstairs for a game of cards. Pass the evening with us.”

“I'll be here until you send me away,” said Fabrizze.

He made three visits a week during the next month. Mancini was always there. The carpenter had black eyes and a mop of black hair splashed with gray. He was suspicious the first time he saw Fabrizze. He drank more wine than anyone and he played every card like a trump.

“A man called Gritti works with me,” said Fabrizze. “Is it true you came from Sicily with him?”

“He came with me!” said Mancini, playing a trump. “Gritti can't put a nail in the wall! I wouldn't trust him with a nail!”

“There's a man called Cardino,” said Fabrizze. “He speaks of your ability. He showed me the cabinet you made for him.”

“Cardino can't put a nail!” said Mancini. “Not even a nail!”

The carpenter knew that he was in trouble. Night after night he found himself watching for Fabrizze as for a thief. He came down from his room whenever the front door opened or closed.

“Where is he?” Mancini would say, as though Grace was hiding him somewhere. “Where did he go?”

“He'll come tomorrow,” said Grace.

“Who came in then?”

“My grandfather went out.”

“Why isn't he here?” said Mancini. “Why does he come every other day? Why not every day? Why is he hiding in between?”

The next day Fabrizze arrived just before dark. Grace had set aside a bit of supper for him. A sudden hush fell over the house. Light was fading. Mancini sat there with his head resting on his hand. He sipped wine and watched for a false move. He could make nothing of the conversation.

“These potatoes are very good,” said Fabrizze.

“I roasted them in olive oil,” said Grace. “With parsley.”

“My grandmother used to steam them,” said Fabrizze. “They were the red potatoes.”

“She steamed them?” said Grace.

“She left the skins on,” said Fabrizze. “She covered them with a damp cloth. A very low fire. We had to wait and wait for them. But how sweet they were. I make them here and they have a different taste. Now I remember how they were.”

“It depends where you are,” said Grace, softly.

“It depends who is with you,” said Fabrizze.

“Potatoes are potatoes,” said Mancini. “And why is everyone speaking so softly? It's like a church in here!”

The card game started. Mancini was watching Grace and Fabrizze. Long breathless looks filled him with desperation. Often he flung up his cards and plunged into the basement where he set about hammering and sawing and singing at the top of his voice. One night he left the table and a moment later something fell down the stairs and pounded the floor. Everyone jumped up.

“Mancini!” said Grace.

Mancini gave a cry terrible with triumph. He had gone up to his room and thrown a chair all the way down the stairs.

“Come here,” he said, hurrying down. “Look at this chair. I made it with my own hands. No nails, no nails. I myself chose the wood. Feel it, Fabrizze, feel it! Nothing loose! Like a tree!”

He lifted the chair and for an instant it seemed he would throw it through the window. He carried it to his room and then came down. He went right to the cupboard. He embraced and shook it until the dishes rattled.

“It's hanging by a thread!” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “It was a shoemaker put this up!”

He came over and pounded the corner of the kitchen table.

“This is the leg I fixed!” he said. His burning black eyes held Fabrizze. “Quick, turn the table over!”

He swept off the cards and turned the table on its top.

“You, Fabrizze, you,” he said. “Do you see how I fixed it? Try to loosen the leg. Tear this leg off and you'll tear the table to pieces! How solid and strong!”

“A fine piece of work,” said Fabrizze. “You put the rest of the table to shame.”

“I changed it,” said Mancini. “I tapered it. Follow the leg with your eye. You see how it goes up to join the top?”

“But it flows up,” said Fabrizze. “And then it's gone.”

“It flows, it flows!” cried Mancini. “A work of magic! But I'll fix this house from cellar to chimney if they give me the chance! Quick, turn the table up!”

“I'm putting my glass down,” said Mendone.

Mancini was pounding with pride.

And yet all was lost for him.

Late on a warm windy night the men were drinking and playing cards. Grace watched the game. The look of Mancini worried her. It seemed there was no release of the tension in him. After each game he insisted on plunging into another. He won again and again. He kept drinking.

Grace went out to the porch swing. She sat there swinging. Now and again came a loving rush of wind. The leaves of maple and sycamore were wild with kissing in the sweet spring darkness.

Fabrizze was overwhelmed with love for her. No longer could he keep his mind on the game.

“It's your play,” said Mendone. “Wrong again, my boy. I take with the king and play the ace. I sip wine. I play another ace. I sip more wine. And now Mancini loses his queen.”

Mancini slammed his queen down. The table wobbled.

“Did you see it?” he said. He was filled with exultance and power. “It hardly stands! Everything depends on my leg! I tell you, Mendone, this leg will stand for a thousand years!”

“It will stand alone,” said Mendone.

“It's like a pillar!” said Mancini, pounding the table again and again. “I poured my strength into it! Give me a free hand in this place! Everything is ruined! Look at the cupboard! All the floors creak! The ceiling cracks and buckles! The foundation is sinking! Even the porch swing cries out! Listen, listen!”

“A bit of paint,” said Mendone.

“What a fool you are!”

“A bit of faith,” said Mendone, gravely.

“You need a master hand!” cried Mancini, springing on the table. He jumped up and down. “Give me one year and I'll make a palace of it! Say the word! I'll fix everything!”

There was silence.

Mancini glanced out the window. Grace was watching him. The secret glowing look of her gripped his heart. So far away she was. His eyes filled with tears. He lost her in the night. His powerful hands came together in a convulsive way. In a moment he was fumbling for his red handkerchief. He wiped his face.

“Come down then,” said Mendone, gently.

“It's quiet again,” said Mancini.

“Give me your hand,” said Mendone.

Mancini started to lose his balance. Fabrizze steadied him and helped him down. The floor creaked beneath him.

“Did you hear?” said Mancini.

“Come along then,” said Mendone.

Mancini turned and bowed slightly to Fabrizze.

“Good night,” he said, trying to smile. “The queen is lost, and she is won, eh? Good night to you.”

Mendone led him up the creaking stairs.

“Listen, listen,” said Mancini.

“A bit of sleep,” said Mendone.

“Everything,” said Mancini. “Everything but the heart.”

Fabrizze sat there in the kitchen. All strength had drained from him. He drank another glass of wine. After a while he went out to say good night.

“Stay a little,” said Grace. “Is it so late?”

“This Mancini is a good man.”

“A fine man,” said Grace. “But he knew I couldn't marry him. He knew it before you came.”

“I'm weak and dizzy.”

“It's the wine,” said Grace. “A thing stronger than wine.”

Grace was swinging. Her eyes were lowered. For a moment she was absorbed like a child in her own living beauty.

Talk and laughter filled the porches of the street. A sweet forlorn harmonica was heard. Suddenly a boy came flashing by on his bicycle. His hands were straight up and his feet were fixed on the handlebars. He was laughing.

“You'll fall,” said a girl. “You really will. I'm going in.”

The boy carried laughter down the aisle of tossing trees.

“Come and sit here,” said Grace. “Sit beside me.”

Fabrizze was trembling. He took aim and somehow made it to the swing. He sat in the corner away from her.

Grace took three quick steps to start the swing again. She drew her legs up. The swing dragged to a stop.

“Don't you like to swing?” she said.

“I do, I do,” said Fabrizze.

“You must lift your feet,” she said.

“I'll do it,” said Fabrizze. “I'll do it.”

Soon they were swinging together in the dark. The swing kept on soaring. Fabrizze held on for dear life. His head was spinning. The night was a blur of dark and silver and the whispering leaves.

“What are you thinking?” said Grace.

The swing slowed.

“Tell me,” said Grace. “Tell me.”

“If only I could,” said Fabrizze. “It's your hair, too.”

“My hair?”