The Coming of Fabrizze: A Novel (Black Squirrel Books) (7 page)

“You never take it down. I never saw it.”

“I'll take it down,” she said. “For you.”

She turned. Her pale beauty was hidden away. Her fingers were quick and sure in the dark. Suddenly the breath-taking mass of hair tumbled beneath her shoulders.

Fabrizze melted back.

“Do you want to touch it?” said Grace, softly. Fabrizze watched her.

“Touch it,” she whispered. “Touch it then.”

The black sweet hair sent shivers through him.

Grace turned into his arms and he was kissing her warm lips.

T
HEY were married.

It was during the celebration that Rossi announced the promotion of Fabrizze to acting supervisor of the railroad yard.

“There you have it,” said Penza. “They were telling me that Fabrizze needed a wife. He married the most beautiful girl in the city. They were telling me he was too young to be a foreman. Now he's the supervisor. They were telling me I had a hole in my shoe. Now I have a hole in the other shoe.”

Summer was keeping the promises of spring. The long days were rich with joy and love. An air of triumph like music filled the house on Jackson Street. It swelled forth to quicken every hope in the neighborhood. Friends came with words of advice and wisdom for the young couple. No secret was withheld. Everyone took an interest in their happiness and so shared in it. Cardino remarked that Grace and Fabrizze had put each other under a spell, and the neighborhood, watching close, fell under it.

For a while Mendone fell under. He started work as a special assistant on the railroad. For weeks he was eating dried figs and nuts. He heard from Rumbone that such a diet had restored vitality to a man of ninety. With his first pay he bought an old violin from a peddler who promised to give him three lessons. The peddler returned to sell him a stool where he could sit if he played the harp or piano. He spoke of sending across the sea for a wife.

“It's an idea,” he said, tapping his pipe on the porch. “It's a good sign to have this idea at my age.”

“I agree,” said Grace. She sat beside Fabrizze on the swing.

“A man in our village was a father at eighty,” said Fabrizze.

“Who told him so?” said Mendone.

“It's true,” said Fabrizze. “You should see him. Eyes bright as fire. One tooth missing. He fell off a roof and knocked out a front tooth. He used to shake his fist at that roof when he passed it. What an appetite he had.”

“For what?” said Grace, smiling in anticipation.

“Figs and nuts,” said Fabrizze. “Nuts and figs.”

“I chew and chew these figs,” said Mendone. “My jaw aches with them. I crack and crack these nuts. I pick and pick at them. I think it's a way to pass the time, and nothing more…. Be sure to wake me for work.”

Grace would be at the window when they left the house.

“Hello, Fabrizze, hello,” someone called.

“Hello, hello,” said Fabrizze.

Nellie was shaking her carpet.

“Look who's there,” she said.

“Look who's there,” said Fabrizze.

“It's Fabrizze,” said Bassetti. “And the special assistant.”

“Grace is waiting,” said Fabrizze. “The coffee is hot.”

Suddenly they were gone round the corner. The street had come alive with talk and laughter.

For three months Mendone led Fabrizze in and followed him out of the railroad yard. The old man was first to arrive in the morning and last to leave at night. In this way he made sure that nothing happened.

“He comes to take lunch with Fabrizze,” said Rossi.

“He likes to be in the fresh air,” said Penza.

“It's the trains,” said Rumbone. “It's the excitement of the trains bringing him back.”

Fabrizze advised Mendone to pay no attention to them.

“They need tools and I need weapons,” said Fabrizze. “You're like a weapon. Keep lighting the pipe and watching them through the smoke. Here is a pair of white gloves. Wear them all day. Follow me. Sometimes I make mistakes. You'll be the one to point them out.”

“Really?”

“I'll warn you beforehand,” said Fabrizze.

For three months it went well. Grace washed the white gloves and they could be seen hanging in the sunlight. She listened in the evening to little talks on the effect of power. Mendone concluded that power was as nourishing as it was delicious. He went downtown to have his picture taken.

One summer afternoon Fabrizze sent him to fetch the water boy Poggio. Poggio had been gone since morning. The men were grading under a white and terrible sun. Rails were smoking in the heat.

“Poggio will wear that bucket when I see him,” said Cardino.

“Is it rest he wants?” said Gritti. “I make a place for him.”

The idea took hold. Ominous words echoed down the line.

“Down he goes.”

“All the lies and laughter.”

“Goodbye, Poggio, goodbye.”

Fabrizze called Mendone aside.

“Find the boy and bring water,” said Fabrizze. “These men are choking with thirst. Listen to them. It's getting worse.”

“He brought no water at all?” said Mendone.

“I don't understand it,” said Fabrizze. “Two buckets of water, I told him, and nothing more is expected of you. Not even one will he bring. And still he comes every morning for the bucket.”

Mendone set forth.

He walked half a mile in the sun. He went astray in a patch of woods. He staggered into the clear again and up the last long hill.

Poggio was napping under a maple tree. He lay there in his underwear. His bare feet were cool in the bubbling stream and his head was pillowed sweetly in his palms.

“It's the end, my boy, it's the end,” said Mendone, after he caught his breath. “It's all up with you.”

“Mendone!”

“It is Mendone. Mendone caught you in the act.”

“Off with your shoes, Foreman Mendone,” said Poggio. “How good it is to see you.”

“It's the worst thing that could happen to you.”

“Sit in the shade a little,” said Poggio. “Rest yourself.”

“Never mind, never mind,” said Mendone. “The men are dropping with thirst and you sleep in the shade here. And with your feet in their water. You go too far with it.”

“But it's not the same water, Foreman Mendone. See how it runs. Fresh every second. Fresh since you spoke. That's the wonder of it. Stay a while. We'll go back with a full cold bucket. I had a cramp in the stomach. Look how my tongue is green.”

“The truth is, I'm worn out,” said Mendone.

“It's the heat,” said Poggio. “And all this talk, too. Sit a moment then. It's a long walk.”

Mendone slipped off his shoes and socks. He soaked his aching feet in the stream. He kept looking over his shoulder.

“A secret chill is in it,” Poggio was saying.

“Guilt,” said Mendone.

“It will reduce the swelling,” said Poggio.

“What swelling? Where do you see it?”

“It's thrilling,” said Poggio. “Off with your gloves. Put your hands in. It flows right through you.”

“Very nice, my boy, very nice,” said Mendone, splashing his face and hair. “Tell me something. Seriously, eh? Did I frighten you when I crept up?”

“It was an awful fright, Foreman Mendone. Your name itself was enough. It's like the gong of doom.”

“The gong of doom,” said Mendone.

“Mendone, Mendone,” said Poggio.

“We must be going,” said Mendone.

“I had to lie down a little,” said Poggio.

They dozed in the shade.

Far off there was a stricken cry.

“What's that?” said Poggio, sitting up.

“Where, where?” said Mendone.

“Some poor man—look on the hill!”

A chain of hands took hold along the crest of the hill. Dark figures loomed above. For a moment they were frozen high in the misty white light. A cry packed with revenge split the air. Suddenly the black wave of men came sweeping down. They were armed with picks and shovels.

“He's mine!” someone cried.

“Mine, mine!”

“Run, Mendone, run!” said Poggio. “A beast is loose!”

“Poor me, poor me!”

“Give me your hand! Come this way!”

They managed an escape as their pursuers flung themselves into the stream. Fabrizze salvaged the shoes and brought them home.

“And the gloves?” said Mendone.

“The men buried them under the tree,” said Fabrizze. “Along with Poggio's cap. It was a little ceremony. They gave me a look near the end of it.”

M
ENDONE was merely the first in a procession of workers hired by Fabrizze. Appeals were coming from every side. It happened to be a busy time on the railroad and so he was given a free hand in the hiring. He refused no one. Word of his kindness carried into immigrant settlements throughout the city. Men seeking work came right, to the house. One afternoon he found a stranger waiting on the porch swing.

“Come inside,” said Fabrizze. “A glass of wine.”

“Your lovely wife brought wine. It's too warm in there.”

“I'll wash up and be with you in a moment.”

“Take your time, Supervisor. How young you are!”

Fabrizze went inside. A man was sipping wine in the kitchen.

“This is Russo,” said Grace. “He came for work.”

“The work is heavy,” said Fabrizze. “Very heavy.”

“So much the better,” said Russo. “Don't be fooled by my size. Look at these hands. I'm a farmer.”

“The job is yours,” said Fabrizze. “I myself was a farmer.”

“Benedico,” said Russo, blessing him.

“One thing about a farmer,” said Fabrizze. “He takes out only what he puts in. Or less.”

“Cardino was right about you,” said Russo. “Did he speak of me? He's my cumpare.”

“I was watching for you,” said Fabrizze.

There was a burst of laughter from the porch. The man was swinging out there and flirting with women in the street. Higher and higher he went. How gay he was!

“A cumpare of mine,” said Russo.

“You're surrounded,” said Fabrizze. “And so am I.”

It was true. Each of his men on the railroad had introduced at least one cumpare. Cumpare no longer meant godfather. A cumpare was a needy friend located between a cumpare who would help him and a cumpare looking to him for help.

“I have a cumpare,” said Gritti, one day.

“What can we do for him?” said Fabrizze.

“He plays the clarinet,” said Gritti.

“Tell him to come to work,” said Fabrizze. “He'll play for the men during the lunch hour.”

“I thought of it,” said Gritti. “Wait until you hear him play. His wife says he saves himself for it.”

“But he must work before and after lunch,” said Fabrizze.

“He makes his own songs,” said Gritti. “He's like this Igino. Think of it. He makes songs out of his head.”

“Still, he must work a little,” said Fabrizze.

“I was expecting it,” said Gritti. “I'll tell him.”

“It's only for work that we give money,” said Fabrizze. “But we'll value him for his music.”

News of his promotion to supervisor had reached Rivisondoli. A long letter came from Augustine. He announced that he had married the mother of his son. He went on to say that the entire village was rejoicing in the success of Fabrizze. Indeed, the account of it given by Rumbone had started a wave of unrest. Augustine sent a list of friends who were suddenly determined to come to America. He offered to lend part of the passage money if Fabrizze would help them to get settled. There were several women in need of husbands. Augustine swore it was so and he enclosed their pictures.

“We have three empty rooms,” said Grace. “They can stay with us until they get started.”

Fabrizze went ahead with it.

He wrote a letter telling of life in the New World. He tried to be honest and yet every word was informed with love and shining hope. It was an invitation to the feast. Augustine read the letter to a gathering of men in the square; and then he took up his adroit position beside the community oven, where women brought their bread to be baked.

More pictures came to Fabrizze. He sent money to those bent on leaving at once and he promised to have work waiting when they arrived. Along with Mendone he went the rounds of the neighborhood in search of prospective husbands and wives. One night he stayed home and made a match for Mancini.

“I told her about you,” said Fabrizze. “She's writing a letter with the help of Augustine. Look at her picture.”

“I won't do it,” said Mancini. “Leave me alone, Fabrizze.”

“But you are alone,” said Fabrizze.

“Don't get me all upset,” said Mancini. “Night after night I leave this kitchen drunk with wine and words.”

“Tell us her name,” said Mendone. “I beg of you.”

“She's called Lucia,” said Fabrizze.

“Lucia,” said Mendone, sighing. “Lucia, Lucia. I think of the sea and the moon. Drink to Lucia.”

“Lucia, eh?” said Mancini.

“Look, look,” said Fabrizze. “Wait a moment then. Mendone is impartial here. We'll see what he makes of her.”

“Such a lovely color,” said Mendone.

“It's the high color of the mountain people,” said Fabrizze.

“Look at these arms,” said Mendone. “Here is a girl to clear the way for someone.”

“How she gazes into my eyes,” said Fabrizze. “Now I remember this Lucia. All week she worked in the house. Sunday she took a bit of sun. No more than a bit of sun on the front step. Like a flower. Your time has come, Mancini.”

“Let me see her then,” said Mancini. “Good to look at, God bless her! And youthful, too…. What's this? Look how her arms and legs are crossed. Look, look!”

“How he strikes to the heart of it,” said Fabrizze.

“But she's all in a knot,” said Mancini. “It's nerves!”

“No better than a thief,” said Fabrizze. “One glance and he steals the secret.”

“What secret?” said Mancini. “What is it?”

“Tell us the secret,” said Mendone. “Out with it.”

“He'll tell it as soon as he thinks of it,” said Grace.

“I have it,” said Fabrizze. “Why is she in a knot? Think of the bride. Are you thinking? Do you see the bride? She's wearing white and she's blushing. Why is it? She's in between, my friend. She looks back and she looks forward. It's the last morning of her innocence, eh? How sad! But she looks forward to the night of love. How wonderful! Back and forth. It makes her nervous. Look at Lucia. She's holding in all the passion. Innocence wins the day! What a struggle!”