The Saint of Lost Things (19 page)

Julian shakes his head.

The face of Gino Stella appears in the round window of the kitchen door. Mario rolls his eyes. “Sooner, not later, though, OK?” he says, and raps his knuckles three times on the table as he gets up to go. “Wait for me at eleven. We’ll walk together.”

M
ARIO’S ROW HOUSE
is taller and more narrow than Julian’s. Made of the same red brick, it is barely distinguishable from the house attached to it. An alley divides it from its next-door neighbors on one side; the other backs up to the hilly lawn of a Presbyterian church. The Grassos share a stairway with a family from Abruzzo called Fiuma, Mario tells Julian. Signora Fiuma is a cripple, her husband a drunk and a shoplifter. With them they also share a small plot of grass, on which they’ve planted a box hedge and a struggling rosebush. Many of the bricks in the steps have crumbled and separated from the mortar.

Three men stand talking in the bay window on the second floor. They look out toward the sidewalk but do not acknowledge Julian and Mario. Other guests cross behind the men, carrying drinks and chasing after children. Every window is illuminated, casting a fuzzy glow on the parked cars and the church and the marquee for Di-Nardo’s Florist two doors down. He takes this road each week to replenish the vase of flowers at his parents’ grave, but until now he has not known that the Grassos live here. Julian has always thought it a lonely block. Sit on your porch and you face not neighbors but a barren lot and a patch of thick pines. You watch the trash gather along the edge of the lot and the wind kick the cigarette butts up and down the street. Julian would never trade his little house for this—no matter how many Negro families sprung up around him.

He follows Mario inside and sets the accordion on the radio console, which is tall as his waist and spans half the length of the living room. It is made of dark wood and features two large speakers on both ends, a cabinet to store albums, and a phonograph in the center that’s currently playing a scratchy Perry Como record.

No one seems to notice Julian and Mario’s entrance. Antonio Grasso calls forty-seven, and the dozen people crowded around the dining-room table lower their heads over their cards, searching and hoping. He does not see the blonde from Italy who requested him.
There are kids everywhere, on the floor with their cards, racing toy cars on the stairs, sprawled on the sofa asleep.

The interior of the house—this Julian might consider trading for his own. There is color here: a powder-blue sofa, pristine under its plastic slipcover; ivory armchairs with plush cushions; the sparkling tree; poinsettias along the banister; the red and blue oriental rug that divides the territory of the living and dining rooms. A mirror in a gold frame spans the entire wall behind the sofa. Three brass sconces mounted to the wall display red, green, and white candles, each burnt halfway down. The unblemished furniture, free of nicks, has been recently polished. A woman’s handiwork, Julian thinks. Only a woman can create and maintain rooms like this. No wonder his own house is falling into decay.

Julian does not immediately notice the piano jammed cruelly into the corner of the dining room. Crayon drawings—scribbles, really—are taped where the sheet music should be. Framed photographs and doilies centered under vases of silk flowers are spread across the top. The piano is old, yes, probably out of tune, but it is fashioned from a shiny blond wood so pleasing that Julian feels a sudden urge to rescue it.

Two girls run up to Mario yelling, “Babbo! Babbo!” and lock their arms around his waist. He tousles their long brown hair, which has unloosened from rhinestone clips in the shapes of butterflies. The girls eye Julian suspiciously, then giggle and rebury their heads. One is older than the other by a few years. The baby sister clutches a naked doll by the foot, dragging her head along the floor.

“He’s here!” says a woman’s voice, and all heads turn to Julian. Smiles and halfhearted waves from the
tombola
table. Then Antonio calls twenty-two, and they turn with determination back to their cards. Ida and Signora Grasso rush out from the kitchen.

“You came to us!” says Ida. “Welcome, welcome!” She gives
Mario a quick kiss on the lips, then takes Julian’s right arm. Signora Grasso grabs the left. They pull him away from Mario and weave him through the crowd, introducing him to this cousin and that; to the screeching, scattering children whose names he can barely hear, let alone remember; to the Fiumas and other neighbors from the block; and to Father Moravia—who squeezes Julian’s cheeks as if he were a child, saying, “Little Giulio! A miracle to see you out of the house!”

They sit him at a card table in the surprisingly large kitchen and tuck a linen napkin between his neck and shirt collar. From this seat he can see and be seen by the game players and the rest of the dining room, though only Ida and the Signora pay him much attention.

Ida delivers with two hands a bowl of steaming pasta. As Julian eats—the anchovies are just salty and fishy enough without overwhelming the sauce; the linguine is fresh and al dente—they bring out platter after platter of fried fish and roasted vegetables from the refrigerator and the back porch and begin to reheat them on the stove. When he’s nearly finished eating, they pile the other courses onto an enormous plate, arguing over how much he might want.

“Give him more
broccoletti,”
says Ida.

“He has that all the time,” says Signora Grasso. She spoons more
baccalà.
“He’s never had this before. Not the way I make it.”

“That’s all right,” Julian says. “I like everything.”

The more he eats, the more intense his hunger. The fish is light and lemony, with a sprinkling of fresh parsley. Each of the
frittelli
is a surprise, filled with either cauliflower, apple, or cod. His mother’s
frittelli
somehow went soggy minutes after she took them from the fryer, but these make a nice crunch when he bites into them. Ida and Signora Grasso stand over him, nodding and smiling.

Other guests—shapeless, faceless figures—go in and out of the kitchen for more wine or dessert. There are cheers and groans from the dining room, then the clacking of the wooden chips being
dropped back into the bag. Another game is about to begin. “Each card double the price,” Antonio announces.

Soon someone will ask me to join in, Julian thinks, and I will have to stop eating. For insurance, he grabs some roasted peppers with a folded slice of bread. The oil drips onto his chin as he stuffs the entire sandwich in his mouth. He reaches for more fish.

“What do you think of the flounder?” asks Ida. “This is the first year we made it.”

He spears a piece with his fork, holds it up to the light, then devours it. “It’s delicious,” he says.

“Not enough batter,” Ida says, her arms folded. “I told you, Mamma.”

Julian smiles and sits back in his chair. “Everything is perfect,” he says. And it is. It is peace on earth. He is so happy that he can almost convince himself that his parents are not gone, that his father has merely made the short walk to the Delluccis to deliver a plate of
ciambelline,
that his mother is standing at this moment at the top of the stairs in the house on Seventh Street. In his mind, it is still Advent, busy with plans and anticipation, and his mother has carried up the dusty box of garland and ornaments from the basement. By the time his father gets home from the Delluccis’, she and Julian will have decorated the tree and strung the garland around the windows and mirrors. He’ll stand with his hands on his hips, trying to disguise his grin with frustration. “Why’s this mistletoe so low?” he’ll mock-complain and swat at it with his elbow; “how much money’d you waste on these candles?” He’ll tease them until he buckles, until he is forced to admit they have transformed his house for another Christmas. There is no vase of faded lilies, no stake through the center of Julian’s heart; there is no dead Negro boy, no nightmares of hands at the throat. There is only glitter and Perry Como singing “Because” and a full stomach and his mother standing before the tree with her arms crossed, gazing at the lights.

Signora Grasso clears the plates as Ida wipes down the table. They combine, cover, and return the food to the refrigerator and the back porch. Only Julian’s wineglass remains. Then comes the enormous bowl of fruit and three trays of cookies. “Now you’re talking,” he says.

Mario peeks his head in from the living room. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s almost showtime.”

“We never had a real musician play in our house before,” says Ida. She removes her apron and sits across from him. “One year my brother brought his mandolin, but—” She leans over to peer into the next room, then whispers, “I make better music banging pots and pans.”

“You couldn’t even recognize the songs,” says Signora Grasso. “‘Sing along!’ he told us, and everyone stared at the floor.”

“What about the piano?” From his seat in the kitchen he can see it, untouched and overladen, shamed into the corner behind the dining-room table. He does not recognize the name—Kimball—but that is no surprise, considering he knows nothing about pianos. Maybe the Grassos dragged it here from the Old Country, he thinks. Maybe the one person who knew how to play it has died, and no one can bear either to use it or let it go.

“It came with the house,” says Signora Grasso with a shrug. “The keys stick, and the sound—it’s worse than the mandolin. Can you play?”

“No,” says Julian, disappointed by the piano’s unremarkable history. “But I always wanted to know how.”

“We’ll get it tuned, then,” she says. “My husband knows a guy.” She smiles at him, touches his arm. “So by next year—no, Easter!—you can learn. Then you’ll play for us.”

“All those famous Easter songs,” Julian jokes. He clasps the old woman’s hand between his. “But I thank you.” He holds her there for a moment. “The invitation means a lot to me.”

A young couple enters the kitchen to say good night. The husband’s got his sleeping daughter slung over his shoulder, her bottom cupped in the crook of his arm. The woman, in a fur coat and hat, glances at Julian, yawns, and covers her mouth with a black-gloved hand.

As Signora Grasso tries to convince the couple to stay one more hour—“For the show!”—Ida leans in toward Julian.

“We need some happiness here tonight,” she whispers, grimly, in his ear.

Before she can explain, someone calls
“Tombola!
” and people are banging their fists on the table and throwing their hands in the air.

“That’s it,” says Antonio. He slides a pile of coins over to a clapping fat woman in oversized glasses. “That’s all she wrote.”

Mario lifts the accordion case onto the coffee table and fiddles with the latches. He waves to Julian and mouths, “Now.” He has already cleared the children from the living room and arranged them on the stairs. He nudges the adults aside and pushes the coffee table against one section of the couch, where an old man dozes. “There’s a cot downstairs, Zio,” he tells him, gruffly, but the man doesn’t budge. He installs Julian in front of the window not only because it’s in the center of the room but also so the neighbors and passersby can envy the magic of a Grasso Christmas.

Julian counts seventeen adults and nine children, all facing him. Eight of them—five kids, three adults—either sleep or are fighting an obvious battle to keep their eyes open. The fat woman holds her hand over her stacks of coins. A man about Julian’s age shares his chair with his wife, who rests her chin on his shoulder. Father Moravia moves a potted fern out of his line of sight. Julian slows and deepens his breathing, and yet, over the loud chatter, he can still hear water boiling in the espresso pot, every scratch in the Perry Como record, the faint tinkle of the ornaments when someone brushes the tree. He tries to focus on Ida and Signora Grasso,
who stand beside Antonio in the doorway of the kitchen. If he pretends he’s playing only for them, maybe his nerves will hold steady.

“A small audience here at Café Grasso,” Mario says. “Compared to the restaurant. But look: just as happy.”

“And your sister-in-law?” Julian asks. “Didn’t you say she—”

“Maddalena?” asks Mario, in a low voice. “Stomachache.” He nods toward the upstairs, then turns to the crowd. “If I can have your attention,
Signore e Signori!
”

He succeeds only in waking his uncle. He kicks off his shoes, pulls his sport coat up to his neck like a blanket, and repositions himself on the couch.

“Signore e Signori!
” Mario says again, loudly, and knocks on the coffee table with his palm.
“Attenzione!
” This time they hush. “Welcome to the grand opening of the Grasso Cabaret!”

Antonio stares expressionless at his brother while the women in the doorway smile amid the clapping and laughter.

“Ida,” Mario continues. He ticks his head toward his wife. “Tell them if I’m lying. Don’t I say to everyone: The day Signor Giulio Fabbri came into Mrs. Stella’s was the best day since I became a partner?”

“That’s the truth,” Ida says.

Mario pats Julian on the back then checks his watch. His thick gold and diamond ring sparkles in the light. “Now that it is officially Christmas Day, in the Year of our Lord 1953, I want to give you all a very special gift. Those of you who have heard Signor Fabbri play know his beautiful music; those of you who have not heard him”—here he stops, puts on a puzzled expression—
“Why
haven’t you heard him? Why aren’t you at Mrs. Stella’s?”