Kitabı oku: «Bellagrand», sayfa 3

Five

SHE MAKES HER OWN tomato paste. She is dressed in some shimmering gauzy summery thing, and her hair is tied up. The dress has to be loose and sheer because she is about to undertake heavy physical labor. She might perspire. All he does is sit and watch her, his mouth slightly open, his whole soul short of breath. He has watched her make the paste so many times. He never gets tired of it.

She has been simmering tomatoes all morning, boiling them down. She has strained all the pulp, removed their seeds, their skin. She has undressed the tomatoes.

Now she needs his help, and that’s why he’s been sitting at the kitchen table gaping at her.

They drag two plywood boards from the porch down the stairs and to the back. The boards take up nearly the whole overgrown yard. But that’s where the sunshine is. It’s late summer and warm, and it’s the only way to make enough paste to last the winter. The tomatoes she grows are always splendid. In his father’s house he never ate tomatoes the way he eats them now, raw, cooked, boiled, steamed, fried. Any which way he relishes the tomatoes. It’s the fruit from the Sicilian tree of life.

They carry the two pots of stewed tomatoes to the boards. She spreads the thick messy pulp over the boards, tilting them slightly to drain off any remaining liquid. There is much liquid. They set the tomato boards in the sunshine to dry.

Mimoo is cleaning houses, Salvo is sweeping the streets. Harry and Gina make love all afternoon, as the sun moves forty-five degrees in the August sky. They can barely stumble down the stairs to bring her boards back inside. All he wants now is to take a long nap, but it’s almost dinnertime, and she is forcing him to help her. But now, after, he doesn’t want to.

They roll the dried-out paste into large balls. He tries not to make any off-color jokes, but fails. He doesn’t particularly want to make jokes. What he wants is to nap and then make love to her again. Their hands are sticky with gooey sickly sweet paste, red and overripe. They clean their hands as best they can. Sometimes they make love again, with all their clothes on to save time, though it’s so late, and any minute everyone else will come home—Angela, Mimoo, Salvo, Rita for Saturday night dinner. Panting and disheveled, with the hands that just loved one another, they coat the balls of tomato paste with a layer of olive oil, cover them tightly with cheesecloth and pack them into large glass jars. It’s work for a whole Saturday afternoon. She grows enough tomatoes to feed them the whole winter. They never have to worry about sauce for anything they cook. They always have plenty.

Harry associates tomatoes with love. He gets a physical throb in the pit of the place that makes him a man, a flame of fire about two pounds large whenever she opens one of those jars, whenever she feeds him from them, when she asks him what he wants for dinner. What springs to his mind is the heady, acidic sweetness of their sweltering summer afternoons.

Six

IF HARRY EXPRESSED BOTH inwardly and outwardly a certain quarrelsome ambivalence about the regeneration of his future, no one had any doubt how Mimoo felt about it. It was as if all her ailments had left her bones. After Gina told her mother the blessed news, she jumped out of bed, threw on nice clothes and ran through the streets of Lawrence, carrying candles to the church and chocolates to her friends. “Finally she’s having a baby! She’s having a baby!” Mimoo bought flowers, went to the market, made a feast, had a celebration to which she invited what seemed like half of Lawrence. “You didn’t give me a chance to celebrate your pretend wedding. At the very least I can rejoice in the fruit of it.”

Harry leaned into Gina’s neck. “Why does your dear mother insist on calling it pretend? Does she want to see the judge’s papers?”

Gina kissed his nose. “I think she’d prefer to see the priest’s papers.”

He grabbed her around her still slender waist and pulled her out onto the porch. “So she thinks we’re improperly married.” He laughed. “Does that mean you’re a kept woman?” He kissed her. “Why do I find that so enticing?”

True to her roots as a good wife and true woman, Gina returned his open-mouthed kiss and tamped down the other Sicilian part of herself and didn’t say what she was ashamed to be thinking when he was being all flirty with her and kind, which was: of all the things I am, and I am many things, one of the things I’m absolutely not is a kept woman.

“Go to Boston, you two,” Mimoo ordered them, not a day later. “You tell your family, Harry, and you, Gia, go tell your brother.”

Gina agreed. Harry amiably shook his head.

“Salvo will come around, Harry.”

“He won’t, Mimoo.”

“He will.”

“He won’t.”

“God, why are you such a stubborn mule?”

“He won’t come back and I’m the mule?”

Mimoo pressed her son-in-law: “Salvo is waiting for you to beg his forgiveness. He just needs to hear repentance from you.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve tried already. It’s no use.”

“How many years ago did you try?”

“Your son has too much pride,” Harry said.

“And you?”

“I’m not your son.”

“Charming, Harry,” whispered Gina, sitting nearby, listening.

Mimoo bristled. “You’re my daughter’s so-called husband.”

“I’m actually her husband.”

“In our country, husbands, even such as you are, are considered family. Not in your country?”

Harry said nothing.

“Like I was saying. Besides, you’re still somebody’s son, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore.”

Seven

HALF-HEARTEDLY HARRY SEARCHED THROUGH the job ads in the paper. “What a burden it is,” he exclaimed one night, “to keep needing paid work.”

“Welcome to real life,” Gina said. “Not the pretend one you’ve been living.”

She was right, of course, and he didn’t like to argue with her. He certainly wasn’t going to argue that he did indeed once live what had seemed to him a fake life. To fall in love was one thing. But to choose her was another. He married her because she was the realest thing he had ever found. There was no calibration in his life with her. There was no pretense and no temperance. Every ball was up in the air at once. It was always too hot or too cold; there was too much wine or not enough. His bed was never empty, and that made up for many other missing things—the conjugal union of two kindred spirits, two poles apart when it came to their station in life, but one in the only way it counted. One of body, one of soul.

Still … unmitigated smells and labor, constant labor. There was no time to ever think, make long-term plans, figure things out, barely even read!

“Perhaps you’d like to move to Kalamazoo, Michigan?” Harry asked Gina. “So I could work on Henry Ford’s assembly line.”

“The man will pay you five dollars a day, Harry,” Gina said. “That’s ransom for a prince.”

“Five dollars?”

“A day!”

“Florenz Ziegfeld spends three hundred dollars on stage pillows!” Harry said. “Three hundred dollars each.”

“Perhaps then you should be the one selling him these magical pillows.”

“There you go, always turning every conversation back to money.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You mean lack of money?”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

And just like that, another casual spousal back-and-forth turned into intemperance. No calibration ever.

Harry found a day job that lasted a week, delivering paper goods to local restaurants. He drove a small truck, picking up supplies from Weston and delivering them to Lawrence and Andover. The job ended a week before Christmas. Gina said nothing. He said nothing, but went out looking again. A few days later he returned home excited, and told her he had found work. She was still in her first trimester and throwing up all the time.

“Full-time work?” Gina tried to sound excited herself.

“Absolutely,” he said, getting the corkscrew for the celebratory red wine.

“That’s wonderful! With who?”

“Bill Haywood.”

Gina stepped back from the table at which she had been about to sit. “Big Bill Haywood?” she repeated incredulously.

“Is there another?”

She fell quiet. Bile came up in her throat.

“I already help Joe and Arturo with organization, ideas, planning. I’m always helping them with this speech and that. Now I’ll be paid for it. Better than doing it pro bono, no?”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Gina said. “What could one-eyed Bill possibly want with you, Harry?”

“Why wouldn’t he want something to do with me?”

“What’s the job?”

“I don’t know. He needs something, I do it.”

“See, that’s the part that worries me.”

“It shouldn’t worry you.” He opened the wine and fetched two glasses. “It should make you happy.”

“Big Bill!” she exclaimed again. “You do know that he recently stood trial for blowing up a man with a bomb, right?”

“Come on, you know he wasn’t convicted.”

She shook her head, but not hard; the nausea was making it difficult to react properly. “This is a terrible omen. Why is he in town? What is he planning here? This isn’t a mining town.” Bill Haywood had been the president of the Miners Federation before it joined with the Socialists to become the Industrial Workers of the World. “The man’s had nothing but trouble with the law, and has wreaked nothing but havoc every place he’s been. Every town he goes to, someone dies, gets shot, stampeded, beaten, bombed. Every single one! He has never passed through a town without taking half a dozen scalps with him. You want to get involved with that?”

“It’s not his fault he’s hated by the police. It’s because he’s so effective. And you told me to get a job.”

“Harry,” said Gina. “There are a number of jobs I could get that might not be palatable from your perspective, if you know what I mean. If you said to me, get a job, and I came back with something less than maritally appropriate, would you be blasé about it?”

“Okay, you’re comparing Bill Haywood to Miss Camilla’s merry girls by the railroad tracks?”

“A man acquitted on a technicality for murdering another man in front of his own home is going to pay you for doing whatever he tells you?” Gina tightened her grip on the chair. “Yeah, I’d say it’s worse.”

Harry put down the wine glasses without pouring.

“Since when did you become so fastidious?” he asked coldly. “I don’t recall you turning up your nose at your radical anarchist Emma Goldman whose speeches inspired a man to assassinate a president.”

“Emma Goldman is all talk,” said Gina. “Bill Haywood is violent action. He calls it direct action. But we know what he means, don’t we?” She put her hands together in supplication. “We’re having a baby. We have to think about these fine distinctions.”

“Did you think about those distinctions as you illegally distributed Goldman’s pamphlets on birth control in felonious violation of the Comstock Act?”

“That was obviously a major failure,” she said, placing her hands on her churning and twisting abdomen. She didn’t have the stomach for a fight.

“On her part or yours?”

“On mine.”

He watched her warily for a few moments. “Don’t be upset,” he said. “We need the work. I don’t want to disappoint you. It’ll be all right. I’ll stay with Bill just until something better comes along. He gave me a small advance for Christmas. At least we’ll be all right until the new year.”

Grabbing the bottle, Gina poured the wine herself. “Better count your Advent blessings now, Bill Haywood’s flunky,” she said, raising her glass to her husband. “If I’ve read about him correctly, there’ll be precious few of them soon.”

They clinked, drank their wine. The fight always fizzled out of the both of them. Intimacy was a salve to smooth the sharpest edges.

“Big Bill thinks I’m too involved with you,” Harry said that night in bed. “He says I can’t be of help to him if my allegiance is divided.”

Gina wrapped her arms, her legs around her husband. “Did you tell him your allegiance isn’t divided at all? It is wholly to me.”

“You’re just making his point. Bill told me that great men cannot be great or become great when they are surrounded”—he groaned—“by their women.”

She did not unwrap herself. “And you believe him?”

“Right now, I can’t think straight.”

The covers went over their heads. The covers flew off their overheated bodies.

Afterward: “Can you think straight now?”

“I fear he may be right.”

Gina shook her head in exasperation, in muted affection. “Truly,” she said, “and in this case literally, in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

Chapter 2
ANNIE LOPIZO
One

FROM CHILDHOOD, GINA ALWAYS hated it when her mother was right. Now that she was an adult, she liked it even less. And what was worse was the number of things Mimoo was right about, and what was even more infuriating was the way her mother always knew it. Her powers of observation unabated despite faltering eyesight, onslaught of age, and general indifference, Mimoo continued to call them as she saw them.

So when Mimoo heard about the job Harry finally found, the only thing she said was, “I pray that Bill doesn’t make you his financial secretary, Harry.”

Gina glared at her impervious-to-glares mother.

When Angela had first brought Arturo home in the palm of her hand like a shiny display of male greatness, Mimoo took one look at him and barely waiting until he had left, said to her niece, “Angie, are you a fool? Do you not see that awful man is no good for you?” With Angela’s immediate family back in Sicily, Mimoo had taken it upon herself to be a surrogate mother to the young woman.

Angela kissed her. “You think no one is good enough for me, Mimoo. I love you.”

“No,” Mimoo said calmly. “Just him.”

“But he is wonderful! He writes poetry. He studied to be a seminarian …”

“Is he in the seminary now?”

“Well, no …”

“Exactly.”

In 1908 Emma Goldman had been scheduled to speak on the Revolutionary Spirit in Modern Drama. Gina had asked Harry if he wanted to go and he said, “I don’t want to go to Boston right now. Or possibly ever again. Anarchism and socialism are like two magnetic norths. You go. Take Angela with you.”

“You never want to come with me anywhere anymore,” Gina said. “You used to come to all my meetings before we were married.”

“That was courtship,” Harry replied. “Listening to anarchic blather equating marriage to slavery. Nodding my head at sermons against subjugated women. That’s the way I got you to marry me.”

“You’re teasing me, mio sposo.”

“Am I? Are you married to me or no?”

Angela started going with Gina instead, like Verity once used to. Together they listened to “The Economic Crisis: Its Cause and Remedy,” “Syndicalism: A New Phase of the Labor Struggle,” “Woman Under Anarchism,” and “The Relation of Anarchism to Trade Unionism.”

The last was the speech that changed Angela’s life, though according to Mimoo not for the better, because that’s when she met Arturo Giovannitti.

Arturo had emigrated from Naples in 1901, barely speaking English. He was tall, good-looking, arrogant, loud. He had indeed studied briefly at the Theological Seminary. Heavy-set, thick-browed Angela, friendly, happy, for years waiting for a suitable man, was smitten. She never had a chance. “Like me, Harry,” Gina had said, nonplussed when he didn’t reply right away. “You mean like me,” he said to her, upon further nudging.

Arturo described himself as a union leader, a socialist, a poet, and he brought with him to the conference center his friend, Joe Ettor, “Smiling Joe” of the Industrial Workers of the World. Joe cast his eyes on the dark-haired, tall and dramatic Gina, who flashed her wedding ring and invited him back to Lawrence to meet her husband. Joe got the hint, but came for dinner anyway. He and Harry hit it off—that evening and many evenings that followed expounding on Marx’s dialectical materialism and on economic development being the foundation of all life. Evening after joyful inebriated evening they played cards, told jokes and dreamed of a true socialist state, one that didn’t yet exist, where money, prices and markets were abolished, and all capitalist property confiscated and divided among the people.

Joe and Arturo became fascinated by Lawrence, the woolen and worsted production center of the world, a flourishing yet deeply troubled textile town. Joe had worked as a waterboy on railroads, filed saws at lumber mills, was a barrel maker, a shipyard worker, and had been last employed at a cigar factory. He began his work with the IWW as a community organizer and became an outstanding public speaker. He spent years taking Arturo with him, traveling the country and organizing miners, migrant laborers and foreign-born workers. Twice he had persuaded Harry, who just happened to be in between jobs, to go with him and Arturo to help them write their speeches. Both men looked up to Harry, revering his contemplative bookishness. Where they were brash, he was quiet, where they shouted, he spoke softly, where they were full of rhetorical passions, he engaged coolly in reasoned argument.

Aided by Harry’s speechwriting, they had put together the Brooklyn shoe factory strike earlier in 1911. Buoyed by the success in Brooklyn, Joe and Arturo returned to Lawrence, rented two rooms off Lowell Street, close to where Angela now lived with her friend Pamela, and settled into intoxicated vigilance. They were convinced something big was going to happen in Lawrence, and they wanted to be there when it did.

And so during Christmas of 1911, Arturo huddled with Angela, Harry and Joe at the little round table like battle headquarters in the kitchen of Mimoo’s rented house on Summer Street and tried to make heads or tails of American Woolen’s recent actions. Gina stood by the kitchen sink and watched warily, nervous before, nauseated now. Why was she agreeing with Mimoo? Why did this agitation around Christmastime smell like nothing but a pot of trouble?

The Lawrence mills were the world’s largest producers of textile products and needed vast numbers of laborers, mostly unskilled and underage women. After the invention of the two-loom system, the pace became grueling, the repetition and boredom dangerous, and the frequent injuries job-and-family-destroying. So after the textile union vigorously lobbied for two fewer hours of work a week, the Massachusetts legislature cut maximum hours from fifty-six to fifty-four. Fred Ayer and his son-in-law William Wood of American Woolen, who owned and operated all the mills in Lawrence, said with nary a complaint: ladies, you wanted it? It is done. Merry Christmas.

American Woolen’s instant agreement prompted a sudden and direct action of the entire cauldron’s brew of the IWW to descend onto Lawrence in December of 1911 like it was Paris in 1789. The main question on every socialist’s mind was: why would American Woolen give in to the demands so quickly? This puzzled the four heads on Summer Street, and unsettled Gina.

Salvo didn’t come home for Christmas, his absence a black sore at the table. Mimoo and Gina didn’t discuss it. Mimoo prayed more than usual, which is to say, nearly all day. It was Christmas, after all, she said. Prayers were in order. But on Christmas Eve she couldn’t help herself, she accused Harry of heartlessness in abandoning his family.

“Do you not see me?” she said to him, having had too much holiday cheer in the form of red port. “I don’t have my son on Christmas. I weep with despair. You don’t think your father and your sister feel the same about not having you with them on Christmas?”

“No, I don’t think they do.”

“You’re blind inside your soul!”

“Mimoo, they threw me out,” Harry said in self-defense. “I didn’t leave like Salvo, of my own free will. They forced me out, told me I would never be welcome in their home again. My father disowned me. He stopped my access to our family accounts. They did this because I had the gall to marry your daughter.”

Mimoo harrumphed in agreement. “He felt betrayed by you. He lost his temper.”

“My father never loses his temper. He said exactly what he meant. He did exactly what he intended. He told me he didn’t have a son anymore.”

“You’re a fool, Harry. Gina, you married a fool. Do you know how impossible what you’re saying is? A father cannot abandon his children.”

Gina tried to comfort her mother. “Mimoo, they’re not like us,” she said. “They don’t feel the same way about their children.”

Mimoo staggered from the table. “You don’t think a man feels most deeply about his only son?” she said. “Are you even my daughter? Think what you’re saying. His only son!”

“Honestly, Mimoo, believe him.”

“A man who doesn’t feel deeply about his son feels deeply about nothing.”

“Well, then, Mimoo,” said Harry, “perhaps you’ve answered your own question.”

Holding on to the railing, the old woman slowly climbed the stairs, refusing Gina’s help. “You are both blind. Because you haven’t had children. Just you wait. Wait till August. Then you’ll understand.”

They rang in the New Year of 1912 with champagne and roast pig. Arturo told Angela that maybe this summer, if all went well, they could be married.

Mimoo snorted all the way up the stairs, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“Mimoo, you’re embarrassing him,” said Angela after the men had left. “You know he can hear you, right?”

“I hope the dead can hear me. Madre di Dio. Do you hear me? Did he give you a ring?”

“He doesn’t have the money right now.”

“He has money to spend on his cigarettes and train rides all across the country, doesn’t he? And every time I see him he’s wearing a new suit.”

“Rings are expensive,” Angela said, calling downstairs to her cousin. “Gina, how much was your ring?”

In the kitchen cleaning up the wine glasses, Gina inquisitively tapped at Harry, reading the paper. “How should I know?” he said with a shrug. “I walked into the jewelers and picked out the largest stone. My father got the bill.”

Gina stared at the fourth finger on her left hand. The two-karat princess-cut diamond sparkled. She cleaned it every morning, even before she cleaned her teeth. It was like something out of someone else’s life.

“He says it wasn’t that expensive, Mimoo,” Gina yelled up to the bedroom.

“Is he going to lure you into a pretend marriage,” Mimoo asked Angela, “like that Harry with my daughter?”

“Mimoo, we are not in a pretend marriage!” Gina called from downstairs. “And also, Harry can hear you.”

“No, Mimoo,” said Angela, sitting on the corner of the bed and smiling. “Unlike Harry with Gina, Arturo is going to marry me properly, in a church. Because as you know, the Italian atheist rhetoric is all for show. There is no such thing as an Italian atheist.”

Downstairs, Harry glanced up from his newspaper to catch Gina’s eye for a reply to the truth of that. She crossed herself and bowed in assent before kissing him with champagne on her lips.

“There is also no ring,” an implacable Mimoo pointed out upstairs.

Gina waved her ring hand at Harry, wondering how much her rock was worth and if she pawned it, would she ever be able to get together the money to buy it back.