Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “The first time. She really exists.” Tony squinted at him. “How long you been engaged?”

  “I gave her a ring seven years ago.”

  “Seven years. Very nice attenuation.” Tony took a slow drag off his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the white smoke snaking into the air. “I wasn’t so lucky. When I gave Sharon a diamond, she set a date six months from my proposal. Said she didn’t like long engagements. Once I married her, I figured out why.”

  “Sharon is a wonderful girl.”

  “Yeah,” Tony replied, unenthused. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Tony smiled slyly. “No wonder you made it through the war. You’re good at dodging bullets.”

  Nicky went backstage and checked the lectern at the stage-left entrance. He opened the script and turned on his small reading light. As he did, he felt the tingle of ten long fingernails down his back.

  “You’re tight,” a woman’s voice whispered. The fingernails worked their way back up and grazed the back of his neck until every hair on Nicky’s head stood up like the fur on a frightened cat.

  “My fiancée is coming to the show tonight.” Nicky reached back to remove Josie Ciletti’s hands from his neck, but they were gone, having moved down to the small of his back.

  “I don’t believe you,” Josie whispered.

  “She’ll be sitting in the orchestra.”

  Josie wrapped her arms around Nicky’s waist and dropped her head between his shoulder blades with a thud.

  “Would you like to meet her?” Nicky asked.

  Josie released her grip and came around the front of the lectern to face Nicky, unhappy that he’d broken the spell of their pretend game. She wore a flimsy red satin robe, tied tightly at the waist. Her breasts were hoisted so high in the bodice of the Elizabethan bustier that they wrinkled her neck. Josie was a looker from the last row of the mezzanine, but up close, at fifty-three, she was a Picasso. She had close-set slate-blue eyes, jet-black hair, and a feverish mouth. The work bulb on the lectern did her no favors, casting shadows where she most needed light.

  “I’m not your girl anymore?”

  “Josie, you’re married.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “Yes. Him. Burt Ciletti? Your husband.”

  “But what if . . .”

  Nicky had played this game with Josie since he began working at the theater.

  “If you weren’t married . . . ,” Nicky droned.

  “Go on,” she purred.

  “. . . and I weren’t engaged—”

  “Ugh.” Josie couldn’t resist repulsion, followed by a dramatic pause. After all, she was a trained semi-professional regional theater actress.

  Nicky continued, “. . . and if you weren’t old enough to be my moth—”

  “Drop that line.”

  “My nurse?”

  “Better.”

  “Of course, you would be a lovely date, and who knows where it might lead.”

  “Nicholas, you are so right.” Josie inhaled deeply, forcing the entirety of her rib cage to rise so high her breasts almost touched her chin, but she exhaled before they hit the dimple. “Timing is everything. In the theater. In life. In love. You and me? We live with the broken hands of time.”

  Calla Borelli, in a white party dress and pink ballet flats, yanked the pulley to release the stage curtain, which fell to the floor with a loud thud. She called out to the cast and crew, “Rosa is opening the house.”

  “I better get dressed,” Josie purred in a way that told Nicky this wouldn’t be the last time he’d feel her nails on his chalkboard. Her satin mules clopped all the way back to her dressing room like she was a pony in need of new shoes. Nicky shook his head and organized his script. Leading ladies needed so much reassurance.

  “You look lovely,” Nicky said to Calla.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Nicky said, then murmured, “Frosty.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been giving me the stink eye. The cold shoulder. The first day of winter. I guess because I made you fall.”

  Calla had to think. “Oh, that. No, that wasn’t your fault, I was distracted.”

  “So was I.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Why the dress? Something’s up. A skirt. Then a dress. Did the fire department ask for their overalls back?”

  “You’re a real cut-up. If you must know, I have a date.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “You think so?” Calla’s eyes narrowed.

  “It’s finally been confirmed that you have legs. The young men of South Philly are rejoicing.”

  Calla closed her eyes and smoothed the space between her eyebrows. “Nicky, I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m only one man. I have a fiancée, and Josie is next in line. You’ll be sixty-two before I get to you.”

  Calla folded her arms and looked down at the floor. “I can’t afford to keep you on staff. I’m afraid this is your last night.”

  Nicky swallowed hard. “You’re firing me?”

  “I wish the financial situation around here were better and that things were different.”

  “I make seventy-five cents a night.”

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “It’s not the quality of my work?”

  “You know the play better than the actors. I like you. You do anything we ask. But we’re not making box office. Something has to go.”

  “You mean somebody.”

  “I’m sorry.” Calla placed her hand on the lectern as if to soothe the situation. “If it helps, I hate this part of my job. Hate it.” She turned toward the stairs.

  “Calla?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t like your haircut after all.”

  “You and my dad.” Calla went down the stairs.

  Nicky was stunned. He had never been fired, and certainly not by a girl in a white piqué cotton dress. Granted, his only employers had been his uncle and the United States Army, and while family would never put him out of work and he had earned his honorable discharge, Calla’s cold and abrupt canning of his position stung. Nicky was hurt, but he had a job to do, so like all theater people, he put the bad news out of his mind and got on with the show. He would deal with his feelings after the final curtain. For now, he would savor what was left of his time at the theater and stay in the moment. Nicky had heard Sam Borelli give this bit of direction to the actors many times in rehearsal, and while his job as prompter was strictly behind the scenes, it would only help to remain focused on the task at hand.

  Of all the wonderful aspects of working in the theater, Nicky’s favorite moments were spent standing in the wings before a performance, watching the audience take their seats. Over time, he had come to make certain assumptions about the patrons based upon their pre-curtain behavior.

  Occasionally there was a tussle between an usher and a patron over the seat assignment. Women wore their best outfits to the theater, which often meant their biggest hats, with the widest brims decorated with enormous silk flowers and large satin bows. A big hat worn by a woman sitting in an orchestra seat could knock out an entire act of Shakespeare for the patron unlucky enough to sit behind her. Try asking the woman who was proud of her Agnes of Paris creation to remove it. If the woman wouldn’t remove her hat, and the usher couldn’t make her move her seat, she’d leave in a huff, and if she stayed, the patron with the compromised view demanded a refund.

  When a group bought seats in a cluster, they would enter the theater with their stubs and proceed to engage in a version of musical chairs until everyone was satisfied with their particular view of the stage. The long-legged, claustrophobic, and hypochondriacal always fought for the aisle seats. Nuns never cared where they sat. Priests wanted center orchestra. Politicians wanted the front row while bookies, gamblers, and other players of the street stood in the back. As a director blocked the actors, Nicky could block the audience.

 
Nicky observed the single-ticket buyer with keen interest. This was usually a man who came alone, paid close attention to the action, and laughed and cried through the show, only to return the following night to repeat the experience. He related most to that fellow, the audience member who felt the production spoke directly to him.

  Audiences were similar night after night, but onstage, the world of the play was never the same.

  Theater was the volatile, dangerous, and restless sea in the world of all art forms. Depending upon mood and context, emotion and delivery, the play, as written and directed, could change night to night, it could transform, in color, shade, and meaning; it could die or explode, dazzle or fizzle, surprise and delight, anesthetize and bore, same script, same actors, didn’t matter, you never knew. That mutability was the very thing that had hooked Nicky Castone. He loved being near the danger, observing it from the wings. Even though curtains, a podium, the script in a binder, and a small bright desk light separated him from the thrill of what was happening onstage, he was grateful to be close enough to the fire to feel the heat.

  Nicky’s real life was predictable. After his mother died, his life fell into place as he fell into the world of the Palazzinis. Army training wasn’t that different from the drill on Montrose Street. Life, when he returned home, was one of order and routine: at work, pick up, collect the fare, drop off; at home, macaroni on Tuesday nights, fish on Fridays, and Sunday dinners after ten o’clock mass. But inside Borelli’s, he reveled in uncertainty, shifts of mood, and displays of emotion. Nicky ran on the highs of adrenaline, the lows of disappointment, and the moments of triumph, and he didn’t do it alone. He had a company of actors and a crew of artisans to share it with, a theatrical family. They relied on one another, as he had his fellow soldiers in the war. A working life in the theater was harder than one in the military in his estimation. As a soldier, he’d worried about being killed. In the theater, death came if you were dull. Working at Borelli’s forced Nicky to ponder where feelings originate, and to watch as the director coached the actor to challenge the audience with that discovery through the story. It was the only place in his life where that pursuit was even possible.

  * * *

  Peachy DePino wandered into the theater, holding her ticket. She looked up at the ceiling, squinted at the stage, while she waited at the top of the vom for the usher. The usher took her ticket and led Peachy to her seat. She sat down and wriggled out of her Easter coat, a light pink voile swing number with a ruffled collar. Underneath, she wore a white cotton blouse and dark pink cotton skirt. She adjusted her pink silk cocktail hat, with a large organza camellia over one ear, and smoothed her hair.

  Peachy was a feral Philly girl, thin from the war and nerves. Her black hair was rolled under in marcelled waves, her brown eyes were so large they took up half of her face. Her nose was Calabrian in length and Roman sharp, a combination of her father’s and mother’s prominent features. When she smiled, anything within a block inside Bella Vista lit up. Nicky had fallen in love with Peachy because of that smile.

  Nicky watched his fiancée as she read the program. She was a fast reader who went to the library once a month and picked up the latest bestsellers; she called herself somebody in the know. However, on this particular night, she wasn’t. Peachy had no idea why Nicky had invited her to the theater.

  Sitting in the seat and trying to appear as if she belonged, she looked around for a clue that might help her understand why Nicky had left a single ticket for her at the box office. She removed her wristwatch and gently wound the gear with her thumb and forefinger as she waited for the curtain to rise. Nicky’s heart filled with feeling for her as he observed her all alone, as if warm pancake syrup flowed through his veins.

  “Hey, I’m going to get into place.” Tony turned and pointed to his back. “Give me a zip, will ya?”

  Nicky zipped up Tony’s costume, a gold tunic he wore over pale green tights and brown boots.

  “How’s the house?”

  “Orchestra is full,” Nicky told him, fudging a bit. But Tony was just nearsighted enough to believe him.

  “Great.”

  In character as Orsino, the Duke, Tony strode onto the stage and took his position on the set, a castle on the island of Illyria. The trompe l’oeil windows and doors painted on the flats gave the illusion of dimension while hues of gold and soft coral suggested opulence. Tony jumped up and down on his toes and shook out his hands. He rotated his head on his neck to loosen up his vertebrae.

  The cast drifted up from the dressing rooms, taking their places in the wings to await their cues, bringing with them the lingering scent of last cigarettes, talcum powder, and Jack Daniel’s straight in a paper cup.

  Hambone Mason swore he only needed liquor to bolster his confidence onstage at night, but evidently he also needed it to get through tax season at his accounting office during the day. The bald sixty-year-old leaned forward and touched his toes, reached his arms high above his head, inhaled, and exhaled, misting the stage-left wings with his tap-room breath.

  As the actors joined Tony onstage, Calla manned the pulley for the curtain and Enzo Carini took his place on his mark downstage right. When the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose, he held a trumpet up to his lips. The follow spot found him as he blew a stately flurry of notes before he announced to the audience:

  “Twelfth Night, or What You Will.”

  The stage lights pulled on until the set glistened. Tony turned downstage and walked into a puddle of intersecting pale blue beams and began to perform the opening speech. Nicky followed the lines in the script using a ruler to keep his place.

  The pace of the play that evening was brisk. The actors were on top of their cues, the backstage crew was prepared, and it seemed all was well in Illyria and Borelli’s.

  As the scenes progressed, the actors and actresses moved like the gears on a large set of gang mowers, coming on and off the stage left or right into the wings with precision. By the first intermission, Nicky had finally caught his breath. He helped the crew move the flats, flipping the castle around to reveal a pastoral setting of rolling hills. Nicky was so consumed with the details of the production that he hadn’t had a chance to gauge Peachy’s reaction to the play, but he couldn’t wait to hear her thoughts.

  “How’s it going?” Calla whispered behind Nicky as he assumed his stance behind the podium.

  “Might be the best performance yet.”

  Calla nodded in agreement.

  “Homestretch, kids,” Nicky said softly to the actors in the wings.

  The company took their places for the final scene of the fourth act, which left the last act in the capable hands of Tony and the great Norma Fusco Girolamo, the leading lady of the company, who was playing Viola.

  Nicky did a quick head count. “Where’s Menecola?” he asked.

  “Yell down for Menecola,” Tony turned to the prop master.

  Josie, who was playing Maria the maid, clopped up the steps. “Peter Menecola left.”

  “What do you mean? Is he outside?” Nicky asked.

  “He’s gone. His mother’s knees locked on her at Novena. She tripped on the choir steps, wiped out the tenor section like dominoes, and broke her hip in the fall. Here.” She handed Calla his costume.

  Calla turned to Enzo.

  “I can’t go on for him. I’m already covering for Paulie Gatto as the priest in this scene. Remember he’s out? Gall bladder surgery.” Enzo pulled the black cassock of the priest over his head.

  “Cut the scene,” Hambone suggested.

  “We can’t cut the scene. It’s the marriage of Sebastian and Olivia.” Nicky was frustrated as he flipped through the script.

  “Nicky, you do it,” Tony proposed.

  “From here?”

  “No, onstage. Act. You know the words. Play Sebastian.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Good idea,” Calla said.

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “You have to.” />
  “I’m not an actor.”

  “We’re all actors,” Tony said wryly.

  “You’re all we’ve got,” Calla said with authority.

  The next few seconds flew by quickly because Nicky was numb. Enzo handed him the costume. It seemed like a flock of birds descended upon him, pecking away his street clothes, but instead of winding up naked, they were replaced with the costume pieces.

  “Let me help you into that tunic,” Josie purred as she began to unbutton Nicky’s shirt. He pushed her hands away.

  “Give him privacy,” Calla ordered. The cast turned away—Josie reluctantly—as Nicky slipped out of his trousers and into Sebastian’s with Bonnie’s assistance.

  It felt a lot like the moment he was assigned his army uniform at Fort Rucker. If clothes make the man and a uniform makes the soldier, it must be true the costume makes the actor. Did this sack of dyed broadcloth have magical powers? Nicky adjusted the collar and yanked down the hem, hoping the tunic would give him courage, and transform him into the character.

  Beyond that, Nicky wanted to save the show. He had never been a hero, but like all men, he aspired to it. This may very well have been the moment where fate and skill collided to give Nicky Castone the opportunity to show the world what he was made of, even though he resisted the notion of being an actor. In his deepest soul, Nicky had the urge to act onstage, but dismissed it. For one thing, the theater didn’t fall in line with his regimented life; for another, he didn’t believe he could rise to the talent level of Tony Coppolella. But now, whether he liked it or not, Nicky would find out. Sam Borelli believed the audience tells you if you belong onstage. Nicky was eager to find out if he agreed with them.

  Norma ran up the steps two at a time. Her lustrous brown hair, curled into sausage waves, bounced down her back as she sprinted. “We have a problem!” she whispered. “Cathy went with him.”

  “We lost Cathy Menecola, too?” Calla was exasperated. “Couldn’t one person in that family handle a broken hip?”

  “Evidently not.” Norma was half dressed herself, wearing only the top half of her costume for Act 5.

  “Get her costume,” Calla ordered.

  Bonnie, the costume assistant, whose mood usually matched her name, bounded down the steps with the gown. She thrust it at Calla with a sarcastic “Who needs a costume crew?”