Kiss Carlo

by Adriana Trigiani

  * * *

  Calla listened at her father’s bedroom door. When she heard his loud, rhythmic snores, she smiled and walked down the hallway to her room. She left her bedroom door slightly ajar in case her father needed her during the night, and climbed into her bed. Through the open window, a cool breeze floated over her. She heard the soft echo of laughter from the street below as a man and a woman walked by, laughing over a joke. She shivered and pulled the coverlet up to her chin.

  Lately, Calla had gone off to sleep playing the same scene in her mind, Act 4, scene 5 of Twelfth Night. She felt the velvet gown stand stiffly away from her body, the heat of the spotlight on her brow, the grainy finish of the paint on the stage floor, and Nicky Castone’s touch when he brushed the hair out of her eyes. Her mind would wander to the witnesses, the audience beyond the curved lip of the stage, watching the scene. She would remember the note she gave the actors about wedding scenes in Shakespeare’s comedies. The characters commit to marriage in front of a crowd in order for the vows to stick. People are unlikely to break a promise when they have made it public.

  Calla had a recurring dream whereby Nicky and she would pop up in other scenes in the play, sometimes as themselves. The scene would unfold, Nicky would say his lines, but when it came time for Calla to speak, she couldn’t. Calla never spoke in the dream, and yet she knew the lines. She spent the dream frustrated, trying to get the words out, to explain that she understood, that she knew her lines.

  Calla thought she might confide in Frank about the strange dream, but decided not to, even though, as they became closer, it was exactly the kind of thing she believed she should share with him. What she couldn’t figure out is why she dreamed of that scene and continued to, and when she woke up, it stayed on her mind.

  When she examined the memory of that night, she recalled that she was unable to control her emotions. She remembered that Enzo and Nicky were very good, and for reasons she could not name, she had lost control of the scene. It didn’t matter, of course—she was a last-minute understudy with minimal acting skills. It wasn’t that she had not hit the mark in her own estimation. It was something else entirely, something that had not yet revealed itself to her. In time, she hoped to crack it.

  Ambassador Carlo Guardinfante woke up in a hospital bed, not knowing where he was or how long he had been there. He had a view of a small patch of gray sky from his window. When he tried to move, his midsection, bandaged tightly like a corset, would not allow him to bend, sit up, or breathe deeply.

  The last thing he remembered was sipping champagne and eating lobster with the American Italians and the captain of the MS Vulcania.

  Carlo panicked and cried out.

  A serious nun, the sober nurse, Sister Julia Dennehy, wearing a full-length blue and white habit, pushed through the door. She helped Carlo lie back in the bed.

  “You must rest, sir.”

  “Parli Italiano, Sorella?”

  “Poco.” She smiled.

  The nun could speak a bit of Italian, and the Ambassador knew enough English, that the pair could cobble together a conversation, enough to assuage his fears.

  “Dove sono?”

  “L’ospedale. Saint Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village. New York City.”

  “Cosa mi é successo?”

  “You collapsed aboard ship, you were very sick. They brought you here as soon as the boat docked. The surgeon removed your appendix.”

  Carlo looked around the room. His regimentals hung on the back of the door; his medals dangled off the sash, pulling away from the silk. His trunk stood in the corner of the room.

  “I must go. Sono un ospite d’onore di una festa a Roseto, Pennsylvania.”

  “No. I won’t allow it. You had surgery. You risk infection if you leave this hospital. I will send a telegram and explain the circumstances of your cancellation.”

  Carlo looked into Sister Julia’s eyes. No matter where a man walked in the world, no good would come of arguing with a nun. He pointed. “C’e una lettera nella tasca della mia uniforme,” Carlo sighed. “I miei piani.”

  The nun wrote down Carlo’s itinerary and the contact information in Roseto and left his room. She handed the message for the telegram to the nurse on duty.

  “Telegram for Roseto, Pennsylvania.”

  “Where’s that, Sister?”

  “Send it through Philadelphia. They’ll find it.”

  TO: CHIEF BURGESS TUTOLOLA: ROSETO PA

  FROM: SISTER JULIA DENNEHY ST. VINCENT’S HOSPITAL, NYC, NY

  AMBASSADOR ILL. SITUATION DIRE. MUST CANCEL EVENT. SJD

  5

  The Palazzini family bought the entire Row H in the orchestra, straight across, for Nicky’s debut in Twelfth Night. He had warned the girls about their hats, and they obliged him. Aunt Jo wore her chignon in a snood. Elsa wore a simple black velvet curvette that matched her church coat; Lena a brimless calot hat of peacock-blue satin that adhered to her head like a bandage; and Mabel wore a Scottie hat, the only small hat she owned. Made of emerald-green velvet, the Scottie was out of season, but it qualified as teensy, so it made the cut and was worn to the theater.

  Aunt Jo had invited the DePinos, who sat in the center of the row, with Peachy, dressed head to toe in pink, sitting between her parents like a smear of raspberry jam. The trio sat upright like three pillars of granite in a Tuscan tomb.

  Nicky wasn’t shy about sharing the hat rule with the DePino women so Peachy wore a band in her hair with a flat pink bow, while her mother, attempting to keep within the bounds of restraint, wore a dark pink roller hat covered in ostrich feathers. The patron who sat behind Concetta in Row R of the orchestra sat on the Philadelphia phone book to see over the feathers.

  Dom anchored the row on one aisle, his bad knee extended out into the aisle like a divining rod. Nino sat next to his father. Dominic the son took the aisle seat on the far end of the row, while Gio’s seat remained next to his brother.

  Gio stood in the back of the theater, tapping his foot on the floor as he rested his chin on the orchestra wall facing the stage. His face looked like an apple used for target practice in Sherwood Forest. Gio followed Nicky’s rule about two bit hustlers who attend the theater, but his cousin also had claustrophobia in crowds, so whenever he entered a public space, he perspired, choked for air, and checked the exits, camping near one for a quick getaway.

  Calla moved through the hallway outside the dressing rooms in the basement as the actors emerged in costume to go up the stairs to take their places onstage for the first scene. She wore a caramel-colored tulle skirt, upon which she had added layers in the costume shop, and a crisp white blouse paired with her mother’s pearls. She ran a brush through her hair as she walked.

  “How are we doing?” she asked the star of her company.

  “We’re good.” Tony put out his cigarette in the ash can before going up the stairs. Calla pulled him into a corner. “Look out for Nick, will you?”

  “He’s got it.”

  “You think so?”

  “He knows the show better than me.”

  “He seems awfully nervous.” Calla wrung her hands.

  “My first show—remember?”

  “Yeah. You went out the stage door. We had to hold the curtain. Dad found you over on Pine Street in the alley.”

  “Terrified.”

  “I’ll check on him.”

  Calla walked down the hallway to the men’s dressing room and rapped on the door. “Everybody decent?”

  She heard a rumble in the affirmative and entered to find Nicky sitting alone at the mirror. “You okay?”

  Nicky nodded.

  “You’re going to be great,” Calla said supportively.

  “I’m shooting for . . . getting through it.”

  “You’ll do just fine.”

  “My whole family’s here.”

  “We have a full house. Your uncle invited everybody from the American Legion, and they paid full price. Rosa is beside herself. She never had to
count that much money. She actually used the adding machine. Thank you.”

  Calla turned to go, but Nicky grabbed her hand. She looked at him, her heart filled with sympathy.

  “You’re ready, Nick. You really are.” She smiled at him.

  In that moment, Calla Borelli had the face of an angel. The light from the dressing mirror made her eyes dazzle like black spinel; her hair fell forward to frame her face as if it were a painting. She was golden and pure, hovering over him, protecting him. He felt safe, which meant he could be honest with her. “I’m scared.”

  Calla sat down next to him and took his hands into hers. “You know every word. And if you forget anything, Tony and Norma will jump in and cover for you no matter what. Enzo is your rock. He knows every role in the play, he has your back. Josie would like all that’s attached to your back . . .”

  Nicky laughed.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of—unless you have a fear of success.”

  “I’m getting exactly what I want,” Nicky said softly.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s the first time it’s ever happened to me.”

  “Well, it’s about time. You deserve it.”

  Frank Arrigo stood in the doorway of the dressing room, observing his girlfriend holding hands with a guy in a leotard, their heads together, whispering, practically cheek to cheek. The moment appeared so intimate, it looked like they might kiss. Frank almost backed away to give them privacy until he remembered that Calla was his girl, and he didn’t like what he saw. Jealousy roiled through him, pea green and nasty. “Hey,” he barked, breaking them apart.

  Calla jumped in her chair, and Nicky turned to face him.

  “I have some pre-curtain jitters,” Nicky explained.

  “Have a nip, buddy. That’ll help.” Frank extended his hand to Calla. She rose and took it.

  “You’ll be fine,” Calla assured Nicky. “See you after the show.”

  “If I’m feeling generous,” Frank warned Nicky.

  Rosa DeNero flickered the lights in the lobby, her mood bubbly for the first time since she’d begun working the box office at Borelli’s. Show night didn’t stretch in front of her like a penance; she actually had something to do. A full house meant a full accounting, which would be her pleasure after a run where most of the velvet seats had sat empty. Rosa returned to the box office to count the money.

  Hortense Mooney pushed through the glass doors and walked up to the box office window. “One ticket, please.”

  Rosa looked at up her.

  “Do you have a colored section?” Hortense asked matter-of-factly.

  “The mezzanine, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Hortense smiled but her tone was pure annoyance.

  “No one colored ever came to this theater.”

  Hortense chuckled. “Not a lot of us in Shakespeare. Forgive me. There’s Othello. Do you have a ticket for me?”

  “Yes, we do. It’s the last seat in the mezzanine. Two dollars.”

  Hortense beamed as she reached into her purse. “Nicky Castone filled the house.”

  “Do you think that’s the reason?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I wondered.”

  “He’s special,” Hortense said. She laid two crisp one-dollar bills in the money tray.

  “Or he runs into a lot of people when he’s driving a cab.”

  Hortense made her way up the stairs to find her seat. The usher was taken aback when she saw her, but nodded, checked her ticket, handed her a program, and gently lifted the velvet curtain so that she might slip into her aisle seat. No one noticed her when she did.

  Sam Borelli walked through the lobby as Rosa DeNero was closing the auditorium doors. “Mr. Borelli!”

  “I’m going to stand,” he said with a grin.

  “You look good.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  “I’m staging a comeback. What do you think?”

  “We sold out the house tonight. I just sold the last seat.”

  “Tops my comeback.”

  Sam slipped into the theater. He looked over the heads of the audience from the rear of the orchestra. Rosa was right. There wasn’t an empty seat. He filled his lungs with the air of the place, inhaling the scents of oil paint, lily of the valley, tobacco, and the fresh ink on the glossy paper of the Playbill. After all these years, the anticipation of the curtain going up still thrilled Sam Borelli.

  Calla hiked up her skirt and took the steps to backstage wings two at a time with Frank following closely behind her. In the wings, the actors were stacked up in a row, like a deck of cards, ready for their entrance in the opening scene. Nicky stood behind Tony, his eyes focused on the stage and the task that lay before him.

  Calla whistled softly before releasing the pulley and yanking the stage curtain. Frank took over the ropes, which allowed her to take one final look at her cast before the trumpet sounded. She was confident, but in this moment, she wanted success for Nicky more than he wanted it for himself. Nicky as Sebastian would not make his entrance until the first scene of Act 2. Calla slipped over to him. “You have time. Relax into it.”

  “I will,” Nicky whispered without taking his eyes off the stage.

  Frank was annoyed that Calla was paying attention to Nicky again. If he could have, he would have lifted one of the stage weights, the heavy sandbags that countered the pulley system that flew the flats up and down from the ceiling, and thrown it in Nicky Castone’s direction. Instead, Frank gently took Calla’s arm. He pulled her close and cinched his arm around her waist, making it clear to anyone who was curious that she belonged to him.

  “Let’s watch the show with Dad,” she said.

  Frank answered by kissing her lightly on the lips.

  Peachy DePino had meant to ask Nicky for a copy of the play, so she might read it before his debut, but she had been so consumed with details of their wedding that she forgot. Besides, the theater had become a subject they avoided. She’d demanded he quit the play, but he’d ignored her request, so she in turn pretended she had not made it.

  Peachy slipped her gloved hand into her mother’s. As Connie turned to look at her daughter, she nodded, causing a few ostrich feathers to fly off her hat and dance through the air. The patron seated behind Connie sat up higher on her phone book to avoid the filaments as the opening scene unfolded.

  Peachy was grateful to her mother, who was the rudder on the ship of her long engagement, guiding her daughter toward the safe harbor of a wedding ceremony. It was her mother who’d convinced her to ignore Nicky’s weird obsession with the theater. Every marriage is a power struggle, Connie had assured her daughter, and even though she wished to protect her from any agita, Peachy and Nicky would have their struggles too.

  Besides, Connie was happy when Jo Palazzini called and invited them to the play; it showed that they were on the DePino side and wanted this wedding to unfold without incident and be as splendid as Connie had envisioned it. It showed that they loved Peachy and wanted the two families to mingle socially. These positive steps were more than that; they were signs that the marriage would be solid and supported on both sides by two good families. Connie felt secure that night; her apprehensions about show business and Nicky’s role in it were put aside as her husband, daughter, and she were safely landlocked by Palazzinis in the center of the row. Connie relaxed back into her seat, confidently if not smugly.

  A series of lights rigged to the mezzanine wall were covered in blue gels, the color of the water off the coast of Capri. The beams pulled on behind the various shades of blue, casting a glow that conjured the sea. Nicky followed Paulie out onto the stage, crossing to take his downstage mark. His senses heightened, he heard whispers of Break a leg from the wings, the rustle of programs from the audience, and the familiar murmurs of his family’s chorus of voices as he crossed the stage.

  Paulie, playing Antonio, turned and faced Nicky. �
�Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?”

  Nicky looked at him. He knew he had the next line, but he could not remember it. He breathed deeply. Paulie cheated upstage and murmured, “By your patience, no . . . ,” to cue him.

  But the prompt did not help. Nicky stood still, engulfed in the blue, untethered, unconnected, and floating.

  The Palazzini family and the DePinos leaned forward in their seats, uncertain what was happening but knowing something was terribly wrong.

  Sam Borelli mouthed the lines silently from the back of the theater.

  Paulie, thinking quickly, gave his next cue, hoping that it would jostle Nicky into the moment. He knew that when an actor went up and the line was gone, it might be gone in that performance forever, so it was best to press on. “Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.”

  Frank propped himself against the back wall of the theater, behind the orchestra section, and folded his arms, secretly thrilled that the artichoke in tights was failing, as Calla moved forward, and stood next to her father.

  Hortense leaned forward in her seat in the mezzanine. “Come on, Nicky,” she whispered softly. “Come on.”

  Nicky turned toward the audience, and soon the blue lights became like waves of cool water that refreshed him and brought him back to life, into the play, the scene, this line, and to the moment:

  No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere

  extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a

  touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me

  what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges

  me in manners the rather to express myself. You

  must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,

  which I called Roderigo. My father was that

  Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard

  of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both

  born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased,

  would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;

  for some hour before you took me from the breach of