Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  “What?” I can’t imagine my father doing such a thing.

  “Your father didn’t do it, of course. I was there. But Caterina insisted that he did. She was so envious of Enzo and Papa’s closeness that she made up a terrible lie to tear them apart. But that was simply the last straw. From the beginning she and I didn’t get along.”

  “Why?”

  “She was a prima donna. She never worked. When we all lived in this house, I did all the cooking and cleaning, and she never lifted a finger to help me. I was her maid. I did it because she was older, and I wanted to prove to your father that I could make a nice home and get along with everyone, so in a sense I didn’t mind. But Caterina was a very insecure woman. In my mind, the most dangerous people in the world are insecure women. They can do more damage in a day than an army.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She spent a lot of money on things for herself and didn’t mind that the rest of us went without. At the end of the month, when we paid the bills, there would always be a royal battle between Papa and Enzo. Those arguments alone would have caused a rift.”

  “You shared expenses?”

  “Papa and Enzo put everything the Groceria made into a pot. Both families ate from that pot. Of course, there was a debt to the bank, and Caterina knew it. I’ve never been a woman who wanted a lot of fancy things, I’m happy with very little. Caterina, however, needed lots of things to make herself happy. She was furious when she was banished from New York City, but that was the deal: whoever lost the coin toss moved, and the other brother bought him out. It was the only way.”

  “So Papa chose you over his brother, and that’s when Caterina put the curse on me.”

  “Right. She had to make one final scene. But your father and Enzo were determined to make the deal stick. There is no way one of them would have backed out. A deal is a deal. And I don’t think Enzo minded so much. He always missed the country. I think if he could have, he would have gone back to the Veneto and had his own farm.”

  “Uncle Enzo probably would have liked to get the farm in Godega.”

  “It’s done now, Lucia. I’m sure Caterina will be happy with her pile of lire.”

  Ruth and I are under deadline to finish a traveling ensemble for a Park Avenue lady who’s spending the spring touring Europe. This is Ruth’s final big job before her wedding and honeymoon. As we wrap up, Ruth pulls a long sheet of butcher paper off the roll, tears it across the blade, and lays it down on the cutting table. She takes a piece of black chalk from her supply box and writes, “John Talbot,” then stands back from it. “Now, that’s a distinguished name. Sounds like a scholar or a banker or something grand.”

  “If he’s so grand, why hasn’t he called?”

  “That, Lucia, is the million-dollar question.” Ruth smiles.

  “Ladies, for your bulletin board.” Delmarr throws a letter down on my worktable. “The Mother Superior of the Poor ‘We’re Barely Scraping By’ Nuns of the Bronx would like to thank you for their habits. They will keep you and yours in their prayers.”

  “That’s nice,” I say sincerely.

  “Write Mother back, would you, Lucia, and tell her that I would like her entire order to pray that my hair stays in. I saw a touch of scalp in the back this morning. It’s small, but it has the potential to spread, and I’m too vain to lose my hair.” Delmarr twists to look in the three-way mirror, patting the back of his head. “Is there a saint for the prevention of hair loss?”

  “Don’t look at me. I don’t know from saints,” Ruth says.

  “I don’t think there’s a saint, but there are surely novenas for desperate situations,” I offer.

  “Then include Harvey,” Ruth says. “Do they pray for Jews?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” I ask.

  “Then tell them to pray for the shiny bald spot on the crown of Harvey’s head. It’s already the size of a postage stamp, but it’s okay. I told him I would love him no matter what.”

  “That’s how it is when you get married.” Delmarr leans against the wall. “Which is why I never will. What honest person could stand before a group of people and promise that in sickness (yech), poverty (they’ve got to be kidding), and whatever else comes down the pike that you would never leave? The wedding vows are a license to be a complete jerk, with full knowledge that the person you married has agreed, no matter how large a horse’s ass you are, to stay by your side until death. A fool could tell you this is a bad deal.”

  “Could we change the subject, please?” Ruth says pleasantly. “I am almost a bride.”

  “Lucia, I’m going to lunch with John Talbot. You want to come along?”

  Before I can answer, John comes through the doors. He’s wearing a black pin-striped suit with subtle stripes in the palest periwinkle. His tie is watermarked Chinese silk in off white against a bright white shirt. Why is he always so well turned out, and therefore irresistible?

  “Would you like to come?” Delmarr asks me again.

  “I can’t. I have plans.” I look at Delmarr and smile politely, but I want to wring his neck. I’m not a tagalong on his business lunches, not with John Talbot.

  “Okay, no problem,” Delmarr says casually.

  John looks down and sees his name in chalk. “Someone sending me a message?” he asks, pointing.

  Ruth and I look at each other with slight panic. Delmarr picks up on it immediately. “Oh, that was me. I asked Ruth to make a note to remind me about our lunch.” Ruth and I are thinking the same thing: Delmarr is a stand-up fellow who can catch a fastball.

  “How are you, Lucia?” John says, smiling.

  “Just fine. Have you met Ruth Kaspian?”

  “Sure, upstairs. Remember? It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” Ruth says with a smile. “It’s a pleasure on my end, too.” Delmarr shows John out. Once they are gone, Ruth leans across her drawing table. “He’s magnificent,” she sighs. “His teeth are whiter than his shirt!”

  “That’s what they mean when they say ‘movie-star looks,’ ” I tell her.

  “You may well end up with him after all. You’re a beauty match. My aunt Beryl always says money marries money, and pretty marries pretty. When she’s tipsy, she also says poor marries poor, and ugly marries ugly.” Ruth pours herself a cup of coffee out of her thermos and refills mine. “Guess what Uncle Milt is?”

  “Pretty?”

  “Nope. Poor.”

  The afternoon goes by with no sign of Delmarr. The booking secretary delivers us a message from him around four o’clock that says he’ll see us Monday morning, he’s gone to an appointment outside the office. There’s nothing unusual about this—we spend a lot of time running errands to fabric houses, trim shops, and notions stores. I’m dying to ask Delmarr about John Talbot, but it will have to wait the weekend.

  I take the bus home, anxious to start my weekend. Sunday is Ruth’s wedding, but I will spend tomorrow admiring the wallpaper in my room. I also have a new book I can’t wait to crack open, Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, and a new shoe shop on East Fifty-eighth Street to wander through. When I get off the bus and make the turn from Seventh Avenue onto Commerce, I feel comforted by the lantern twinkling over our stoop.

  “Mama, I’m home,” I call out from the vestibule. I’m starting up the stairs to my room when she appears in the doorway.

  “You have guests,” Mama says, meeting me in the doorway.

  “I do?” I try to see around Mama. “Who?”

  “Delmarr and that fellow John we met on New Year’s Eve.”

  Mama turns to go back into the kitchen. My heart races. I’m sorry I didn’t apply lipstick before I started home, but I wasn’t expecting company. Without taking my coat off, I check my face in the mirror by the door and go into the living room.

  “What a surprise,” I tell Delmarr and John as they rise to greet me. “So, the longest lunch in history led you to my house?”

  “I went by your papa’s store for so
me superior olive oil, and he invited us to dinner,” Delmarr explains. “Go take your coat off. Your mother convinced me to make a vat of Manhattans, and they’re iced just right.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “Pop and the boys are on their way home, honey,” Mama calls from the kitchen.

  Back in the hallway, I take off my coat and hang it up next to John’s. His overcoat carries the spicy scent of amber I remember from New Year’s Eve. I hear them chattering inside, so I take a moment to examine the coat. It is tailored with the finest details: a smart black satin lining, leather backing on the collar, chamois lining on the cuffs. The vent in the back is reinforced with silk cording, an old technique that lets the coat fall to the back of the knees without wrinkling. On the shelf over the coatrack is John Talbot’s hat. It is a Borsalino; it, too, has a custom touch, a gusset in the crown to fit the owner and no one else. The gloves that rest on the brim are black kid leather with a rollover cuff. John Talbot is particular, and I like that. I pull my lipstick out of my purse and apply it. I look down at my simple camel-wool skirt and wish I had dressed in something more festive, but this will have to do. Plus, I don’t want this man to think I’m trying to impress him.

  I join them in the living room. Delmarr hands me a glass. Rosemary comes out of the kitchen after Mama. She moves slowly, the weight of the baby, due anytime, evident in her every movement. John asks her lots of questions, how she has prepared for the baby and where she’s delivering and all about her doctor. Rosemary asks John why he is so interested in babies. He tells her that it’s the only miracle in the world. Mama looks at him with approval.

  “We’re home!” Roberto calls from the doorway. My brothers are laughing, joking with one another. Papa leads them into the living room, giving Mama the zippered canvas money sack from the store. He kisses her on the cheek.

  “I see you got here just fine,” Papa says to Delmarr and John.

  “Not without a compass,” Delmarr said. “These Village streets are as twisty as rolatini.”

  “Did you meet my brothers?” I ask.

  John points. “That’s Roberto. That’s Angelo. That’s Orlando. And the bruiser who looks Irish is Exodus.”

  “Hey, I’m all Italian,” Exodus retorts. “Don’t make me prove it.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” John jokes back. “I hope that by the end of the evening, you’ll have taught me all the Italian curse words I can retain. I’m visiting Capri as a guest of the Mortensons come Easter, and I want to shock them with foul language.”

  Delmarr laughs. “Believe me, you’ll need them after a week with Vivie Mortenson. She’s a piece of work.”

  “Well, these are the boys to teach you,” Papa promises. “They know more bad words than me, and I grew up in Italy.”

  “How do you know the Mortensons?” I ask John.

  “They’re old friends.”

  “I made Sally Mortenson’s debutante gown,” I tell him. John smiles politely. I wonder if he’ll be less interested in me now that he knows I make his friends’ clothes.

  Delmarr reads my mind. “All the girls request Lucia when they come in for a fitting. They know she’s the best.” He winks at me.

  As I watch the men joke and spar, it occurs to me that for most of my life I’ve been the only girl in the room. When I began my career, I was relieved to be with women. There’s an understanding and a language among a group of women that I treasure. As much as I love my brothers, I’ve never been able to tell them things that I could have told a sister. Mama was sensitive to that and tried to compensate. But some things I would have felt more comfortable saying to a sister instead of Mama. Being the only Sartori girl made me more confident, though. I don’t think I would have had the guts to take my sewing samples to Altman’s Custom Department had I not had brothers who taught me about competition. And I don’t think I would have even tried to get a job had Papa not encouraged me to take care of myself. He told me I would make better decisions if I made them out of want and not need.

  I help Mama serve the meal, polenta and roasted Cornish game hens. Delmarr gets a kick out of my brothers and talks to them about working in the Groceria. He asks lots of questions about how the operation is set up. John says he can’t imagine what would happen if someone weren’t pulling his weight—how do you fire your family? As we eat, John tells funny stories about characters he has met in his extensive travels. Even Delmarr is fascinated. While we clear the dishes, Papa gets down to business.

  “So, John, what is your trade?” Papa asks as he pours himself a glass of wine.

  “I’m a businessman. I’m interested in starting ventures in several areas. I like importing. Lately I’ve been working with a textile manufacturer in Spain. I’d like to provide goods to the fabric houses on Fifth Avenue. Among other things.”

  Papa raises an eyebrow. “Other things?”

  “Yes, sir. I like to be useful. I have connections, and I like to use them to do some good. Bishop Walter Sullivan called me to arrange a couple of buses for an upstate retreat—”

  “You know the bishop?” Mama says, impressed.

  “For many years. Anyway, he needed a hand with transportation, and I helped out.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated it.” Mama smiles, then nods at Papa. “So, you’re Catholic?” she asks hopefully.

  “I am.” John Talbot doesn’t know it yet, but he’s won my mother over.

  “Antonio,” my mother says. “The port.”

  “I’ll get Ro’s sesame cookies,” I offer.

  “I make them by the pound, they’re my only craving,” Rosemary says to Delmarr apologetically. “I hope you like them.”

  Roberto returns to talk of the Groceria and his dreams of expanding and modernizing it. Papa, in his wise way, lets Roberto go on and on about attracting new customers, opening a second store uptown, and someday having a chain of Grocerias. Rosemary has heard these dreams in detail, so her eyes get a tired look as she nibbles a cookie. Mama likes to hear Roberto’s ideas of progress; she takes pride in our ambition. John listens carefully to Roberto as he spins the dream.

  “If you have one business going gangbusters, you should expand,” John tells him. “You can’t grow if you don’t envision the bigger picture.”

  “Tell Papa that. He likes the old ways,” Roberto says.

  “I’m not against the new,” Papa says pleasantly. “I just don’t understand how to have two stores and meet the quality standards I have set for myself. I’m one man who can inspect one piece of fruit at a time. If the crates come in and I dump them in a bin and stick a price on them without checking, then I’m no better than the store up the street. My customers know they’re buying the best because I have chosen it for them. My fish is fresh from Long Island Sound, my meats are from the farmlands of Pennsylvania, and my fruit comes from all over, upstate New York and as far as Italy. I still buy my blood oranges from the same Italian family I met as a boy in the open market in Treviso. The farmer wraps each orange like a jewel, crates them all, and sends them for sale in my shop.”

  I squeeze Papa’s hand. “I used to wait for those crates from Italy. The whole block smelled like sweet oranges!”

  “I am not saying that everyone in the world has to be as fussy as me, but my customers trust me, and that is a bond I take seriously.”

  “Sir, I respect that.” Delmarr toasts Papa with his port. “Like you, I believe in quality. But I think we must face the fact that the world is changing. Since the war, in my business, the mandate has been ‘How many can we make, and how quickly can we make them?’ There was a time when the store told us you could say no to a customer if you knew you wouldn’t turn out a quality garment. Now they tell us to take every order. There’s a lust for profit, at the expense of quality. They’d like us to work seven days a week, with double the output. I don’t know where all of this is headed, but it isn’t good.”

  “Since the boys came home from the war, our customer base has expanded,” Mama says. “We used to be a
neighborhood market, but now we get more and more people from uptown.”

  “Two reasons,” Roberto explains. “Lots of guys were stationed in Italy and got a taste for fresh basil, the best Parmesan, good olive oil—”

  “And where were they going to get it uptown? These bluebloods don’t know from authentic Italian. So they began coming to us,” Exodus adds.

  “But it was more than what we were selling,” Papa says. “When I came to this country, the Italians were not embraced. But after we sent our sons over to go up against Hitler, everything changed. We brought honor to our people. It changed the way people in this city looked at us.”

  “All the Sartoris served?” John asks.

  “I’m the only one who didn’t make it overseas. I enlisted near the end and got as far as Fort Bragg,” Exodus says.

  “You still defended your country, Ex.” Mama puts her arm around him.

  “Did you serve?” Papa asks John.

  “Yes, sir. I was stationed in France.”

  I smile, knowing that this matters to Papa.

  By nine o’clock the conversation wanes, since we’re all tired from the workweek. The only person with pep is John Talbot, who becomes more animated and engaging as the evening wears on. He’s a night person, I think to myself, the opposite of me. I like to be in bed early and wake up before the sun rises, so I have the full benefit of a long morning. I imagine John Talbot at the clubs until all hours. He probably does a lot of entertaining in his business, so late nights are a requirement. It’s something for me to consider, though it’s a small negative in the sea of delightful qualities I am discovering in John. I’m a girl who hardly shows her feelings (maybe that’s another result of living with brothers), but deep within, I feel a quake of falling for Mr. Talbot. I look across the table at him and wonder how I would feel if he were mine.

  “You’re tired,” John says to me.

  “It’s been a long week. Seems that every custom order these days is a rush. Ruth and I can barely keep up.”

  “It is definitely the busy season,” Delmarr agrees.