The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  Christmas was silent for a minute. “My mother’s Italian,” he said. “And people used to treat her like some kind of nigger.”

  “Mmmmm, hmmmm,” said Cyril dubiously. Then came the crackling of the loudspeaker as he switched it off.

  For a few minutes nothing else was said. Cyril was bent over his work. Christmas was still sitting on the floor.

  “Come on over here and hold this wire for me,” Cyril said.

  Christmas got to his feet and came to the table.

  “Here, hold it like this,” muttered Cyril.

  “Here?”

  Cyril took his hand and slapped it down on the table, where he was supposed to hold the wire. Then he soldered the end to another wire.

  “Thanks,” said Christmas.

  “You talk too much, boy.”

  38

  Manhattan, 1926

  Cyril was bent over his worktable, as he always was. For a week now, it had been possible to glimpse a satisfied expression on his wrinkled face. Cyril knew everything about radio. Radio was his life. He would never have a career because of his pitch-black skin, but he didn’t really care. What he liked was repairing anything that was broken and finding new adjustments to improve the transmission of words and music through the air. That was all he asked. And in his own way, he already had a career. When he’d been hired to work in the repair shop, his only task was sorting parts and giving them to the technicians who did repairs. As time passed, even though his pay stayed the same, he himself had become the technician. Everyone from the upper floors of the building had to come to him. And this made Cyril a happy man. The storeroom was his world. His kingdom. He knew every shelf and he always knew exactly where to find the part that was needed, even if the place liked chaotic to any outsider. Ten days ago, when they’d told him he was going to have an assistant, he had stiffened. The idea of a stranger in his world distressed him. He’d felt as though he was being invaded. But for the past week, although he hardly showed it, he’d felt pleased that Christmas was there. If there was one thing Cyril hated doing, it was having to go up to the higher floors, the white floors, to deliver and install the things he’d repaired. When he was inside the real studios he was no longer the king he felt himself to be in his repair shop. He went back to being nothing but a “negro.” “You’re not supposed to be cleaning in here yet,” they told him as soon as they saw him. Yes, what would a black man be doing in a place reserved for whites? Janitor work, what else? And then he would have to explain, as politely as possible, because it was easy for white folks to get upset — that he just needed to install a newly repaired microphone, for example. And every time, his pallid interlocutor would stare at him, amazed.

  None of those upper floor white folks ever did recognize him. Black men all looked alike to whites. Like a dog turd on the sidewalk that looked like all the other millions of dog turds on every sidewalk in New York City. But now it was Christmas’ job to deliver everything Cyril had repaired. He was the one who had to carry the white cardboard cartons to the upper stories where the white folks were. And Cyril never had to stop being king of the repair shop. That was why, this very minute, as he recovered a lead crystal from an old radio, he was smiling to himself.

  Suddenly he heard a shout from outside. “Diamond! Hey, Diamond!”

  Cyril turned towards the metal door to the alley. It was shaking under the blows of the person who was shouting out there. He got up from his table and walked ponderously to the door.

  “Diamond! Diamond, you in there? Open the fuckin’ door!”

  “Who there?” asked Cyril, without opening the door.

  The pounding stopped. “I’m lookin’ for Christmas,” said the voice. “Don’t he work here?”

  “So?” said Cyril.

  “I’m a friend o’ his.”

  Cyril drew back the bolt and opened the door a crack. He saw a white boy about twenty, with a thin face, deep-set eyes and a suit too flashy for any decent person to wear. He was sorry he’d opened the door. “Christmas ain’t here. He’s makin’ a delivery,” he said hastily, starting to close the door.

  But the boy stamped a shiny pointed shoe in the door. “So when’s he comin’ back?” he asked.

  “Pretty soon,” said Cyril, still trying to shut the door. “Wait outside.”

  “Nigger, who the hell do ya think ya are, givin’ me orders?” said the boy, threateningly, shoving the door wide open. “I’m waitin’ inside.”

  “You can’t be in here,” Cyril protested.

  The boy flicked open a switchblade knife and poked its point between his teeth. “I can’t stand roast beef sandwiches. The meat gets stuck in my teeth,” he said, looking boldly around.

  “Yeah? Well, I can’t stand assholes. Get out of here, piece of shit.” Cyril had raised his voice.

  “Who you callin’ a piece o’ shit?” said the boy, coming close to him, with the knife in his hand. “Huh? Think you’re talkin’ to ya nigger poppa?”

  “You don’t scare me none, white boy.”

  “No? Then how come you’re shittin’ yourself, you fuckin’ nigger?” the boy laughed and gave him a shove.

  “Get out,” said Cyril again, more weakly this time.

  The boy shoved him again. “I told you, don’t give me no orders, nigger. Get back in your cage, or else I’ll hafta …”

  “Joey!” Christmas shouted, coming in from the inner door.

  “Hey, Diamond,” cried Joey, shifting his weight back and forth as if he were dancing to a music no one else could hear. “Your slave here thought he could tell me what t’ do.”

  Christmas rushed across the room furiously, standing between them. “Put that knife away,” he said firmly.

  Joey smiled at him. He closed the knife, flexing it against his knee, and then slipped it fluidly into his pocket. He looked around the workshop. “So you work in this rathole?”

  Christmas took him brusquely by the arm and led him towards the alley door. “Excuse me, Mr. Davies. I’ll be right back,” he said to Cyril as he propelled Joey towards the exit.

  “‘Mister Davies’?” Joey’s mouth hung open, with a look of exaggerated amazement on his face.

  “Keep moving, Joey.”

  “You call that nigger Mister Davies?” laughed Joey. “Fuck, that’s too much, Diamond. You sunk that low, huh? You schlepp for a nigger and you gotta call him mister, too?”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” said Christmas to Cyril, closing the door. When they were alone in the alley he shoved Joey and let go of his arm. “Did you want somethin’?” he asked coldly.

  Joey extended his arms and made something like a pirouette. “Notice anything?”

  “Nice suit.”

  “A hunnert an’ fifty bucks.”

  “I already said it was nice.”

  “Doncha wanna know how come I can afford it?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Hey, pal, I bet you can’t. I’ve got a job. Seventy-five bucks a week, but pretty soon it’ll be a hunnert twenny-five. Know what that means? Five hunnert a month. Six thousand a year.” Joey winked and twirled in another pirouette. “That means I’m gonna have my own car pretty soon.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “How much do you make workin’ in a rathole?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenny? Sonovabitch, it don’t pay t’ be honest.” Joey laughed. It sounded forced. “When you get holes in your shoes I guess you put cardboard in like Abe-the-Schmo, huh?”

  “Yeah, I do,” said Christmas. “I have to go now.”

  “Care to guess what job I got?”

  “You’re dealing dope.”

  “Wrong. Schlamming.”

  Christmas stared at him.

  “I bet my ass you got no idea what I’m talkin’ about, am I right?”

  “I’m not interested, Joey.”

  “All the same, I’m tellin’ you. That way you get t’ learn somethin’ new. Anyway, everythin’ you know, it was me what taught you
. Am I right?”

  “And I forgot it all, too.”

  Joey laughed. “Diamond, you’re too much. It’s like you was Abe-the-Schmo’s long lost son. You’re givin’ the same answers he does.”

  Christmas nodded, looking bored. His face was distant and cold. That look made Joey shake with anger.

  “Listen. Schlamming is when you get yourself a crowbar and wrap da New York Times around it, see? Then you go break a few heads, legs is okay too. I’m talkin’ about them workers. It’s fun. You know all that crap they talk to us heebs about solidarity? I’m tellin’ you, it’s the crappiest crap there is. The rich Jews from the West pay the Jew gangsters from the East to beat up assholes, also from the East, did I say that already? — because they’re strikin’ for better pay. You got to think it’s funny.”

  “I guess.”

  “C’mon, let your guard down, Diamond,” and Joey gave him a feeble punch on the shoulder, dancing up and down in place like a boxer. “We’re pals, no?” He spread out his arms. “Listen, think about it. If you ever feel like Schlamming I’m always at the Knickerbocker Hotel between Forty-Second and Broadway. A big strong guy like you could come in handy. Think about it.”

  “Okay, but I have to go now. Nice seeing you,” said Christmas, turning back toward the green door with the brass letters he’d polished again that morning.

  “Diamond, why not take two hours off?” said Joey, his voice vibrating with rage.

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t, or don’t want to?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Joey’s lips twisted in a malicious smile. “C’mon, tell Mister Nigger you’ll be back in two hours. Hey, at the Knickerbocker they got these two snazzy hoors. Go have a swell fuck and then come on back to the rathole. It’s on me.”

  “I don’t use whores,” said Christmas fiercely.

  Joey took a few steps back. He clapped the heel of his hand to his forehead theatrically. “Oh, yeah, I was forgettin’ — your mother used to peddle her knisch, right?” and he smiled, his eyes full of venom. “Okay, I get it — when you go with a hoor it’s like fuckin’ your own mother, am I right?”

  “Go fuck yourself, Joey.” Christmas went back into the repair shop, slamming the door violently. Then he kicked an empty carton. Again. One more time, until the box was in shreds.

  Cyril was at his table. He turned around without saying a word.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Davies,” he said, his voice shaking with anger.

  “You feel like breakin’ somethin’, then come on over here. I got a whole box full of Jewish weddins’ needs to be celebrated,” said Cyril.

  Christmas stood by the table, looking cross. “… Box full of what?”

  “That’s what I call ’em, because when Jews get married, they wrap up a glass in a handkerchief and they break it,” he pointed to a box. “There’s a box full of broken tubes. Now you take that rag and a hammer. Break ’em, an’ then you put the cathode in this box, the anode in this other box, and the control grills in here.”

  “Okay,” said Christmas, looking gloomy.

  “When you got ’em all married, then you go on up to the fifth floor, the concert room. Think you can set up a microphone?”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Now just what can I do with an assistant who don’t know how to do one blessed thing?” cried Cyril. “By now you seen me do it a dozen times. Any fool can do it.”

  “… Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Christmas took the box of spent tubes and began smashing them furiously, pounding the hammer down as hard as he could. He shattered more than fifty. Then he stopped. He looked at Cyril, who was intent on adjusting an electrical panel. He breathed in and out deeply. “I’m sorry for what happened, Mister Davies,” he said.

  “All right. If you through makin’ a mess, think you can find time to set up that mike on the fifth floor? No hurry, of course. N.Y. Broadcast is just waitin’ on your convenience.”

  Christmas smiled, dumped the broken glass in the trash, and picked up the box with the microphone. “I’m on my way, Mister Davies.”

  “And quit callin’ me Mister Davies, hear? You want everybody laughin’ behind you back?”

  The Concert Room was called that because it was the largest of the N.Y. Broadcast studios and it was equipped to contain a forty-piece orchestra. Christmas had already been up there with Cyril and had been struck by its shape: an amphitheater with the musicians on a raised platform. On the wall facing them was a huge rectangular glass, beyond which the sound technicians sat. And in the middle of the room, with a separate microphone, a place for the instrumental soloist or singer. On the right, a monumental grand piano, black and shiny.

  “Good, you finally got here,” said a voice behind him.

  Christmas turned and saw a woman coming out of the soundproofed door. She was about twenty-five, with tan skin and thick dark curly hair.

  “Go on, hurry up,” said the woman, who had a faint Hispanic accent. “I’ll call the soundman.”

  “But I …”

  “Please. Don’t make me lose any more time,” said the woman who spoke quickly but kindly. “The solo mike,” and she pointed to the lectern in the center of the room. “Did you bring the music?”

  “No, listen, I …”

  “I knew it!” And she laughed, showing white perfect teeth. “You’re all alike. Okay, I’ll get it. I had them make an extra copy,” and she went towards the door through which Christmas had just entered.

  Just then, through that same door, came a man in his forties, with a black case under his arm.

  “Who are you?” asked the woman.

  “You called me for a trumpet solo,” said the man, waving his black case.

  The woman turned towards Christmas. “But then who are you?”

  “I’m supposed to set up a microphone,” said Christmas. “I work down in the repair shop and …”

  “And I didn’t let you talk,” the woman laughed.

  Christmas thought she was beautiful. Glowing.

  The woman almost danced away from him, stopping in front of the musician. “So. Did you bring the music?”

  “No,” he said.

  She turned back towards Christmas. “What did I tell you? They never remember,” and she winked at him. “Okay, you go ahead and set up the microphone.” She turned back to the musician. “Warm up your lips, we’re going to record you right away. I’ll get the soundman and your music.”

  “She had them make an extra copy,” said Christmas.

  The woman smiled at him as she left the room.

  Christmas set the carton on the ground, opened it, and took out the microphone. It was marked “5R3.” That meant it was in the fifth place on the right in the third row.

  Meanwhile the musician put the trumpet to his mouth after moistening his lips and was running through some rapid scales in front of a microphone in the second row.

  “Excuse me,” said Christmas while he was connecting the wires. “You’re going to be recording at the solo mike.”

  “What the hell,” said the musician. “This is where the trumpet always is.”

  The Hispanic woman came back just then, with the soundman. “He’s right,” she said. “Solo mike, thank you,” she told the trumpet player, laying the sheet music on the lectern in the middle of the room.

  “Who’s that?” asked the soundman, jerking his chin at Christmas.

  “My personal assistant,” she said, laughing.

  The soundman went through the soundproof door, and then reappeared immediately behind the great rectangle of glass. They heard the crackle of the interphone. “When you’re ready. First we’ll test the levels. And tell your personal assistant to make sure he shuts the door when he leaves.”

  The woman turned to Christmas, who had finished installing the microphone. “Do you want to stay?” she asked softly.

  Christmas’ face lit up. “Can I?”

  “You’re my per
sonal assistant, aren’t you?” she asked him. “Come over here, sit beside me.” She sat down at a small table with its back to the glass, facing the stage.

  Christmas sat down next to her.

  “Lights, Ted,” said the woman.

  The lights dimmed, creating a pleasant dimness. A lamp came on at the lectern.

  “From bar 54 to 135,” she told the trumpeter.

  “Testing levels,” said the soundman over the interphone.

  “No, Ted. Check the levels while he’s playing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Send the rest of the recording in here. He’ll get it through the headphones.

  “I’m ready,” said the soundman.

  “Ready?” the woman asked the musician. He nodded.

  Music poured into the room. The musician watched the woman. She moved her hand through the air in front of her, softly, like a butterfly. Then she said softly, “And one, two, three, four …” and signaled the musician. The trumpet began its melody, coming in perfectly.

  Christmas’ eyes were open wide. Something magical was happening.