The Boy Who Granted Dreams

by Luca Di Fulvio

  The security man hurried after them, overtaking Karl and Christmas at the elevators. “Don’t show your face around her ever again!” he shouted.

  “Yeah, yeah, ya saved face, okay? Now get outa my way,” said Christmas, as he entered the elevator and closed the grate. “Ground floor,” he told the operator.

  As the elevator creaked down, Karl allowed himself to formulate the thought that he’d been trying to keep at a distance. It was over. His seventh floor office was going to host a new manager. The stairway he had so carefully ascended, denying himself a private life, amusements, and distractions, dedicating himself entirely to his ascent, to his work, to radio — it was all finished. Karl Jarach was going to go back to what he’d been born to be.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Jarach?” asked Christmas.

  Karl nodded. He didn’t say anything.

  “Thanks for what you did,” said Christmas. “It was nice to think my dream came true.”

  Karl nodded again, trying to smile.

  “Come in,” said Christmas. Instead of going towards the exit, he took the little door that led to the basement.

  “What? They cancel the program?” asked Cyril, appearing further down, at the door of the repair shop. “Assholes. They din understand a damn thing, boy …” He looked at Karl, who had halted halfway down the stairs. Cyril went back to his realm.

  “They fired me,” said Christmas.

  Cyril whirled to look at him. “What?”

  “And Mr. Jarach lost his job, too. Insubordination.”

  Cyril looked up at Karl who had stopped halfway down the stairs, clinging to the wall. Cyril shook his head and blew out a gust of breath. He grabbed the door with his two knotty hands and slammed violently. He opened it and did it again. And again, with strength and violence until the plaster around the hinges cracked and fell on the floor. “Assholes!” he shouted up the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” asked the watchman, peering down from the ground floor.

  “You hear this boy’s program?” asked Cyril, his eyes wide with anger.

  “What program?”

  “Diamond Dogs,” said Cyril.

  “Say, was that you?” said the man, delightedly, pointing at Christmas. “That was great.”

  “Uh huh. They jus’ fired him,” roared Cyril.

  “Fired?”

  “Fired. Oh yes. Insubordination!”

  “Insubordination?”

  “It is purely useless fo’ you t’ repeat every word I say,” grumbled Cyril. He took a deep breath. “THEY IS ASSHOLES!” he shouted.

  The watchman closed the door behind him, worried. “Come on Cyril, don’t get in trouble.”

  “Now what the hell you think insubordination mean?” Cyril went on. “They is assholes, is what.”

  “Come on Cyril, quit it,” said the watchman again. “They must of had … I dunno nothin about this stuff, but see … huh. I guess they had some reason, so what I say is …”

  “What you say? You talkin’ shit, that what you sayin’,” Cyril offered.

  “Hey, settle down,” said the watchman firmly. He looked at Christmas. “And kid, you can’t be in here no more if they fired ya.”

  “I’m getting my stuff and then I’m leaving,” said Christmas, going into the shop.

  “Mmmmm hmmmm,” Cyril said ominously to the watchman who was departing. Then he let Christmas go past him and he followed him into the workshop.

  Karl still hadn’t moved. He was leaning with one hand against the wall. All the weight of what had just happened was crushing his shoulders and lying across his lungs like a leaden plate. It was over. Karl Jorach would be going back to where he’d come from. The thought. He’d be a Pole again, the child of immigrants. He’d go back to the community, the dances and parties in the barracks, and he’d marry a nice girl from the old country. Headless nails, upholstery nails, broad headed nails, masonry nails …

  “Mr. Jarach,” said Christmas, leaning out the door. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Karl nodded, his face stretched taut. He came down the stairs into the repair shop. Iron screws, wood screws, wedge-ended screws …, he was thinking.

  “You got talent, boy,” Cyril was saying. “Don’t pay no mind to them assholes. You got talent t’ burn, goodness me, So much talent you could — ah, fuck, fuck, an’ fuck some mo’. Dis shitty place. That American dream that you can’t never get hold of. If you ain’t one o’them, that dream go right up you ass. But don’t you give up, hear me?” Cyril grabbed Christmas’ shoulders and gave him a shake. “Looky at me. Look at this nigger and listen good: You got the numbers, boy. You can do it. Hear?”

  “Yes,” Christmas smiled.

  ”I mean it,” and Cyril shook him again, with affectionate vigor. “Don’t you give up. Don’t you roll over for them assholes. Pay attention, ‘cause I’m tellin’ the truth.”

  “Yes, Cyril,” said Christmas. “Thanks.”

  Karl was at the door. Iron file, wood file, carpenter’s hammer, shoemaker’s hammer, watchmaker’s hammer — that’s the tiny one; pliers, parrot-head pliers … He continued mentally through the list while he watched the two friends. People from the repair shop. People from the basement, not from the seventh floor. A black man and an Italian man. Two immigrants. Like him. And he felt alone, not just because he’d been fired, but because in order to climb the stairs that had taken him to the top of N.Y. Broadcast, he had neglected what was between those two. Friendship, solidarity. Everything he had renounced for his ascent. Wood saw, fretsaw, drill blade, metal saw with interchangeable blades, hacksaw … Now he was right back where he’d started. In a basement. With no chance of climbing out. And he was alone.

  “I’ll be going now,” he said, because he felt awkward.

  Christmas and Cyril turned to look at him.

  Karl could see in their eyes that they had no words of encouragement to give him. Nor solidarity, either. Because he’d been proud. Because Karl Jarach had thought he could do it by himself. And now, by himself, he was going to have to go back to what he’d been meant to do. Straight chisel, slant chisel, right angled chisel, broad rounded chisel, narrow rounded chisel …

  “What will you do now, Mr. Jarach?” asked Christmas.

  “Screw eye, grommet, bolt …,” said Karl, with a strange smile on his lips.

  “What?” asked Christmas, frowning.

  “Nothing,” said Karl. “I was thinking out loud.” He moved towards the alley door through which he would go back to the world he belonged to.

  “Don’t you give up, boy,” he heard Cyril say again to Christmas. “Don’t ever give up. I’m a-countin’ on you.”

  Karl wished someone would tell him not to give up. He felt a great emptiness inside because he knew no one was going to say that to him.

  “If I wasn’t nothin’ but a poor nigger, I’d build us a studio. Oh yes,” Cyril went on.

  Trowels, slats, blinds, mallets …

  “Ah’d build it with mah own hands, and ev’ry livin’ soul in New York City would hear ever’ word you say. Drive them assholes crazy,” said Cyril’s passionate voice.

  Hand drill, auger, grindstone, bit for iron, bit for wood, bit for masonry …

  “You know what it take to built a transmitter? One that do the job?” Cyril insisted, Karl opened the back door and felt the cold damp air of the city. “Technically? I do that in my sleep.”

  I-beams, girders, nuts, bolts, coated wires …

  “… But it take money …”

  Rivets, aluminum rivets, open beam support, solid beam support …

  Thought Karl obsessively, as he took his hand away from the handle of the door that was about to expel him definitively from N.Y. Broadcast and cast him back into his destiny. His father’s flourishing hardware business.

  “… a whole lot o’ money …”

  … Pipe sheathing, cable sheathing, clamps, steel cable … Karl kept thinking, but he slowed his exit, because all of a sudden what Cyril was sayin
g had a meaning that was congruent with his thoughts.

  “All it take is some money, boy. I build you a radio station, an’ you send yo’ program all over New York …”

  “I’ve got the materials!” cried Karl suddenly, coming back into the room. “I got what you need!”

  Christmas and Cyril looked at each other, amazed.

  Karl shut the door and came over to them. He was excited. He was full of life again. “We mustn’t give up,” he said to Christmas. And saying it, he felt as though someone were saying it to him. “We mustn’t give up,” he said again, because those simple words made him feel less alone now. “I have the materials for building a radio station. My father has a hardware business. A big store. He’ll give us everything we need,” he said to Cyril. “Are you sure you can build a radio station?”

  Christmas looked at Cyril.

  “Ah think so,” said the repairman.

  “You think?” said Karl.

  “What about the one at your house?” said Christmas.

  “That one? Uh huh, that’s a home-made transmitter … it only cover a block …” Cyril mumbled, embarrassed.

  “Can you build one, or not?” Karl insisted.

  Cyril scratched his head, thoughtfully.

  “Cyril,” said Christmas.

  “Now don’t you rush me, boy!” barked Cyril. He turned his back on the two of them and began walking through the shop. From time to time he stopped in front of a shelf, took a part in his hand and examined it, muttering. Then he replaced it and went back to pacing, looking at the floor.

  Christmas and Karl watched him tensely, not saying a word.

  Finally Cyril stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, an unreadable look on his face.

  “Well?” asked Christmas.

  “Save yo’ breath fo’ yo’ nex’ broadcast, boy,” said Cyril.

  “You can do it?” asked Karl.

  “You think you can get me everythin’ I needs?”

  “Everything,” said Karl.

  Cyril nodded his head up and down, looking sly. “You ain’t bad fo’ a white man, Mr. Jarach.”

  “Call me Karl.”

  Cyril gave him a proud smile. “That don’ change the juice of it. You ain’t bad fo’ a white man.”

  “Well? Can we do it?”

  “Yes,” said Cyril.

  “Can we really, Cyril?” Christmas had never felt so excited.

  “Oh, yeah. We can do it. Yes we can!”

  48

  Manhattan, 1927

  “Come on, niggers!” Cyril shouted from the roof of a tenement on 125th Street. “Even white folks could do this! Pull!” he yelled at the ten men he had recruited, the strongest ones in the neighborhood.

  The steel cable Karl had obtained from his father’s hardware emporium was hooked to a metal structure in the shape of an elongated pyramid. The structure — a series of vertical, horizontal, and oblique iron bars fastened together with nuts and bolts — creaked frighteningly as the ten men hoisted it towards the roof, panting like bulls with the effort.

  “Come on, niggers!” Cyril incited them again. It had taken him a month to build the structure.

  Karl and Christmas were watching from the sidewalk, along with a small crowd from the neighborhood, all black, except for Maria who was clinging to Christmas’ arm. She was tense, holding her breath, like all the other spectators.

  “Why didn’t you build it on the roof?” she asked Christmas.

  “Because Cyril is even more stubborn than a mule,” muttered Karl, kicking a piece of asphalt split by the cold.

  “Let’s go up there,” said Christmas and he moved towards the front door of the building. He climbed the five flights of the tenements where dozens of families lived and came out on the roof, followed by Maria and Karl, just as the metal structure became wedged in the lower teeth of the topmost cornice.

  “Pull, niggers!” roared Cyril, leaning over the edge of the roof.

  The ten men pulled on the steel cable with tall their strength.

  The structure hit the molding and shattered it, scattering a hail of plaster and cement on the crowd below.

  “We cain’t do this!” one of the men cried out in a voice cracked with exhaustion.

  “Do I gotta take a whip to you? Like them overseers down South done laid ‘crost yo’ grandpa’s back?” Cyril roared. “Don’t quit! Don’t you give up now! We almost there!”

  Christmas and Karl joined the group of men and pulled with all their strength. The structure creaked wildly, swayed, and flipped over, with its point headed downwards.

  Worried cries and comments rose from the sidewalk below.

  The structure started swaying again. The men relaxed their grip for a second. Two of them fell on the tarred roof, dragged by the structure. As the others managed to stop the cable, Christmas felt a piercing pain in the palms of his hands. He cried out but he didn’t let go. The cable was red with his blood.

  “We got to try again,” Cyril ordered. “When I says three. All together.”

  The two men who had fallen stood back up. They gripped the cable with all their might.

  “One … two … three!” shouted Cyril. “Now! Gimme all you got!”

  The cable moved, under their combined strength. The structure rose but again it got stuck in the cornice, swaying alarmingly.

  “We just cain’t do it!” said one of the men, gasping with the effort. His skin gleamed with sweat in spite of the cold.

  “Les lower it back on down,” said another.

  “No!” yelled Cyril.

  “They can’t do it, Cyril!” Karl shouted back at him, beside himself.

  Cyril looked around. “We gon’ fasten this cable to that chimney,” he said. “Take us a rest now, then we starts up again.”

  “Clamp and a twenty-three wrench,” said Karl.

  They looped the cable around the cement chimney, then one of the men made it fast with the clamp, tightening the bolts, stabilizing the cable. They all sank panting onto the flat tarred roof, panting.

  Christmas looked at his hands. They were bleeding. Maria bandaged them with a handkerchief, ripping it in two.

  “Here, boy,” said one huge fellow, tossing him a pair of gloves. “Take ’em. I gots two pair.”

  “Din I tell you we was gon’ need a winch?” grumbled Cyril.

  “And I said you should build it up here on the roof,” said Karl.

  Cyril hunched over, without answering. He went and leaned out over the edge and shook his head, looking glum.

  Christmas joined him. He leaned his elbows on the ledge and waited.

  “We ain’t never gon’ get it up here,” Cyril said quietly.

  Christmas watched the structure rock back and forth ten feel below.

  “Ain’t never gon’ get it up here where it belong,” said Cyril again.

  “Wait here,” said Christmas. “Don’t do anything till I get back.” He looked at the ten black men. “Anybody got a bicycle I can borrow?” he asked.

  The huge man who had given him the gloves got up and stood at the ledge with him. He peered down at the sidewalk. “Betty!” he shouted. “Give the bicycle to this white boy!” He turned back to Christmas. “Go on, white boy. My wife gonna fetch it now.”

  Christmas smiled at him and ran down the crumbling stairs of the dilapidated building. As soon as he reached the street, a woman with skin that shone like polished ebony and great expressive eyes came up from the basement pushing a rusty old bicycle. Christmas climbed on and lookup at the roof. “I’ll be back soon!” he shouted to Cyril, Karl, and Maria.

  He began pedaling with all the strength he had in his legs, never slowing at the crossings, the wind constantly ruffling his hair. He pedaled all the way down through Manhattan to Pier Thirteen.

  He found what he was looking for inside an enormous hangar. Several men were sitting around a table, talking and laughing.

  “Mister Filesi,” Christmas said breathlessly, “I need you.”

&n
bsp; Santo’s father gave him a welcoming smile and got up from his chair. “This boy, he’s friend of my son,” he said, introducing him to his friends. “He give my Santo radio for wedding gift. His name Christmas.”

  The other longshoremen greeted Christmas.

  “A little wine?” offered Mr. Filesi, gesturing to a bottle that one of his crew pulled from its hiding place in the hangar’s wall.

  Christmas, breathless, bent over, clutching his side, shook his head: No.

  “Well, maybe you tella me what’s happen?” asked Mr. Filesi placidly.

  “Is it true you can lift a ton with one hand?” asked Christmas.

  Half an hour later Mr. Filesi and Tony — the father of Carmelina, Santo’s wife, along with another longshoreman named Bunny, stopped their van in front of the tenement on 125th Street. Cyril’s iron structure was still dangling. The three men glanced at the crowd of blacks and then looked up, all three scratching their heads.

  “Aggetta. She’s-a stick out,” said Mr. Filesi.

  “You betcha,” said Tony.

  “Rope and guides?” asked Mr. Filesi.

  “Is only way,” said Tony.

  “Rope and guides,” said Bunny. He opened the back of the van and slung a long coil of rope over his shoulder. It was damp and green with seaweed. Then he took out two iron rods, taller than he was. “Okay?” he asked.

  “Okay,” said Mr. Filesi.

  “I’m-a hold, so you fish,” said Tony.

  “Not onna you life,” said Mr. Filesi. “Christmas, he’s-a my boy’s good friend. So I’m-a hold, an’ you fish.” He went in the front door of the tenement, closely watched by the crowd, which had grown considerably.

  “Buongiorno,” he smiled as he came out onto the roof. He leaned over the edge and scratched his head some more.

  When he turned back, he looked at the ten black men who were standing now. “You,” he said, with an air of decisiveness, indicating the giant black man who had given his spare gloves to Christmas.

  That man stepped forward and stood in front of Mr. Filesi, who more or less reached the height of his stomach.

  “So, they feed-a you steak when you little, eh?” laughed Filesi, reaching up a hand to his shoulder. “Good, good … what’s-a you name?”