Suddenly They Heard Footsteps

by Dan Yashinsky

  “Because we have to take care of poor people,” he said. “If I didn’t help him, who would?”

  I paid and left. The rest of this story I did not witness myself. I heard it from Perry, who heard it from Renato, and she says that he says it’s true.

  Apparently, just a minute or two after I left, Renato had turned away to do the dishes, and when he turned back again, the old man had disappeared. Yet sitting in the same chair, at the same table, was a new old man. This new old man was dressed in a thousand-dollar Italian suit, a Panama hat, beautifully shined shoes. The strangest thing was that he was sipping from the beggarman’s cup of cappuccino, holding it as delicately as a king might hold a golden goblet. Renato’s jaw hit the ground and his eyes hit the ceiling. “Eh!” he said. “Where’s the other old man, the vagabondo who was just here? Who are you?”

  The new old man rose from the table, made a courtly bow, and said, “I am the vagabondo. Allow me to explain. You see, Signor Renato, I am an angel from heaven. Once a year I dress in rags and wander through the world looking for kind people. In the city of Toronto nobody would help me but you.”

  “It was nothing,” said Renato, a little embarrassed.

  “It was not nothing,” said the angel. “It was a good thing to do. I’m even going to give you a reward for your kindness.”

  “I don’t want anything,” said Renato.

  “Still, here it is,” said the angel. “I’m going to give you three wishes blessed with the power of heaven. You can have anything you want. Choose well.”

  Renato laughed. “Three wishes from heaven? But… to tell you the truth, angel, I don’t really need anything. My wife loves me, business is not too bad, my friends come by to keep me company. I don’t even want to win every time on the ponies—it wouldn’t be fun then. The only thing I’ve ever wanted with all my heart and soul was a bambino of my own. But what can I do? I’ve got too many grey hairs on top of my head for that. No, how about you give my three wishes to somebody who could really use them.”

  The angel stared at him. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Wishes from heaven are nontransferrable. You have to use them yourself. There have to be some things you can think of.”

  “Well, yes… but I’m not sure you’ll approve,” said Renato, with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay, here goes. See those bar stools over there? The kids like to come in after school and spin around on them. Then, when the old guys come by, I tell the kids to get off—and you know what kids are like, they keep spinning and spinning. So here’s my first wish. Give me the power to teach the kids a little lesson. If they want to spin, I’ll make them spin. I’d like the power to make their bums stick to the stools and spin ’em at a hundred kilometres an hour. That should teach them a lesson.”

  The angel was not amused. “That’s a bad wish,” he said. “You’ve just wasted a wish from heaven on a stupid practical joke!”

  “Yep,” chuckled Renato, “and I’ve just thought of my second wish. See this frying pan? I made it myself. I used to be a blacksmith in the old country, and I made my own pots and pans. The trouble is the neighbours borrow it. Then they bring it back rusty. That makes me mad. I’d like the power to make somebody I don’t like sit in the frying pan when it’s on the stove filled with olive oil. That should teach my neighbours a lesson.”

  The angel was about to say something, so Renato hurried on. “And here’s my third wish. I’m always worried that somebody suspicious might come into the café—the liquor inspector, the tax collector, who knows, maybe the devil himself. I’d like the power to make somebody like that get in my freezer at the back of the café and stay there until I let them out.”

  “It’s true what they say about you,” said the angel. “You are truly a diavolino! Anyway, before I go back where I came from, I’ve got a little tip for you. Fifth horse in the fifth race at five o’clock!” And so saying, the angel disappeared.

  Renato could barely wait until the afternoon horse race. He took five hundred dollars and headed to the racetrack. He bet the whole amount on the fifth horse running in the fifth race at five o’clock—and it came in fifth! When his wife heard about how much money he’d blown at the racetrack, she was furious. She threw a bowl of tortellini at him and shouted, “May the Devil take you!” Normally she was a gentle, quiet-spoken woman, but this time she was very cross.

  Later that night, around midnight, Renato was sweeping up when he heard a knock at the door. When he opened it, there was a little boy standing there. A little boy devil.

  “I’ve come to get you,” he said. “My daddy sent me.”

  “And who’s your daddy?” asked Renato.

  “He’s the padrone, the boss,” said the little devil.

  “Boss of where?” asked Renato.

  “You’ll find out,” the boy devil said, with a wicked smile.

  Renato thought fast, and then said, “Hey, I’ll be with you in a minute. I just have to finish cleaning the place up. How about you make yourself at home. There’s a plate of biscotti over on the counter—help yourself.”

  The boy devil came in and jumped up on a bar stool. He grabbed some biscotti and stuffed them in his mouth. Just then, the bar stool began to spin. It went faster and faster, one hundred, two hundred kilometres an hour, and that little devil was looking pretty bad as he whipped around on the stool. “Help!” he yelled. “Make this thing stop! I’m going to toss my biscotti!”

  He did look pretty green as he spun faster and faster. Renato finally said, “Bar stool, stop! As for you, get out of here and don’t ever come back.”

  The little devil went spinning out the door and down College Street, and Renato stood in the entrance, white chef’s hat on his head, wooden spoon in his hand—and he laughed and laughed.

  It might have stopped there, but about a week later Renato had a funny gambler’s feeling. He took four hundred dollars and bet it on the fourth horse running in the fourth race at four o’clock. The horse came in fourth. This time Perry took the big frying pan and chased him all around the café. She was pretty upset. “Ai! You’re wasting all the money we saved to go back to Italy! May the Devil take you!”

  Be careful when you say things like that to someone you love. That night, as Renato was cleaning up, he heard a knock at the door. It was midnight. He opened the door and saw a teenager standing there. He had baggy pants, a baseball cap turned backwards, and a few rings and studs and other things in his face. “Yo,” he said, “my daddy sent me. And I don’t appreciate what you did to my little brother. He’s still spinning around doing pirouettes in hell. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  Renato thought fast. “Hey—I was just going to cook up a midnight snack. Some pasta alla diavola. I’ll make it extra piccante.”

  Teenagers are always hungry, and the devil said he’d stay. Renato took the cast iron pan, poured in some extra virgin olive oil, chopped up some garlic, onions and hot peppers, and put it on the stove behind the counter. When the oil was smoking hot, he turned to the teenager and said, “Please get in. I’m going to fry some diavolo alla diavola! I like my devils well done!”

  The teenage devil climbed up and sat down bum-first in the burning oil. He twisted and turned, but the pan kept toasting his buns. “Let me go!” he screamed.

  “I didn’t hear you use the magic word,” said Renato.

  “Please!” he shouted.

  “This is Canada. What about French?”

  “S’il-vous plaît!”

  “This is Little Italy…”

  “Per favore!”

  “Make up a poem,” said Renato. “I’m in the mood for some poetry.”

  What could the teenage devil do? He had to rap a poem.

  “Please Mr. Renato,

  Listen to me,

  Your frying pan’s causing me agony,

  I beg you make it stop real fast,

  Before it permanently burns my—”

  “Basta!” said Renato. “Enough. Get out of here and don’t ever come back.”
>
  The devil hoped out of the frying pan and ran down College Street holding his tender tushie.

  About a week later, what with heaven, hell, horses and hot peppers running around his head, Renato took a thousand dollars and went to the races. He bet it all on the first horse running in the first race at one o’clock. He was so nervous he couldn’t even watch the horses; he just listened to the race over the loudspeakers. His horse came in last.

  When his wife heard the news, she was not amused. In fact, she began to yell, “Il gioco ha il diavolo nel cuore! Gambling has the Devil in its heart! Pazzo! You’ve just wasted all of our savings! May the Devil take you out of my life!” She slammed the door and stomped upstairs.

  He felt awful. How could he have done such a crazy thing? He sat on a bar stool and poured a glass of grape juice from the freezer. Around midnight, there was a knock at the door. Renato opened it. There was a tall man wearing a very fine dark suit and sunglasses. On the sidewalk, parked illegally, was a stretch limo with smoked glass windows.

  “Renato,” hissed the man in a cold, low voice. “I think you know who I am.”

  “Si.”

  “And you know why I’ve come.”

  “I can guess.”

  “I’m not very happy about the way you treated my two little devils, so I’ve come to do the job myself. I’ve been waiting to meet the famous noodle-maker for a long time. I think you’ll find things down there plenty piccante.”

  “Signor Diavolo,” said Renato, thinking fast. “Before you take me away, let’s have a toast. I’ve never met anyone as famous as you before. I’ve got a nice bottle of Chianti in the freezer at the back.”

  The Devil wasn’t averse to a glass of good Italian wine. He walked to the back of the café and opened the lid of the freezer. Renato shouted, “By the power of heaven, get in the freezer you big gangster!” The Devil jumped in, the lid slammed shut, and Renato began to laugh. He walked over, plugged the freezer in, and turned it from normal to coldest. Then he did what many men would do in a situation like that. He took a box of the finest Italian chocolates and went upstairs. He knocked on the door. Perry yelled, “Get out of here! I never want to talk to you again! You wasted all our money.”

  “Darling,” he said, “mio amore… I have some chocolate.”

  After a long pause, she said, “Come in.”

  He went in, apologized for gambling, and she forgave him. Married people have to be very good at forgiving each other!

  In the morning he went downstairs. There were muffled screams coming from the freezer. He walked over and said, “Hey, Popsicle! You still in there? I’ll let you out if you promise to never bother me again.”

  “I… I… I… p… p… promise…”

  Renato lifted the lid and the Devil climbed out. His teeth were chattering and his sunglasses were all frosted over. He walked stiffly to the door, ice-cubes falling out of his pants. The limo had been towed. The last anyone saw of the Devil, he was heading east on College Street towards City Hall.

  The story is almost over. Renato and Perry did save their money again, and moved back to Italy. He became a tour guide near Firenze. One day, not long ago, I got a letter from Perry. She wrote:

  Dear Dan,

  I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is Renato wrote down his recipe for pasta alla Diavola. It’s inside this envelope. He wants you to learn how to cook it. The bad news is he’s not feeling too well. Too many cigarettes and grape juice. The doctors think he’ll make it, but he says he’s not too worried either way. Even if he dies, he figures the angels will remember him from that parade. And if he can’t get in upstairs, he says the Devil will be too scared to let him into hell. Maybe he’ll just give him a big radicchio full of hellfire and tell him to go start a hell of his own somewhere. Anyway, we remember Toronto and we think of you often. Renato says most of that pazzo story about the Devil is true.

  Amore,

  Perry

  P.S. Renato was wondering—how’s your new bambino?

  If you ever visit Toronto, go to the southeast corner of Beatrice and College, just past the Gatto Nero café. There’s a fruit store where Renato’s place used to be. The whole area’s becoming a little more fashionable than when I lived there, but the old-timers still remember the great cook who was a bit of a diavolino and who made the best pasta in town.

  THE DEVIL IN DON MILLS

  This story is about an encounter with a shady computer salesperson in a suburban shopping mall. It grew from a poem by Baudelaire, based on the Faust legend (from his Fleurs du Mal to my Fleurs du Mall!) and from Mikhail Bulgakov’s evocation of Satan in his novel The Master and Margarita.

  LET’S SPEAK OF THE DEVIL. I know we usually don’t. Most of you don’t even believe in him any more. You think he’s just a stale-dated relic from the bad old superstitious days. Even his dread and ancient names sound more like skipping rhymes than invocations of evil: Apples peaches pears and plums, something wicked this way comes, Beelzebub, Mephisto too, Lucifer will come for you!

  The Devil has become a kind of Unidentified Flying Object of the moral firmament. Sightings are reported regularly on the back pages of supermarket tabloids: “Teens Caught Skinnydipping in Nepean Town Reservoir—Mayor Suspects Satan Worship!” “New Jersey Couple Claims Three-year-old Daughter Possessed by Devil—Nobody Can Exorcise Her Tantrums.” Yep, you can read all about it, along with that terrible story about the alien abduction from the convenience store in Calgary, or Elvis’s latest appearance somewhere in the clouds north of Nashville. No wonder you don’t believe the Devil’s still around.

  But I do. I know for a fact he hasn’t taken a time-share option in some other galaxy. And it’s not because I’m less scientific than the rest of you. I believe in progress, science and enlightenment, just like you. In fact, I never even read my horoscope (that’s a characteristic of Virgos, by the way), I haven’t seen The Exorcist, and I always read Scientific American on airplanes, if all the People magazines have already been taken. No, I believe in the Devil for one very good reason. I once met him.

  It happened in a shopping mall in Don Mills, Ontario. Don Mills is a famous suburb of Toronto. It was Canada’s first planned community. Planners planned it all according to plan. They laid it out well: house house house house parkette school church house house house. And in the middle of the suburb, they laid the centrepiece, the jewel of the crown: Don Mills Plaza, which everybody just calls “the Plaza.” It’s a little-known fact that when they first built the Plaza, it didn’t have a roof. It was more like an old-time village marketplace. But after a few cold winters, everybody complained, and they put a roof over the whole thing, and now it’s just like the mall near you. But it didn’t start out that way. They say Don Mills is nice, if you like living in a planned community. Me, I prefer downtown.

  Anyway, one day I was driving by the Plaza and decided to stop in, for no particular reason. Sometimes I just like to drift with the crowd and meander through the mall. I wasn’t looking to buy anything. Even if I’d wanted to, I was no longer the master of my Mastercard. I was strolling and window-shopping. School had let out, and the mall was full of sneering, leaning teenagers. Everybody seemed to be hustling, hurrying, lingering, loitering, and I floated along the halls observing my fellow-humans. After a while I looked at my watch and was amazed to see a whole hour had gone by as if it had never been. What happens to time in the suburbs? I was hungry and felt like a glazed doughnut. I thought I’d walk up to the food court, pick up a day-old doughnut, and head home.

  Just then I noticed a shop I’d never seen before. The name was Eden Memory Systems, and the window was full of computers. Two angels held a monitor while a neon sign flashed below them: Let Eden Remember for You! There was a man standing in the doorway, and something about him caught my eye. I’ve always been a peoplewatcher. When I was little, my parents were embarrassed to take me to restaurants because I’d stare so much at the other diners. At first, I couldn’t figure out what w
as different about him. His clothes could have been bought at any of the chain stores up and down the mall. He looked quite ordinary, though his tan did glow a bit under the hazy fluorescent light. He was tapping his foot to the Muzak and smiling at the passing parade of mallfolk. Then it hit me. Everybody else I’d seen in the Plaza looked impatient or bored—but this man looked happy and serene. He was the only person in Don Mills Plaza who looked as if he belonged there.

  He saw me standing there, smiled and walked into the store. I decided to follow him. Normally I’m spooked by salespeople, but somehow I felt safe; I knew he’d be gentle with me.

  I stepped inside.

  “Welcome to Eden,” he said. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m thinking of upgrading my system.” That was a lie. I didn’t even have a system! To tell you the truth, I’m not very fond of computers. I like machines. I’ve rebuilt transmissions, used my wife’s sewing machine, and even gone after bass with a fish-finder. But computers have always left me cold. It was the man, not his machines, that drew me into the shop.

  “What kind of equipment are you selling?” I asked, continuing my bluff. I couldn’t believe I was doing this to an innocent salesman. See, I’ve always thought it was wrong to lie to strangers. They’re completely innocent. Sometimes with friends, we have no choice; but who could we trust if we couldn’t trust strangers? I had a friend once, or really more of an acquaintance, who told me his hobby was lying to strangers. He’d get on a plane and start making up a story for the person sitting next to him. He’d say he was just coming back from the surfing championship at Waikiki, or that he was a neurosurgeon experimenting with brain transplants, or he was a hard rock miner from Yellowknife. The object of the game was to lie so well that his seatmate didn’t believe him when they were going through customs and he told the truth, which was that he was an accountant from Ottawa. I think that’s a terrible game! Mind you, I’m not sure he was telling me the truth either. And now here I was doing the same thing, telling a total lie to a complete stranger.