The Saint of Lost Things

by Christopher Castellani

  When Mario asked Julian to perform on Christmas Eve, he did not hesitate to answer yes. He needed an excuse to turn down his widowed great aunt, who’d invited him to the house in Philadelphia she shares with her widowed daughter. The women are short and humorless, with powdery skin and a fondness for jangly gold bracelets. Over time they have taken on each other’s features—a sinking chin, bruiselike smudges under their eyes, white hair—and now it is impossible to tell which one is thirty years younger than the other. Julian knows the widows only from the four funerals they’ve attended together—their husbands, his parents—and so in his mind they are inextricably linked with death. He is too superstitious to risk a holiday with those dark angels.

  At Gino Stella’s request, Julian steps out from his usual spot behind the microphone and does a turn among the tables. Tonight there are mostly big parties of ten or more enjoying pasta, fish, and vegetables served family-style in oversized white bowls. The fourtops have been arranged into long rows that span the length of the dining room. The dessert cart has been rolled into the center of the room, covered with an iridescent gold linen, and transformed into a display of elaborately iced cakes and cookies. At the round table by the window, beside a tower of poinsettias, sits the most dazzling decoration of all: Helen. She wears her hair pulled back and a green velvet dress that bares her shoulders. She drinks red wine, laughs, folds her hands under her chin. With her is a bearded man roughly Julian’s age, two grandmotherly women, and a young girl in a dress identical to hers.

  Julian maneuvers through the narrow spaces between the chairs, keeping his eye on her table. He plays more softly than at the microphone and holds the accordion high so as not to smack the customers in the head. They applaud as he passes. At Helen’s table, he flubs the refrain of “Inamorata,” but she doesn’t seem to notice. The girl reaches out and tugs on his jacket.

  “Abigail!” Helen says, and slaps the girl’s knuckles.

  “It’s all right,” says Julian.

  She does not love the bearded man, Julian imagines. He is the brother of her best childhood friend, Abigail, who died in a fall from a horse. Though they have named the child after her, she is mean-spirited, nothing like the dead girl at all. Now only Julian’s music soothes Helen’s troubled heart.

  The hours pass quickly. Julian’s mind returns again and again to his brown, empty house—no tree, no lights, no one to start a game of cards or tombola. Christmas Eve should be loud and drunken late into the morning. It should not end at eleven o’clock, as the celebration at Mrs. Stella’s must, so the waiters and cooks can join their families. At that point, Helen will take Abigail and the bearded man home; the parties of ten will reconvene at another long table in someone else’s living room; even the dark angels might still be detailing their various illnesses for their guests in the gloomy Philadelphia walk-up. The Delluccis or Rosa Volpe across the street would happily take in Julian for the night, but he cannot bear to show up uninvited, to throw himself across their doorstep like a beggar.

  Julian plays until his hunger forces him to take a twenty-minute break. Marcello—the teenaged waiter, who has just arrived from Naples and speaks not a word of English—appears with his dinner. He sets the bowl of pasta and the plate of a plate of fish on Julian’s little table by the window, lights his candle, and smiles.

  “Have time to sit?” Julian asks in Italian, but the boy dashes off, his hands behind his back.

  He hasn’t twirled his first forkful of pasta before Mario pulls up a chair. “Leave plenty of room,” he says. “After we close, you come to my house. My mother’s cooking for you.”

  “Oh!” Julian says, his delight obvious. He blushes. “That’s—grazie, Mario.” He thinks a moment, rubbing the corner of the table with his thumb. Clearly the Grassos feel sorry for him. They presume he has nowhere else to go. “But of course I have to offer my regrets. To have another guest so late—it’s too much work for your mother.”

  “What work?” Mario waves the idea away. “Your plate’s already prepared. You’ll be the one working, uaglio. My sister-in-law says, ‘Tell that man not to come unless he brings his accordion.’ She wants a private concert for the Grasso family.”

  “Your brother’s wife?” asks Julian. “The one from Italy?”

  “The blonde.”

  Julian waits the appropriate few seconds. “How can I say no to a blonde?”

  “Perfetto,” Mario says. He dips a napkin in Julian’s water glass and blots a spot on his tie.

  “You must be tired of my same old songs,” Julian says, moving the rubbery fettuccine around the bowl. “You sure you want to hear any more of me?”

  “No offense,” says Mario. He dabs again at the tie. “But I’m too busy to pay attention anymore.” He smiles. “You could be playing with your feet and I wouldn’t notice.”

  Julian nods.

  “But not tonight,” says Mario. “I promise. Tonight I’ll hear every note.” He shifts in his chair. “I was thinking, though, and listen to me now. You know what would make this Christmas even more tremendous?”

  “What?” says Julian, though he knows what’s coming.

  “If the accordion player did a little singing—just a little—to get us in the spirit. My brother and the blonde—they’re not getting along so good right now. A song might bring them together.”

  “I’m sorry, no,” Julian says, firmly, though his mouth is full. “I would like to help, but—I told you a hundred times I’m not ready. Not yet. I mean no disrespect, but—”

  “I heard your voice,” Mario interrupts. He leans in closer. “Last week, when you took a piss, that was me in the next stall. I sat there with my eyes closed, asking myself: is Mario Lanza in the toilet with me?”

  “Everyone sounds good in the bathroom,” Julian says. “It’s something about the tiles.”

  “I’m serious,” says Mario. “Think about it. Think how nice it would be for these customers. Most of them are drunk anyway. If you sound bad, which you won’t, they won’t remember a thing.” He pauses. “But if not here, then in the living room of my house. That’s a must.”

  Julian shakes his head.

  The face of Gino Stella appears in the round window of the kitchen door. Mario rolls his eyes. “Sooner, not later, though, OK?” he says, and raps his knuckles three times on the table as he gets up to go. “Wait for me at eleven. We’ll walk together.”

  MARIO’S ROW HOUSE is taller and more narrow than Julian’s. Made of the same red brick, it is barely distinguishable from the house attached to it. An alley divides it from its next-door neighbors on one side; the other backs up to the hilly lawn of a Presbyterian church. The Grassos share a stairway with a family from Abruzzo called Fiuma, Mario tells Julian. Signora Fiuma is a cripple, her husband a drunk and a shoplifter. With them they also share a small plot of grass, on which they’ve planted a box hedge and a struggling rosebush. Many of the bricks in the steps have crumbled and separated from the mortar.

  Three men stand talking in the bay window on the second floor. They look out toward the sidewalk but do not acknowledge Julian and Mario. Other guests cross behind the men, carrying drinks and chasing after children. Every window is illuminated, casting a fuzzy glow on the parked cars and the church and the marquee for Di-Nardo’s Florist two doors down. He takes this road each week to replenish the vase of flowers at his parents’ grave, but until now he has not known that the Grassos live here. Julian has always thought it a lonely block. Sit on your porch and you face not neighbors but a barren lot and a patch of thick pines. You watch the trash gather along the edge of the lot and the wind kick the cigarette butts up and down the street. Julian would never trade his little house for this—no matter how many Negro families sprung up around him.

  He follows Mario inside and sets the accordion on the radio console, which is tall as his waist and spans half the length of the living room. It is made of dark wood and features two large speakers on both ends, a cabinet to store albums, and a phonograph in
the center that’s currently playing a scratchy Perry Como record.

  No one seems to notice Julian and Mario’s entrance. Antonio Grasso calls forty-seven, and the dozen people crowded around the dining-room table lower their heads over their cards, searching and hoping. He does not see the blonde from Italy who requested him. There are kids everywhere, on the floor with their cards, racing toy cars on the stairs, sprawled on the sofa asleep.

  The interior of the house—this Julian might consider trading for his own. There is color here: a powder-blue sofa, pristine under its plastic slipcover; ivory armchairs with plush cushions; the sparkling tree; poinsettias along the banister; the red and blue oriental rug that divides the territory of the living and dining rooms. A mirror in a gold frame spans the entire wall behind the sofa. Three brass sconces mounted to the wall display red, green, and white candles, each burnt halfway down. The unblemished furniture, free of nicks, has been recently polished. A woman’s handiwork, Julian thinks. Only a woman can create and maintain rooms like this. No wonder his own house is falling into decay.

  Julian does not immediately notice the piano jammed cruelly into the corner of the dining room. Crayon drawings—scribbles, really—are taped where the sheet music should be. Framed photographs and doilies centered under vases of silk flowers are spread across the top. The piano is old, yes, probably out of tune, but it is fashioned from a shiny blond wood so pleasing that Julian feels a sudden urge to rescue it.

  Two girls run up to Mario yelling, “Babbo! Babbo!” and lock their arms around his waist. He tousles their long brown hair, which has unloosened from rhinestone clips in the shapes of butterflies. The girls eye Julian suspiciously, then giggle and rebury their heads. One is older than the other by a few years. The baby sister clutches a naked doll by the foot, dragging her head along the floor.

  “He’s here!” says a woman’s voice, and all heads turn to Julian. Smiles and halfhearted waves from the tombola table. Then Antonio calls twenty-two, and they turn with determination back to their cards. Ida and Signora Grasso rush out from the kitchen.

  “You came to us!” says Ida. “Welcome, welcome!” She gives Mario a quick kiss on the lips, then takes Julian’s right arm. Signora Grasso grabs the left. They pull him away from Mario and weave him through the crowd, introducing him to this cousin and that; to the screeching, scattering children whose names he can barely hear, let alone remember; to the Fiumas and other neighbors from the block; and to Father Moravia—who squeezes Julian’s cheeks as if he were a child, saying, “Little Giulio! A miracle to see you out of the house!”

  They sit him at a card table in the surprisingly large kitchen and tuck a linen napkin between his neck and shirt collar. From this seat he can see and be seen by the game players and the rest of the dining room, though only Ida and the Signora pay him much attention.

  Ida delivers with two hands a bowl of steaming pasta. As Julian eats—the anchovies are just salty and fishy enough without overwhelming the sauce; the linguine is fresh and al dente—they bring out platter after platter of fried fish and roasted vegetables from the refrigerator and the back porch and begin to reheat them on the stove. When he’s nearly finished eating, they pile the other courses onto an enormous plate, arguing over how much he might want.

  “Give him more broccoletti,” says Ida.

  “He has that all the time,” says Signora Grasso. She spoons more baccalà. “He’s never had this before. Not the way I make it.”

  “That’s all right,” Julian says. “I like everything.”

  The more he eats, the more intense his hunger. The fish is light and lemony, with a sprinkling of fresh parsley. Each of the frittelli is a surprise, filled with either cauliflower, apple, or cod. His mother’s frittelli somehow went soggy minutes after she took them from the fryer, but these make a nice crunch when he bites into them. Ida and Signora Grasso stand over him, nodding and smiling.

  Other guests—shapeless, faceless figures—go in and out of the kitchen for more wine or dessert. There are cheers and groans from the dining room, then the clacking of the wooden chips being dropped back into the bag. Another game is about to begin. “Each card double the price,” Antonio announces.

  Soon someone will ask me to join in, Julian thinks, and I will have to stop eating. For insurance, he grabs some roasted peppers with a folded slice of bread. The oil drips onto his chin as he stuffs the entire sandwich in his mouth. He reaches for more fish.

  “What do you think of the flounder?” asks Ida. “This is the first year we made it.”

  He spears a piece with his fork, holds it up to the light, then devours it. “It’s delicious,” he says.

  “Not enough batter,” Ida says, her arms folded. “I told you, Mamma.”

  Julian smiles and sits back in his chair. “Everything is perfect,” he says. And it is. It is peace on earth. He is so happy that he can almost convince himself that his parents are not gone, that his father has merely made the short walk to the Delluccis to deliver a plate of ciambelline, that his mother is standing at this moment at the top of the stairs in the house on Seventh Street. In his mind, it is still Advent, busy with plans and anticipation, and his mother has carried up the dusty box of garland and ornaments from the basement. By the time his father gets home from the Delluccis’, she and Julian will have decorated the tree and strung the garland around the windows and mirrors. He’ll stand with his hands on his hips, trying to disguise his grin with frustration. “Why’s this mistletoe so low?” he’ll mock-complain and swat at it with his elbow; “how much money’d you waste on these candles?” He’ll tease them until he buckles, until he is forced to admit they have transformed his house for another Christmas. There is no vase of faded lilies, no stake through the center of Julian’s heart; there is no dead Negro boy, no nightmares of hands at the throat. There is only glitter and Perry Como singing “Because” and a full stomach and his mother standing before the tree with her arms crossed, gazing at the lights.

  Signora Grasso clears the plates as Ida wipes down the table. They combine, cover, and return the food to the refrigerator and the back porch. Only Julian’s wineglass remains. Then comes the enormous bowl of fruit and three trays of cookies. “Now you’re talking,” he says.

  Mario peeks his head in from the living room. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s almost showtime.”

  “We never had a real musician play in our house before,” says Ida. She removes her apron and sits across from him. “One year my brother brought his mandolin, but—” She leans over to peer into the next room, then whispers, “I make better music banging pots and pans.”

  “You couldn’t even recognize the songs,” says Signora Grasso. “‘Sing along!’ he told us, and everyone stared at the floor.”

  “What about the piano?” From his seat in the kitchen he can see it, untouched and overladen, shamed into the corner behind the dining-room table. He does not recognize the name—Kimball—but that is no surprise, considering he knows nothing about pianos. Maybe the Grassos dragged it here from the Old Country, he thinks. Maybe the one person who knew how to play it has died, and no one can bear either to use it or let it go.

  “It came with the house,” says Signora Grasso with a shrug. “The keys stick, and the sound—it’s worse than the mandolin. Can you play?”

  “No,” says Julian, disappointed by the piano’s unremarkable history. “But I always wanted to know how.”

  “We’ll get it tuned, then,” she says. “My husband knows a guy.” She smiles at him, touches his arm. “So by next year—no, Easter!—you can learn. Then you’ll play for us.”

  “All those famous Easter songs,” Julian jokes. He clasps the old woman’s hand between his. “But I thank you.” He holds her there for a moment. “The invitation means a lot to me.”

  A young couple enters the kitchen to say good night. The husband’s got his sleeping daughter slung over his shoulder, her bottom cupped in the crook of his arm. The woman, in a fur coat and hat, glances
at Julian, yawns, and covers her mouth with a black-gloved hand.

  As Signora Grasso tries to convince the couple to stay one more hour—“For the show!”—Ida leans in toward Julian.

  “We need some happiness here tonight,” she whispers, grimly, in his ear.

  Before she can explain, someone calls “Tombola!” and people are banging their fists on the table and throwing their hands in the air.

  “That’s it,” says Antonio. He slides a pile of coins over to a clapping fat woman in oversized glasses. “That’s all she wrote.”

  Mario lifts the accordion case onto the coffee table and fiddles with the latches. He waves to Julian and mouths, “Now.” He has already cleared the children from the living room and arranged them on the stairs. He nudges the adults aside and pushes the coffee table against one section of the couch, where an old man dozes. “There’s a cot downstairs, Zio,” he tells him, gruffly, but the man doesn’t budge. He installs Julian in front of the window not only because it’s in the center of the room but also so the neighbors and passersby can envy the magic of a Grasso Christmas.

  Julian counts seventeen adults and nine children, all facing him. Eight of them—five kids, three adults—either sleep or are fighting an obvious battle to keep their eyes open. The fat woman holds her hand over her stacks of coins. A man about Julian’s age shares his chair with his wife, who rests her chin on his shoulder. Father Moravia moves a potted fern out of his line of sight. Julian slows and deepens his breathing, and yet, over the loud chatter, he can still hear water boiling in the espresso pot, every scratch in the Perry Como record, the faint tinkle of the ornaments when someone brushes the tree. He tries to focus on Ida and Signora Grasso, who stand beside Antonio in the doorway of the kitchen. If he pretends he’s playing only for them, maybe his nerves will hold steady.