Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  “Signora Russo, are you all right?”

  The door opened wider. “Oh, Sofia. What are you doing here?” The woman’s face was partially shielded by a scarf, but Sofia could see purple marks at her left temple. She bit her lip and sucked back the disparaging words she wished she could voice about the man who beat his wife. No one talked about it. No one confronted him. It was just not done, but Sofia wished things could be different. “Mamma, signora. She needs your help.”

  “I can’t help anyone today.”

  Sofia whispered. “Signor Russo is at home, then?”

  “He is not, but I cannot help.”

  “Oh, please. It is the autumn melancholy and she is very bad this time. Much worse.”

  The woman’s ample bosom rose as she took in a deep breath. “Tell her to drink the elixir. All a woman needs most times is a drop of grappa and soda water.”

  “Brandy? No, no, signora. This is different—”

  “She will be fine.” The door started to close.

  Sofia grabbed the edge to stop the woman from shutting her out. “No, wait. You do not understand.”

  “It is you who does not understand, girl. I cannot come. Do not ask it of me.”

  “But, can I help you? Are you all right? Has something happened?” She asked even though the woman would never tell. At least Signora Russo would know someone had noticed what was happening to her.

  “Go along, now.” When Sofia pulled her hand back the woman shut the door.

  Sofia closed her eyes a moment, praying the woman’s husband might stay away forever. The sound of the cats fighting below jolted her. She scrambled down and hurried toward the church.

  The Most Precious Blood Church was still under construction. Only the part below ground was finished and construction workers had scaffolds across the entrance. “Go next door,” someone from high above called to her. “You can’t come in here.” They rambled on about how no one should come to church on a Thursday. Had they never heard of confession?

  Sofia grabbed on to the iron fencing as she hurried to the lower level. First she would find Father Lucci and urge him to come see Mamma. Then she would seek out Sister Stefania at the convent house next door. She let herself in quietly, knowing people were lighting candles and visiting the confessional after their workday. She sat a moment in a pew, relishing the calmness she always felt when she entered. Ever since Sofia was young Mamma had told her the church was God’s house, and Sofia had always felt a spiritual presence there. And now, entering her church, Sofia had managed to momentarily put aside the emptiness, what she now understood to be the absence of her twin. She gazed up at the altar, at the crucifix, candlesticks, vessels, and of course the reliquary of Saint Gennarro. When the upper church was completed, it would be more like the churches of Italy—white walls, fresco painting, life-sized statues of Jesus and Mary. The tradition and history of the church was precious to her, and even though she loved it for the way it connected her to her ancestors, she often pondered if the new church would still possess the specialness she experienced here in the temporary sacred space. Was that even possible? For a sacred space to lose its holiness once a grand chapel is built to replace it? In this lower church, Sofia felt as though she could almost touch heaven. Here in God’s house.

  The sound of someone leaving the confessional made her look up. She recognized Luisa Russo, the teenage daughter of the healer. She hurried over to the girl. “Is Father Lucci in the confessional, Luisa?”

  “He is.” The girl blinked. She had been crying.

  “What is it?”

  One of the old women lighting candles hushed them. Sofia ushered the girl toward the door.

  “If Papà never comes back, it will be too soon. I hate him.” She sighed and stomped her foot. “Now I have to go back to confession.”

  “God will forgive you.”

  The girl raised her black brows.

  “Come now. You know He will. Go check on your mother, though. I think she needs you.”

  Luisa nodded and tugged her nutmeg-colored scarf over her head before she opened the door to leave.

  Sofia turned back to the confessional. She would have to go in to talk to Father Lucci. The other priest might be available but she did not like him as well.

  She peeled back the red curtain and ducked inside. She knelt, and when the door slid open she stared at the profile of the priest dappled by the wooden screen. She did not speak.

  “Go on, child.”

  She asked for forgiveness because she was in the confessional for a different purpose. Then she stated her reason for coming.

  “Sofia, you know what I am doing here.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Go on, now. I will come as soon as I get a replacement.”

  Satisfied he would, she asked for forgiveness for feeling angry her parents had kept a secret from her. He gave her a penance and told her to repeat the Act of Contrition, which she did as rapidly as possible. After he absolved her, she rushed out.

  Darting up one set of stairs, Sofia swung past the iron fence to the door of the convent house. Sister Stefania happened to be on greeting duty.

  “Sofia, bella ragazza!” She hugged Sofia tight and then drew back. Pinching Sofia’s cheeks, her aunt clucked her tongue. “You are as red as a pepper. What is wrong, girl?”

  “Mamma.”

  “Oh, sì. It is that time of year. Come in, I will pour you coffee.”

  Sofia followed her to the small kitchen the nuns used.

  “The sisters are at prayers, but I am to offer hospitality to whomever comes by. And today it is you. You make me so happy.”

  Sofia had had few conversations with the woman, and never before alone. Sister Stefania was different than Mamma. Her heart was light where Mamma’s was heavy. She smiled while Mamma seemed to prefer to frown, even when she and Sofia had enjoyed happier days. “I…I want to tell you something.”

  “What has happened? Frankie and Fredo? An accident on the job?” She lifted both hands beside her head. “They take too many risks, your brothers.”

  “No, it is not the boys. It is Mamma. And me. I…” She wasn’t sure how to confess that she’d been snooping in her aunt’s belongings. “Well, the truth is, I took a peek into that box you brought by. The one you had no room to keep here.”

  The sister busied herself pouring cream into a small pot. “Ah, sì. You probably wondered about that music recording. Annabelle gave it to me.”

  “Who?” Sofia took a steaming cup from Stefania.

  “The gardener’s wife. That’s right. We have a small patch of roses and lavender, and the Father hires a gardener. The poor man needed a job, that’s why. I suppose that’s all right now, isn’t it?”

  Sofia bit her lip. She loved her aunt, but talking with her was usually difficult because she could be capriccioso, flighty, as the Americans say. “Sister Stefania, about the box, the one covered in floral paper?”

  “Ah, sì. The gardener’s wife. She has one of those music machines. I will show you if you come by on Friday.” She smacked her lips. “That is tomorrow, now isn’t it? That is when I have my leisure time.”

  “I…uh, I have to work. Sister, there was something else in that box. Something that upset Mamma. And me as well.”

  Sofia’s aunt didn’t seem to hear. She must be thinking about the record still. Stefania began singing a tune Sofia didn’t recognize. Certainly not a Latin hymn. “Sister?”

  She seemed to float back from the clouds. “Hmm?”

  “The box. There were other things in there.”

  Stefania shrugged.

  Someone knocked at the door. Stefania sprang from her chair and rushed out to answer it.

  This was why Sofia had rarely conversed with the woman. Her mother’s sister was distracted by anything that moved in her peripheral vision. Flies, honking horns, bicycles, scurrying children. Just about anything could get Stefania to switch directions and lose track of what she was supposed to be doing. Perhaps this was why the si
sters had given Sofia’s aunt this duty. She was always noticing people. She would be the perfect choice to greet people and even pull lost souls in off the street.

  As she waited for her aunt to attend to the new visitor, Sofia shifted uncomfortably on the spindly kitchen chair. The convent was too quiet. She did not like being alone in the kitchen. She picked up her coffee cup and moved to the doorway that led to the entry. She watched as Stefania put something into the hand of the man who had knocked, a beggar she supposed, and then blessed him as he hurried away. She turned and smiled at Sofia.

  “Your mother needs you, child. No matter how harsh she might be at times, she needs you beside her. I help her when I can, but you are the one she needs most.”

  “Sister Stefania, I know. I know about my twin.”

  The woman just smiled sweetly, as though Sofia had commented on the weather. “Go along now. But come back soon.”

  “We should talk about it.”

  “Talk, talk. People talk when they should pray. That’s what.”

  Sofia gave up. She thanked her aunt and handed the cup back. Father Lucci was probably on his way to see Mamma anyway, and Sofia needed to be there.

  Chapter 5

  Antonio ate his midday meal when most people had their evening supper. That was the life of someone who worked in vaudeville. But it wouldn’t be his lot forever. He didn’t want the label of vaudevillian performer. He was a serious musician, or he hoped to be.

  He stretched his fingers before he put the last bit of his cold bean sandwich in his mouth. Time to practice. He brushed the crumbs from his plate and returned it to the shelf above his sink. Then he scrubbed his utensils, giving Luigi a glance. “Good dog. You stayed on your bed while I ate. Whatever did I do to deserve such a faithful companion?”

  Phonograph music wafted in through his lone window from somewhere below. Luigi turned toward the sound. “Do you hear that, boy? Someone’s playing one of those records with your picture on it.” It amused Antonio to think about the children he’d encountered outside the theater who were calling Lu “Nipper,” the name of the dog on the label. “You may not look just like that dog, but you certainly are as loyal. Your demeanor has made you famous, boy.”

  Luigi lay down and put his paws over his ears.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like people thinking you’re that other dog? Well, I don’t blame you. People think I’m nothing but a low paid vaudeville piano player, and that’s not who I am either. Not all together.”

  To prove his point he sat down at his piano and began playing Brahms. Fifty years ago Steinway & Sons was founded in this very building, or at least that’s what the landlord had told Papà when they moved in, which explained the presence of the old piano. It had been left behind and somewhat neglected. Papà had bought it from the building’s owner, paying installments for several years. Antonio and his father worked together on Papà’s day off to clean it up, repair some keys, and tune it. Even the bench was unique, a prototype that was supposed to have been height adjustable with the turn of a key, now long lost.

  Steinway pianos were made uptown now, but something besides this instrument had been left behind. Antonio could sense it in the walls of the Varick Street loft. Hope, creativity—he wasn’t sure what to call it, but it seemed to envelop him every time he walked through the door. What others might see as dilapidated, drafty, and dowdy, he knew as a comforting shelter where inspiration bloomed like a hopeful spring weed through cracked pavement.

  After he’d practiced long enough to begin to feel aching in his fingers and legs, he rose, shaved, and dressed in his best suit, a brown tweed his father had called his performance attire. Most folks would be home from work by now and hopefully willing to talk. “For you, Papà. I go to Mulberry Bend for you.”

  Shoving his hands into his pockets he considered the fact that he had no weapon. He pondered whether it would be prudent to carry a gun or a knife when he went knocking on doors in a part of town where he might not be welcome. He wasn’t sure, but it might be wise to arm oneself in such a situation. But it didn’t matter. Antonio had nothing to take along. He didn’t even know how to wield a weapon if he had one. For all his luck, some criminal would take it from him and use it against him. However, he did have one avenue of defense.

  “Come here, boy.” Antonio clipped a leash to Luigi’s collar. “I know, you don’t like that. Don’t usually need it, do you boy?” He patted the dog to reassure him. “I trust you all right, but not everyone has a heart as good as yours.” A clap of thunder outside convinced Antonio to collect his Mackintosh. He did not wish to ruin his best suit in the rain, and the overcoat was better protection than an umbrella. Plopping his homburg atop his head, he led Luigi out the door. Better to rely on something he knew how to handle: Lu.

  Antonio climbed the steps to the el stop, confident Luigi would be admitted.

  “Say there, Tony,” the ticket taker greeted him. Everyone seemed to be so fond of nicknames these days. Antonio thought they were more suited to pets. “You’ve brought your theater dog with you. Nipper, right?”

  Luigi growled. Chuckling, Antonio handed over the fare. “Call him whatever you like.”

  When they took a seat, Luigi didn’t take his eyes off Antonio.

  “Oh, come on, boy. What does it matter so long as you get to ride? Look there.” Antonio glanced out the window. “The rain’s letting up. Isn’t that fine?”

  A girl with long brown braids asked to pet Luigi and the attention helped to soothe both Antonio and his dog. The ride would be short. Antonio inhaled deeply and sat up straighter, telling himself there could not have been anything sinister in his father’s death. Just a misunderstanding, as the police had said. The people in the Bend would just help clear things up for Antonio and satisfy Nicco, that’s all. Then he could breathe easier, say goodbye to his father in peace, and move on toward getting trained at the best music school he knew of, Oberlin College in Ohio. Telling himself all this did nothing to stop the chill running up his neck.

  When he got off the el, a church bell announced the hour. He paused, wondering if God recognized church bells as our call to prayer, or if God even heard our prayers. Antonio hoped so because he needed some courage. Pulling the collar of his Mackintosh up toward his chin, he knew where he’d head first. The church might be the best place to start. After asking three people, who each gave him an odd look and a dismissive shake of their heads, a small girl finally told him to head to Mulberry Street between Canal and Hester. “Mind yourself. You can’t get in the front. Go next door.”

  It was only after he arrived that he understood her instructions. Men labored on various levels of a scaffold, sending clouds of dust down to the street. The lower level was nondescript. He was contemplating where to turn when a door suddenly flung open. He tied Luigi’s leash to a basement railing more for his own comfort than to dissuade Lu from straying. “Sorry, boy. No dogs in church.”

  The dog whimpered a bit, but he’d wait. He always did. Antonio hurried over just before a nun closed the door. “Mi scusi! Wait a moment!”

  The woman turned, smiled, and waved to him. Ah, he was right to come here. When one is a newcomer the church is often first to welcome him.

  “Buongiorno, young man. I am Sister Stefania. Please come in.”

  Luigi began to bark.

  “Quiet, Lu. I will be right back.” He turned to the woman. “He is very faithful. He will wait for me.”

  She put both hands to her cheeks. “Ah, bring him in, too. But be quick about it before Mother Superior sees him.”

  Antonio dashed over, untied Luigi, and picked him up in a rush. He would not miss this opportunity to get information.

  Once they were settled in a small kitchen, and drinking coffee with cream, Antonio introduced himself and explained his mission. “I have reason to think, Sister Stefania, that someone in this neighborhood may have information on…” How should he bring up something so vile to this gentle woman? “That is…you see,
my father died.”

  A momentary look of surprise passed over her face, and then she frowned. “I am so sorry, Signor Baggio. Did he get last rites? Pray God he did.” She rose to fetch more pizzelle to set in front of him, even though he hadn’t eaten anything thus far. He recognized the regional Italian biscuit from street vendors’ carts he’d seen, and this simple treat—something he’d never had on his own kitchen table—helped to remind him he was now in the middle of a culture different than that he’d grown up in. He took one and thanked her.

  “Would you like me to light a candle for your father? I would be happy to. I do not mind that you are northern Italian.”

  He cringed, barely avoiding choking on the pizzelle. Perhaps he should not have given his last name. He better get right to the reason for his visit, since she realized he was from a different neighborhood. “Thank you. That is very kind of you. My father died under suspicious circumstances, Sister. You see, I believe someone from Benevento might know what happened.”

  She gasped and plunked down hard on her chair. “My home, Benevento? Why do you think so?”

  “I do not say the people from there are bad people. Not at all. It is just that some men with the Benevento dialect have been asking for me, knowing that I am my father’s son.”

  “So why didn’t you ask them what happened, young man?”

  “I did not have the opportunity to meet those men.” This was a very difficult story to unfold, and a difficult fidgety woman to hear it. “I was working when they inquired. I’m afraid I missed them.”

  “Ah, so I see. You have come looking for them.”

  Finally. “I have, Sister.”

  She reached for his arm. “As I was just telling Sofia—”

  “Who?”

  “My niece, Sofia. You would like her. Very nice girl. Bella figliòla!”

  “I am sure she is very…pretty, Sister. Certainly. But I have come to find out—”

  She held up both arms. “Like I tell her, there is no use living in the past. In Italy, we understood the past is behind us and the future is not for us to know. We labor for the day. That is all.” She snatched away his cup.