by John Irving
Years later, when he'd grown accustomed to being a writer, Daniel Baciagalupo would think it was only natural, what happened then, back in the kitchen. They were not cowards; they were just people who loved Carmella Del Popolo, and they couldn't bear to see her hurt. But, at the time, young Dan had been shocked. It was Paul Polcari, the pizza chef, who started it. "An-geh-LOO!" he wailed.
"No! No! No!" his elderly father sang.
"Angelu, Angelu," Tony Molinari called, more softly.
The young women and the kid about Angel's age were crooning the dead boy's name, too. This chorus from the kitchen was not what Carmella had hoped to hear; they made such a dismal howl that the poor woman looked to Dominic for some explanation, seeing only the sorrow and panic in his face. Danny couldn't look at Angel's mom--it would have been like looking at Injun Jane a half-second before the skillet struck her.
A chair had been pulled out from the table nearest them--old Polcari's departing gesture, even before he had bid Carmella to sit down--and Carmella not so much sat in the chair as she collapsed into it, the olive-brown color abandoning her face. She had suddenly seen her son's wallet in young Dan's small hands, but when she'd reached and felt how wet and cold it was, she reeled backward and half fell into the chair. The cook was quick to hold her there, kneeling beside her with his arm around her shoulders, and Danny instinctively knelt at her feet.
She wore a silky black skirt and a pretty white blouse--the blouse would soon be spotted with her tears--and when she looked into Danny's dark eyes, she must have seen her son as he'd once looked to her, because she pulled the boy's head into her lap and held him there as if he were her lost Angelu.
"Not Angelu!" she cried.
One of the chefs in the kitchen now rhythmically beat on a pasta pot with a wooden spoon; like an echo, he called out, "Not Angelu!"
"I'm so sorry," young Dan heard his dad say.
"He drowned," the boy said, from Carmella's lap; he felt her hold his head more tightly there, and once again the immediate future appeared to him. For as long as he lived with his dad and Carmella Del Popolo, Danny Baciagalupo would be her surrogate Angelu. ("You can't blame the boy for wanting to go away to school," Ketchum would one day write his old friend. "Blame me, if you want to, Cookie, but don't blame Danny.")
"Not drowned!" Carmella screamed over the clamor from the kitchen. Danny couldn't hear what his father was whispering in the grieving woman's ear, but he could feel her body shaking with sobs, and he managed to slightly turn his head in her lap--enough to see the mourners come out of the kitchen. No pots and pans, or wooden spoons--they brought just themselves, their faces streaked with tears. (The face of Paul, the pizza chef, was streaked with flour, too.) But Daniel Baciagalupo already had an imagination; he didn't need to hear what his dad was saying in Carmella's ear. The accident word was surely part of it--it was a world of accidents, both the boy and his dad already knew.
"These are good people," old Polcari was saying; this sounded like a prayer. It was later that Danny realized Joe Polcari had not been praying; he'd been speaking to Carmella about the cook and his son "from up-a north." Indeed, the boy and his father were the ones who walked Carmella home. (She had needed to slump against them, at times close to swooning, but she was easy to support--she had to be more than a hundred pounds lighter than Jane, and Carmella was alive.)
But even before they left Vicino di Napoli that afternoon--when Danny's head was still held fast in the distraught mother's lap--Daniel Baciagalupo recognized another trick that writers know. It was something he already knew how to do, though he would not apply it to his method of writing for a few more years. All writers must know how to distance themselves, to detach themselves from this and that emotional moment, and Danny could do this--even at twelve. With his face secure in Carmella's warm grip, the boy simply removed himself from this tableau; from the vantage of the pizza oven, perhaps, or at least as far removed from the mourners as if he were standing, unseen, on the kitchen side of the serving counter, Danny saw how the staff of Vicino di Napoli had gathered around the seated Carmella and his kneeling dad.
Old Polcari stood behind Carmella, with one hand on the nape of her neck and the other hand on his heart. His son Paul, the pizza chef, stood in his aura of flour with his head bowed, but he had symmetrically positioned himself at Carmella's hip--perfectly opposite to the hip where Dominic knelt beside her. The two young women--waitresses, still learning their craft from Carmella--knelt on the floor directly behind young Dan, who, from the distance of the kitchen, could see himself on his knees with his head held in Carmella's lap. The other cook--the first or principal chef, Tony Molinari--stood slightly apart from the rest of them with his arm around the narrow shoulders of the kid about Angel's age. (He was the busboy, Danny would soon learn; being a busboy would be Danny's first job at Vicino di Napoli.)
But at this exact and sorrowful moment, Daniel Baciagalupo took in the whole tableau from afar. He would begin writing in the first-person voice, as many young writers do, and the tortured first sentence of one of his early novels would refer (in part) to this virtual Pieta on that April Sunday in Vicino di Napoli. In the novice writer's own words: "I became a member of a family I was unrelated to--long before I knew nearly enough about my own family, or the dilemma my father had faced in my early childhood."
"LOSE THE BACIAGALUPO," Ketchum had written to them both. "In case Carl comes looking for you--better change your last name, just to be safe." But Danny had refused. Daniel Baciagalupo was proud of his name--he even took some rebellious pride in what his father had told him of his name's history. All the years those West Dummer kids had called him a Guinea and a Wop made young Dan feel that he'd earned his name; now, in the North End (in an Italian neighborhood), why would he want to lose the Baciagalupo? Besides, the cowboy--if he came looking--would be trying to find a Dominic Baciagalupo, not a Daniel.
Dominic didn't feel the same way about his surname. To him, Baciagalupo had always been a made-up name. After all, Nunzi had named him--he'd been her Kiss of the Wolf, when in reality it would have made more sense for him to have been a Saetta, which he half was, or for his mother to have called him a Capodilupo, if only to shame his irresponsible father. ("That-a no-good fuck Gennaro," as old Joe Polcari would one day refer to the flirtatious, fired busboy who'd disappeared--only God knew where.)
And Dominic had lots of last names he could have chosen. Everyone in Annunziata's enormous family wanted him to become a Saetta, whereas Rosie's innumerable nieces and nephews--not to mention his late wife's more immediate family--wanted him to be a Calogero. Dominic didn't fall into that trap; he saw in an instant how insulted the Saettas would be if he changed his name to Calogero, and vice versa. Dominic's nickname at Vicino di Napoli, where he was almost immediately apprenticed to the first chef, Tony Molinari, and the pizza chef, Paul Polcari, would be Gambacorta--"Short Leg," an affectionate reference to his limp--which was soon shortened to Gamba (just plain "Leg"). But Dominic decided that, outside his life in the restaurant, neither Gambacorta nor Gamba was a suitable surname--not for a cook.
"What about Bonvino?" old Giuse Polcari would suggest. (The name meant "Good Wine," but Dominic didn't drink.)
Buonopane ("Good Bread") would be Tony Molinari's recommendation, whereas Paul Polcari, the pizza chef, was in favor of Capobianco ("White Head")--because Paul was usually white all over, due to the flour. But these names were too comical for a man with Dominic's sober disposition.
Their first night in the North End, Danny could have predicted what his dad would choose for a new last name. When father and son walked the widow Del Popolo to her brick tenement building on Charter Street--Carmella lived in a three-room walk-up near the old bathhouse and the Copps Hill Burying Ground; the only hot water was what she heated on her gas stove--young Dan could see far enough into his father's future to envision that Dominic Baciagalupo would (so to speak) quickly slip into the drowned fisherman's shoes. Although her late husband's shoes didn't
actually fit Dominic, Carmella would one day be happy to discover that Dominic could wear the unfortunate fisherman's clothes--both men were slightly built, as was Danny, who would soon be wearing Angel's left-behind clothes. Naturally enough, father and son needed some city attire; people dressed differently in Boston than they did in Coos County. It would come as no surprise to Danny Baciagalupo, who wouldn't (at first) take Ketchum's advice and change his last name, that his dad became Dominic Del Popolo (after all, he was a cook "of the people")--if not on that first night in the North End.
In Carmella's kitchen was a bathtub bigger than the kitchen table, which already had the requisite three chairs. Two large pasta pots were full of water--forever hot, but not boiling, on the gas stove. Carmella did next to no cooking in her kitchen; she kept the water hot for her baths. For a woman who lived in a cold-water tenement, she was very clean and smelled wonderful; with Angel's help, she had managed to pay the gas bill. In the North End in those days, there weren't enough full-time jobs for young men of Angel's age. For young men who were strong enough, there were more full-time jobs to be found in the north country, in Maine and New Hampshire, but the work there could be dangerous--as poor Angel had discovered.
Danny and his dad sat at the small kitchen table with Carmella while she cried. The boy and his father told the sobbing mother stories about her drowned son; naturally, some of the stories led them to talk about Ketchum. When Carmella had temporarily cried herself out, the three of them, now hungry, went back to Vicino di Napoli, which served only pizza or quick pasta dishes on Sunday nights. (At that time, the Sunday midday meal was the main one for most Italians.) And the restaurant closed early on Sundays; the chefs prepared a dinner for the staff after the evening's customers had gone home. Most other nights, the restaurant was open for business fairly late, and the cooks fed themselves and the staff in the midafternoon, before dinner.
The aged owner and maitre d' had been expecting the three of them to return; four of the small tables had been pushed together, and the place settings were already prepared for them. They ate and drank as at a wake, pausing only to cry--everyone but young Dan cried--and to toast the dead boy they'd all loved, though neither Danny nor his dad would touch a drop of wine. There were the oft-repeated "Hail Marys," many in unison, but there was no open coffin to view--no nightlong prayer vigil, either. Dominic had assured the mourners that Ketchum knew Angel was Italian; the river driver would have arranged "something Catholic" with the French Canadians. (Danny had given his dad a look, because they both knew that the woodsman would have done no such thing; Ketchum would have kept everything Catholic, and the French Canadians, as far away from Angel as possible.)
It was quite late when Tony Molinari asked Dominic where he and Danny were spending the night; surely they didn't want to drive all the way back to northern New Hampshire. As he'd told Ketchum, Dominic wasn't a gambler--not anymore--but he trusted the company he was in and (to his own and Danny's surprise) told them the truth. "We can't ever go back--we're on the run," Dominic said. It was Danny's turn to cry; the two young waitresses and Carmella were quick to comfort the boy.
"Say-a no more, Dominic--we don't-a need to know why, or who you're running from!" old Polcari cried. "You're-a safe with us."
"I'm not surprised, Dominic. Anyone can see you've been in a fight," Paul, the pizza chef, said, patting the cook's shoulder with a sympathetic, flour-covered hand. "That's one ugly-looking lip you've got--it's still bleeding, you know."
"Maybe you need stitches," Carmella said to the cook, with heartfelt concern. But Dominic dismissed her suggestion by shaking his head; he said nothing, but all of them could see the gratitude in the cook's shy smile. (Danny had given his dad another look, but the boy didn't doubt his father's reasoning for not explaining the circumstances of his lip injury; that father and son were on the run had nothing to do with the questionable character and aberrant behavior of Six-Pack Pam.)
"You can stay with me," Tony Molinari said to Dominic.
"They'll stay with me," Carmella told Molinari. "I have a spare room." Her offer was incontestable, because she meant Angel's room; even mentioning the room made Carmella commence to cry again. When Danny and his dad walked her back to the cold-water apartment on Charter Street, she told them to take the bigger bed--in her room. She would sleep in the single bed in her departed Angelu's room.
They would hear her crying herself to sleep--that is, she was trying to. When the crying had gone on for a long time, young Dan whispered to his father: "Maybe you should go to her."
"It wouldn't be appropriate, Daniel. It's her boy she misses--I think you should go to her."
Danny Baciagalupo went to Angel's room, where Carmella held out her arms to the boy, and he got into the narrow bed beside her. "An-geh-LOO," she whispered in his ear, until she finally fell asleep. Danny didn't dare get out of the bed, for fear he would wake her. He lay in her warm arms, smelling her good, clean smell, until he fell asleep, too. It had been a long, violent day for the twelve-year-old--counting the dramatic events of the previous night, of course--and young Dan must have been tired.
Wouldn't even the way he fell asleep somehow contribute to Danny becoming a writer? On the night of the same day he had killed the three-hundred-plus-pound Indian dishwasher, who happened to be his father's lover, Daniel Baciagalupo would find himself in the warm embrace of the widow Del Popolo, the voluptuous woman who would soon replace Injun Jane in his father's next life--his dad's sad but (for the time being) ongoing story. One day, the writer would recognize the near simultaneity of connected but dissimilar momentous events--these are what move a story forward--but at the moment Danny lost consciousness in Carmella's sweet-smelling arms, the exhausted boy had merely been thinking: How coincidental is this? (He was too young to know that, in any novel with a reasonable amount of forethought, there were no coincidences.)
Perhaps the photographs of his dead mother were sufficient to make young Dan become a writer; he had managed to take only some of them from the cookhouse in Twisted River, and he would miss the books he'd kept her photos pressed flat in--particularly, those novels that contained passages Rosie had underlined. The passages themselves were a way for the boy to better imagine his mother, together with the photos. Trying to remember those left-behind pictures was a way of imagining her, too.
Only a few of the photographs he brought to Boston were in color, and his dad had told Danny that the black-and-white photos were somehow "truer" to what Dominic called "the lethal blue of her eyes." (Why "lethal"? the would-be writer wondered. And how could those black-and-white pictures be "truer" to his mother's blue eyes than the standard color-by-Kodak photographs?)
Rosie's hair had been dark brown, almost black, but she was surprisingly fair-skinned, with sharply angular, fragile-looking features, which served to make her seem even more petite than she was. When young Dan would meet all the Calogeros--among them, his mother's younger sisters--he saw that two of these aunts were small and pretty, like his mom in the photographs, and the youngest of them (Filomena) also had blue eyes. But Danny would notice that, as much as he was drawn to stare at Filomena--she must have been about the same age as the boy's mother when Rosie had died (in her mid-to late twenties, in Danny's estimation)--his father was quick to say that Filomena's eyes were not the same blue as his mom's. (Not lethal enough, maybe, the boy could only guess.) Young Dan would notice, too, that his dad rarely spoke to Filomena; Dominic seemed almost rude to her, in that he purposely wouldn't look at her or ever comment on what she was wearing.
Was it as a writer that Daniel Baciagalupo began to notice such defining details? Had the boy already discerned what could be called a pattern-in-progress in his father's attraction, in turn, to Injun Jane and to Carmella Del Popolo--both of them big, dark-eyed women, as opposite to Rosie Calogero as the twelve-year-old could imagine? For if Rosie had truly been the love of his dad's life, might not Dominic purposely be denying himself contact with any woman remotely like her?
> In fact, Ketchum would one day accuse the cook of maintaining an unnatural fidelity to Rosie by choosing to be with women who were grossly unlike her. Danny must have written Ketchum about Carmella, and the boy probably said she was big, because the cook had been careful--in his letters to his old friend--to make no mention of his new girlfriend's size, or the color of her eyes. Dominic would tell Ketchum next to nothing about Angel's mother and his developing relationship with her. Dominic wouldn't even respond to Ketchum's accusatory letter, but the cook was angry that the logger had criticized his apparent taste in women. At the time, Ketchum was still with Six-Pack Pam--speaking of women opposite to Cousin Rosie!
To remember Pam, Dominic needed only to look in a mirror, where the scar on his lower lip would remain very noticeable long after the night Six-Pack attacked him. It would be a surprise to Dominic Del Popolo, ne Baciagalupo, that Ketchum and Six-Pack would last as a couple for very long. But they would be together for a few years longer than Dominic had been with Injun Jane--even a little longer than the cook would manage to stay with Carmella Del Popolo, Angel's large but lovely mom.
THE FIRST MORNING father and son would wake up in Boston, it was to the tantalizing sounds of Carmella having a bath in her small kitchen. Respecting the woman's privacy, Dominic and young Dan lay in their beds while Carmella performed her seductive-sounding ablutions; unbeknownst to them, she'd put a third and fourth pasta pot of water on the stove, and these would soon be coming to a near boil. "There's plenty of hot water!" she called to them. "Who wants the next bath?"
Because the cook had already been thinking about how he might fit, albeit snugly, in the same big bathtub with Carmella Del Popolo, Dominic somewhat insensitively suggested that he and Daniel could share a bath--he meant the same bathwater--an idea that the twelve-year-old found repellent. "No, Dad!" the boy called, from the narrow bed in Angel's room.
