‘Peter’s downstairs, drinking with … Can’t remember his name – the manufacturer he has to see first. Darling, it’s going to be a wonderful trip – Daddy’s given me so much to spend. I’m still shamelessly spoilt …’ Sitting at the dressing-table in a silk kimono, head hanging forward as she brushed her shiny black hair.
‘We are going to see Eddie, though? Lots of people on the boat coming over, English, they were quite impressed I was semi-related … He was doing so awfully well before – and now it’s good here too.’ She looked in the glass. ‘But he’s still … like you said that time in Town – he’s still straying?’
‘Still straying, Syb.’ She said it edgily, sitting curled up on the bed. ‘And I mind desperately. It never gets any better. He doesn’t even mean it. It’s so casual – just someone admiring him, showing they’re available – And then, it’s a short step … But if just looking at him does things to me, why shouldn’t he be irresistible to others? Perhaps – if I could just give him a child.’
Sybil said suddenly, ‘Maria darling, I should have said. I think, we think – it’s almost certain I’m in the family way –’
‘Syb, darling. Oh, but I’m so glad!’
‘And we’d almost given up. Something with my tubes they said in the spring … We nearly didn’t come on this trip, because it’s – well, it’s about two months. I’m sure it’s not a false alarm. And I’m feeling wonderful, not queasy at all. Wonderful.’
Her silk stockings were on now. She slipped into shoes of bronze kid. ‘It’s not public yet of course. Keep it under your hat.’
‘Syb, it’s for you to keep it – inside you. Do be careful, darling.’
Rattling on, prattling on, to mask the shock and the envy. I who’ve shown that I can bear a child by that same man – and now? I seem to be barren. Peter, father of Sybil’s child. Perhaps we shall all play Happy Families?
‘I thought you might be upset, Maria darling, with your not …’
‘Oh, one day,’ she said carelessly. ‘It could be my lucky month any time.’
‘You haven’t been to a doctor again?’
‘Oh yes. A specialist. But there’s nothing wrong … And he terribly wants babies. He’d love a photo in Melody Maker of the two of us, with about five little ones – or six or whatever, as long as it’s more than Bing Crosby. He’s a family man at heart – whatever his strayings. The rest isn’t important.’
Sybil disappeared to wash. When she came back, reaching into the wardrobe, she asked, ‘Are we going to meet this brother of yours? Rocco. He sounds so glamorous. And not married? I should have brought Nancy over. What a hope! Thirty-six now, darling, and still dreaming of Dick, who of course adores, but adores Gwen … No more babies there, I fear. That miscarriage four years ago, stillbirth rather, that was a boy. But you knew that?’
She stood there in pale yellow satin: low square neckline, crystal beaded straps. Maria said: ‘Darling, you look quite gorgeous.’
‘Making the most of this slinky figure while I still have it. I’ll bet Peter barely notices. Terrible man …’
‘I’m the guy you give your goodnight kisses to – remember me? Wasn’t I good? No, tell me, you listened in – I was good, wasn’t I? The applause, you could … I’ll bet that made the waves crackle … There were all these dames afterwards – some really gorgeous …’
‘So what happened? I waited up. Don’t tell me – they all fell on you, undressed you and forced you –’
‘Hey, hey … I came straight back to you. Who else’d I want? You’re proud of me, aren’t you? Say you thought I was good.’
‘Eddie, you were wonderful –’
‘Let’s call room service, I need a bottle of wine, let’s celebrate. Crosby, Vallee, Austin – forget them, Eddie’s the best. Come over here on the sofa, put your wrap on … I’m the guy you give your goodnight kisses to – remember me?’
Two nights later he sang for her (she knew it was for her), ‘I don’t know, what would happen to me, if anything happened to you.’ There were tears in his eyes.
What to make of her brother? Blood of her blood. Over fifteen years since they’d met. She carried in her the picture of him as he’d said goodbye that time in Palermo, in the days when she had only wanted to die. Before the baby, before Guy. She had somehow expected him to be the same. As if the picture, frozen, were to be suddenly reanimated – so that from the quay at Palermo, he turned now and walked towards her.
It was a forty-three-year-old man who met her in the hotel foyer. Grey camel-hair coat slung over shoulders, expensive shoes, mirror-shining. And then close up when they’d kissed, the star sapphire cufflinks. Beautifully kept hands. Hat off, the hair not even beginning to recede, grey at the sides but as thick and curly as ever. A fine figure of a man. But not married. (‘Of course there are dames …’)
They talked in Sicilian, rapidly. As if she had never talked anything else. And yet, apart from dreams, from moments of terror, she had put it aside at the age of eleven.
Not taking her to his apartment at first. Taking her to El Morocco. The table alone cost twenty-five dollars. Dollar bills, folds of dollar bills. Saying to the waiter, ‘Listen, this is my kid sister, what do you think, isn’t she gorgeous?’ They went to the Rainbow Room. She wore her new crimson organza frock and danced with him, and led the applause when Eddie sang Everything I have is yours.
‘Of course, the women love him,’ she told Rocco.
‘He loves them?’ Rocco asked.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, laughing it off.
Rocco said, ‘Maria – you want him taught a lesson? If you want that – just say the word.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Don’t touch Eddie. Ever.’
But he’d already changed the subject.
She had to do it right, get it right. She was his little sister. He made a fuss of her, and later a fuss of Eddie too. On Sundays when Eddie was free he took them out a few times.
She wondered sometimes how he made his money. He had been lucky to get back to the States before the quota was imposed. She knew bootlegging had been the main source of his riches to begin with. Then his speaks. ‘A lot of people knew Rocco’s.’ It had been expensive, she realized, paying the police. Now he must be making money in other ways.
Although he made a fuss of her, he didn’t introduce her to his friends. Yet he seemed to know many people, of all sorts. He was OK. ‘There ain’t nobody gonna call me a greaseball,’ he told Eddie, ‘they don’t call me a Wop neither …’
His English, which he spoke when Eddie was there, wasn’t that good. But he never used that odd vocabulary, neither Sicilian nor Italian, which she could just remember from before. (‘Olivetta’ for elevated railroad, ‘cotta’ for coat). He spoke English as if he’d been around some time.
*
‘Rocco here, Eddie, Maria, listen – I wanna ask you all to supper, what you say next Sunday, we’ll go maybe Jack Dempsey’s – I dunno, listen I’ll find somewhere real good, the Graingers they like fish? You think you can make it? Listen, I’ll call again tomorrow – you clear it with them. Maybe I bring a dame, maybe not.’
Peter asked, ‘What’s your line of business, Mr Verzotto?’
‘Business,’ Rocco said, ‘sure I’m in business. All sorts. Real estate maybe …’ He had hold of the menu, pointing to it. ‘Listen, you peoples is going to choose. Anything you want. You choose.’
The restaurant was crowded. Maria was glad it hadn’t been one with singing waiters. Although Sybil, who’d never heard of such things had been intrigued, Maria said they were rather awful. ‘It’s fun the first time, perhaps.’ The place Rocco had chosen, Grazzano’s, was smart, elegant and no more noisy than to be expected. The tables were well spaced. White cloths, sparkling glass and silver. A piano in the corner played, just audibly, numbers from Top Hat.
Sybil, in coral crepe-de-chine, glowed with her secret.
Peter, sitting opposite her. A fine figure of a man in his early thirties. The moustache he had gro
wn suited him. He radiated health, open air, cleanliness, gleaming white shirt front. Proud of himself, of the firm, of Sybil, no doubt of the child to be. Perhaps it was that news which had aroused bitterness in Maria. He gave me my only child, who was taken away from me. Now he triumphs in the latter day. A father again. While I … Sitting there, she felt a slow burning wave of hate, such as she had not felt for years, against him.
She could see him appraising Rocco. A little in awe, a little impressed against himself? But thinking too – ‘Wop, isn’t that what they call them? Just a Wop who knows how to go where the money is.’ Helping himself now, choosing from the antipasto trolley, loading his plate up. A man of large appetites. Hateful. Forget that he is Uncle Eric’s son, Dick’s brother, Sybil’s husband. My despoiler. Am I meant to forget? Why should fifteen years make me forget, when Guy walks and talks and I cannot see him?
Now, talking to Rocco, he was disclaiming any knowledge about drink. ‘No, you choose, old chap. I’ll not quarrel with your choice. And my wife here, Sybil’d maybe prefer something sweet …’ He leaning back slightly in his chair. Rocco had asked him, in his turn, something about his business.
‘Very good. It’s been more than worth my while, the trip already. Not just the leads I’ve followed up. But others. I had a couple of ‘phone calls yesterday – quite out of the blue. Could be very interesting.’
They talked about the sightseeing trip to follow. ‘We’re really excited about that. Too bad that Eddie’s touring isn’t going to coincide with any of ours –’
‘Too bad he can’t be here tonight,’ Sybil said.
‘He’s free Sundays, I can’t fix Sunday,’ Rocco said. ‘Sure, I miss Eddie.’
They were eating lobster when Peter asked Rocco, ‘How long now since you left Italy?’
‘Sicily? Fifteen now – but I’m in the States before, I’m there in Detroit eight years. Then I’m that kind of dumbo goes back to fight. Crazy, I do crazy things –’
‘You’ll not know much of Mussolini, then? Fascism – after your time?’
‘Musso. I spit in his face. My brother he’s in prison five maybe six years – he didn’t do nothing. Musso sends this guy Mori, he says, “Mori, you’re in charge of police – you just take them all in.” Guys who hadn’t done nothing – six in our village …’
But Peter had grown bored with that topic. Perhaps he did not want to hear about persecution, rounding up of smalltown offenders. For Maria it was an unwelcome reminder of the world of Minicu, of the linen chest. Of promises, threats, revenge, executions – and secrets. Who knew what Gaetano had been up to? And Rocco too, before he left? He had got out in time.
Fascism – she winced at that. Thinking of Eddie, singing at their dances, doing cabaret at their dinners, photographed with his family, props of the London Fascist Club. (‘It’s the way for Momma and Poppa to get in, get on. Family first – and it’s best to be in good with the Government when I sing over there.’) She backed out of accompanying him, feigning illness, only going with reluctance.
Peter wanted to talk about Prohibition, about the Depression. Trying to ask questions in such a way as to show his superiority along with his ignorance.
‘We had it – not on your scale, but we had it all right. Reflected in every business. It was the suddenness shook us all. Crash, bang. Bubbles have to burst – we had one in our school books, the South Sea Bubble. But bubbles don’t make such a din … The people you knew, did a lot go broke?’
‘They didn’t went broke,’ Rocco said, ‘they went crazy. Like you pay five thousand bucks, that’s stock and then it’s down and it’s maybe two hundred. Me, I got property – Maria’s told you. Like two leases, I sell them eight times what I paid. And I got a speak – So no peoples has any dough but in my business, they got it, they wanna spend it …’
Sybil, leaning over, talking in a low, laughing voice to Maria. ‘You know what happened today … A shopping expedition, Dick’s children. I have to look out something for Pip and Nessie. Macy’s – it’s like a fairy tale. Christmas in the air already …’
Peter was saying, ‘Well, Prohibition – after repeal, apart from having a wonderful Christmas, I expect coppersmiths were very much back in trade. Overtime, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘There you go, darling,’ Sybil said. ‘Anything to do with metals,’ she said, ‘that’s his first thought.’
Rocco was busy with the menu again. ‘You choose ice-cream. Any ice-cream you want. You like cake? Here they have real cassata. Siciliana. You like chocolate, something with chocolate?’
‘Peter – my husband, he’s a sweet tooth, weakness for chocolate –’
They were half way through their ices and cake when a waiter came to their table. He spoke to Rocco, then turned to Peter. ‘Excuse me, sir. You Mr Grainger, sir? A call for you.’
‘Right,’ Peter rose lazily, wiping his moustache with his napkin. ‘No peace for the wicked – or for the business man. They’ve found me even here.’ Maria felt annoyed by his obvious self-satisfaction.
‘So long for the moment. When I come back I’ll have perhaps – who knows, clinched the deal …’
She watched him walk out. Threading his way past the tables. She was glad suddenly to be just the three of them.
Peter’s chocolate gâteau had been almost finished. It lay, fork in cream, waiting. Rocco pressed Maria and Sybil to eat some fruit. ‘Peaches, grapes, they get them Florida, they gotta be good.’ But they wouldn’t. They ordered just black coffee. And liqueurs. He persuaded them to liqueurs. ‘Your husband what’s he gonna have? Maybe a brandy, we’ll get brandy …’
‘I’ll need to leave soon,’ Maria said. ‘When Peter gets back. I counted on listening to Eddie.’
‘Eddie sings Fridays –’
‘This is recorded. It’s a commercial. Not Colgate, but something like. It’s this evening.’
‘Peter’s a long time,’ Sybil said apologetically. ‘I know him when he gets talking like that. But all the same … a dinner guest …’
Rocco said, ‘Maybe he fixes a meeting tomorrow. Maybe he got talking.’
The coffee came. The liqueurs. Maria took out her fob watch. Checked it against the restaurant clock.
‘It’s too bad of him,’ Sybil said, petulantly now. ‘And when you need to get to your broadcast, Maria.’
When did annoyance, irritation, anger even, turn to worry, apprehension?
‘Listen,’ Rocco said. ‘I’ll go ask.’ He crossed the room, spoke to the head waiter. When he came back, he said, ‘He don’t know nothing.’
‘If he went in the Gents …’ Sybil suggested. ‘Perhaps he got ill in there?’
‘If he got sick, they find him. I said, “You go look there, the washroom’s where you look.”’
Maria said, ‘Had he drunk much? He didn’t seem … Just well wined, dined, but OK –’
A waiter came across again, speaking first rapidly to Rocco, in Italian. Rocco said, ‘He says he ain’t nowhere in the building.’ The waiter repeated to them all. ‘We look everywhere. The signor walked out for fresh air –’
‘Nonsense,’ Sybil said sharply. ‘He’s not …’ She crumpled suddenly. ‘Find him,’ she said, half tearfully, half in anger. ‘Find my husband at once.’
‘Listen,’ Rocco said consolingly. ‘Listen, we look. We do our best. I’m worried, Maria here, she’s worried – we do our best. Maybe we call your hotel?’
‘Yes,’ Sybil said, her voice rising, the beginnings of hysteria. Maria, never remembering her like this, thought it was the baby. ‘Ring the hotel now. Now, do you hear? Room 276. Grainger. Room 276.’
By now, people at the other tables were beginning to look over to where the smartly dressed Englishwoman was pulling at her evening bag. She had pushed over her cup of coffee. It ran crazily into the white tablecloth. She began to cry noisily.
Maria, an arm around her, tried to comfort her. She wanted to tell Rocco, ‘Sybil’s having a baby. Be gentle.’
Rocco wa
s doing his best, that she could see. He at least kept calm. ‘It’s gonna be OK. You see. We go back to the hotel. Maybe we’re back – he’s there.’
‘Why?’ Sybil cried, ‘Why should he be there? What ever does he want to go off for anyway? That’s not like my husband, not like Peter. He doesn’t just disappear. He says where he’s going.’ She bit and tore at her handkerchief. ‘He walked out of the door for a minute’s fresh air – and under a motor. He’s run over. I know he’s run over –’
Rocco was getting the check, paying up. ‘Hush,’ Maria said to her. ‘It’ll be some simple explanation. You’ll be laughing soon. You can tell him off. It’s got to be simple. People don’t just disappear into thin air.’
They spoke to the doorman on the way out. Rocco had spoken to him already. He was little help.
‘… OK, mebbe it’s him? I dunno. He was stood with a guy. They was talking … I never see the guy before. They sound like they’re doing business. Mebbe they stepped outside. I dunno – I don’t listen peoples talking business.’
Rocco whistled a cab and they went all three straight to the hotel. Nothing. No Peter. No message. Maria rang her own hotel, both to leave a message for Eddie and to make sure there was nothing there.
It was now, surely, a matter for the police. Maria, waiting in the hotel bedroom with Sybil, was full of sinister fears, haunted by a sense of déjà vu. Rocco insisted on staying. ‘If you like, I sit downstairs. I’m in the foyer when we get news.’
The hours passed. At first the police had not been as helpful as Sybil, or Maria, would have wished. She could see, perhaps reasonably enough, their belief that he might just have disappeared for a night out. ‘He’ll be home with the milk, you wait.’ They asked had there been any words, a quarrel at all? ‘I tell the cops,’ Rocco said, ‘ “This is a party, we’re all friends, we’re happy, for Chrissake.”’
Meanwhile a Missing Persons bulletin had gone out. Sybil said, between bursts of crying, ‘If we could only find out who ‘phoned him. And if it was him – who he was speaking to outside.’
But of course no one knew. The restaurant had known nothing, why should anyone else? Sybil insisted on calling, at three in the morning, both of the firms which Peter had come over to talk to. For one of them she was able to get the private residence of the chairman. She seemed past caring, didn’t mind the angry, sleepy reply.
The Golden Lion Page 24
