New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [320]
But if America was terrible, it gave you money. A generation ago, strong Irish newcomers had labored on the building sites, dug the canals, built railways and cleaned the streets. But many of those Irish families had moved on. They were policemen, firemen, even professional men now. It was the turn of the new Italian arrivals to take on the heavy work now. It was not well paid—only black people were paid less—but Giovanni Caruso and his son Giuseppe were strong and worked hard. And with Anna taking in piecework too, the family was still able, like most Italian families, to save something. Every month, Giovanni Caruso went to the Stabile Bank on the corner of Mulberry and Grand streets and sent dollars back to his sisters in Italy. He was also able to put away a little for himself. In a few years, he hoped to have enough saved to open a small business, or buy a house, maybe. That was a dream that would make the long years of hardship worthwhile. Meanwhile, to please his wife, he had even kept Paolo and Salvatore in school—although thirteen-year-old Paolo was quite old enough, he reminded her, to be earning his living.
Another few years. Especially with the help of Signor Rossi.
Like everyone else in Little Italy, Signor Rossi had come there because he had to. But he was a prominente, a man of distinction. “My father was a lawyer,” he would say with a shrug, “and but for his untimely death before my education was completed, I’d be living in a fine house in Naples.” Nonetheless, Signor Rossi was a kindly man with knowledge. Above all, he spoke good English.
Even after six years in New York, Giovanni Caruso spoke only the most broken English. Concetta spoke none at all. Most of their neighbors, their friends, even their cousins who had come to America long before them, were in the same situation. They had re-created Italy, as best they could, in their own quarter; but the great American world outside was still strange to them. So if help was needed in negotiating with the city authorities, or understanding the meaning of a contract, Signor Rossi could explain things like a notary. He was always dressed in a well-tailored suit; he had a quiet presence that reassured doubtful Americans, and he was glad to speak to people on your behalf. For these services he would never take any payment. But if he came into any little grocery, or needed work done in his house, the money he offered was always refused with a smile. His business, however, was to help you look after your savings.
“Money in the bank is good, my friend,” he would explain, “but money that grows is better. The Americans make their money grow, so why shouldn’t we share in their good fortune?” Over the years, Signor Rossi had become quite a successful banchista. He knew how to invest, and dozens of families had been grateful to put their savings in his hands. Each month, Giovanni Caruso would add a little more to the savings he had placed with Signor Rossi, and each month Rossi would give him a brief account of how his little fortune was growing. “Be patient,” he would counsel. “If you invest wisely in this country, you will prosper.”
The family walked proudly up the street. Giovanni with his grown-up son, then Concetta with little Angelo, Anna with Maria, while Salvatore and Paolo brought up the rear, talking and laughing as usual.
The little restaurant was not yet crowded. In the middle, Uncle Luigi, with a napkin over his arm, was serving beside a large table at which a single man was sitting. He was a thickset, Neapolitan fellow, not unlike their father, but in his eyes there was a special gleam. As they entered, and Uncle Luigi gestured for them to approach, the man at the