New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [377]
A sudden gust of wind slapped his cheek, reminding him that up here on these high places one could never predict the air’s sudden eddies and flows.
Meanwhile, Angelo had gone over to the southern edge of the platform, the Thirty-fourth Street side. Over there, Salvatore knew, it was a sheer drop for nine stories to the stonemasons’ duckwalk, then another seventy-five down to the street below. A couple of the Mohawk Indians were sitting quietly on a girder which made a temporary parapet there. They glanced at Angelo briefly, but seemed to take no further interest. Angelo sat down a few feet to their right, and he took out his sketch pad. He was leaning over the edge, looking down; something there had caught his attention. Perhaps it was the duckwalk. After a few moments, he started to draw. Salvatore moved over to one of the upright girders a few yards away and leaned against it, protected from the breeze.
There was certainly a wonderful view. It was as if, from that high place, all the riches of the world were laid out below them: the teeming city, the distant suburbs, busy Wall Street, the mighty harbor, the vast ocean beyond. If anywhere on earth could make the claim, the Empire State Building, surely, was the center of the universe today. This was it, the pinnacle of the temple of Man. And he, Salvatore Caruso, was here as a witness, and his brother was recording it in a drawing which—who knew—might be looked at for generations to come. He saw the paper on his brother’s sketchbook flutter.
Angelo seemed to have forgotten him, but from where he was resting, Salvatore could observe his brother’s face—keenly observant, intense and fine.
And quite suddenly at that moment, taking him entirely by surprise, the terrible pain, the sense of betrayal and jealousy he’d felt when he’d first discovered about his brother and Teresa, burst upon him. It hit him like a wave. Coming from nowhere, it seized him, possessed him, filled him with a cold horror and rage. Why had Angelo married the woman that he himself loved? Why had he given Angelo half his money? Why had Angelo accepted it? Why should it be Angelo who was talented, and handsome, and fine? Why was his little brother something that he himself was not, and never could be?
All these years he had protected him. He’d done what he thought was right, and what Anna would have wanted. He’d given Angelo everything. And what was his reward? To be surpassed, left standing like an onlooker, a fool.
Caught unawares by this realization, as it seemed to be, Salvatore could not help himself. He stared at his brother with hatred. Had they been alone in the desert, he would have struck him dead.
For a long minute, as the wind hissed, he gazed at Angelo with murder in his heart.
He sensed the danger just before it struck.
The wind does not break against a skyscraper. It wraps itself around it like a serpent. It breathes up and down; it strikes its head in suddenly through openings and rushes through to the other side. It squeezes and it twists. It is dangerous and unpredictable. Just before you feel it, you may hear the sudden bang of a heavy gust as it rushes across the open floor at you.
On the high girders of the Empire State, a gust could sweep a man off his feet.
As the gust came at Salvatore, he automatically caught the edge of the girder and braced himself. But it had been some time since his brother had worked on a high building, and besides, he was not paying attention.
The gust reached Angelo. It smacked into the sketching pad and tore it from his hands, carrying it thirty feet out from the building, where counter-winds buffeted it about like a kite. Instinctively, Angelo reached after his drawing as