The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [114]
The men sitting at the counter were all night workers, even the clerks dressed in rough clothes. There was a terrible loneliness in the smoky air, as if nothing could bring these people together. Gino left.
Outside, the streets were dark, except for small circles of light cast by the street lamps. Far down the block he saw a small neon cross. Suddenly Gino felt a strange trembling weakness in his legs and he sat on a stoop to smoke a cigarette. For the first time he realized that he would see Vinnie’s dead face. He remembered himself and Vinnie late at night alone in the house sit-sleeping on the childhood window sill, counting the stars above the Jersey shore.
He put his hands over his face, surprised by tears. A band of little children came swirling down the street through circles of yellow light. They stopped and watched him, laughing. They were fearless. Finally he got up and quickly walked away.
There was a long black awning from the door of the funeral parlor to the gutter, a veil for mourners against the sky. Gino went through the door into a little anteroom, from which an archway opened into an enormous cathedral-like hall filled with people.
Even those he knew seemed like strangers. There was the Panettiere, lumpy as coal in his old black suit; his son, Guido, sinisterly dark of jowl. The barber himself, that solitary maniac, sat quietly on a chair, his inspecting eyes gentled by death.
The women from Tenth Avenue sat lined against the walls in formal rows, and the billing clerks from Vinnie’s night shift stood around in clusters. There was Piero Santini from Tuckahoe and his daughter Caterina, married now, and her belly swelling, face rosy, and eyes cool and confident with known and satisfied desire. Louisa, her beautiful face peculiarly grief-stricken, sat with her children in a corner and watched her husband.
Larry stood with a group of men from the railroad. Gino was shocked to see them acting quite normally, smiling, gossiping about overtime on the job, buying a house on Long Island. Larry was talking about the bakery business, and his genial smile was setting them all at ease. They could have been sitting over Coffee An in the bakery.
Larry saw Gino and motioned him to come over. He introduced Gino to the men, who shook his hand with solemn firmness to show their respectful sympathy. Then Larry took Gino aside and whispered, “Go in and see Vinnie and talk to your mother.” For a moment Gino was bewildered by his saying “go in and see Vinnie,” as if his brother were alive. Larry led him deep to the far end of the room, where there was another, smaller, archway almost hidden by a group of men gathered in front of it.
Two little boys skittered past Gino on the polished black floor, and an outraged shouted whisper followed from their mother. A young girl not more than fourteen chased after them, cuffed them soundly, and dragged them back to their chairs against the wall. Gino finally made his way through the second archway into another small room. Against the far wall was the coffin.
Vinnie lay on white satin. His bones, his brows, his high, thin nose swelled like hills around his closed, hollowed eyes. The face was remembered, but this was not his brother. Vinnie wasn’t there in any way. It was all gone—the awkward posture of his body, the shielded, hurt eyes, the awareness of defeat, and the gentle, vulnerable kindness. What Gino saw was a soulless, invincible statue, without interest.
And yet he was offended by the women in this small room. They sat against the wall at right angles to the coffin, talking in soft voices but in a general way. His mother spoke little, but in a quite natural tone. To please her, Gino walked to the coffin and stood directly over his brother, looking more at the satin coverlet and feeling nothing because it wasn’t really Vinnie—only some general proof of death.
He turned to go out the archway but Octavia rose and took his arm and led him to his mother. Lucia Santa said to the woman sitting next to her, “This is my son Gino, the oldest after Vincenzo.