The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [31]
The woman Le Cinglata brought out a plate of tarelle, hard and crusty, flecked with dark dots of pepper. She put them on the table, then folded her arms. She did not drink.
Signor Le Cinglata poured himself a glass and said, “Drink, Lucia Santa,” with such hearty friendliness that the mother was disarmed, as she always was by an unexpected courtesy. She drank. Then she said, in a gentler voice than she had intended, “I was passing by and thought Lorenzo might be here, helping Signora Le Cinglata with the customers.”
The husband smiled and said, “No, no. Sunday afternoons we rest. No business until night time. After all, we’re not Jews.”
Lucia Santa said, a little more forcefully, “Forgive me for saying this. You must understand a mother. Lorenzo is still too young for such a business. He has no judgment. One night he beat a man old enough to be his father. And a Sicilian who may decide to kill him. Of course, Signor Le Cinglata, you know about this, all these things.”
The husband was expansive, tolerant. “Ah, yes, I know. A good boy. Bravo, bravo, your Lorenzo. You have brought him up a good Italian, respectful to his elders, helpful, industrious. I know the good money we pay him he gives to his mother. There are not many people I would trust, give the freedom of my house, but with Lorenzo there could be no doubt. What an honest face he has.” And so on.
Lucia Santa became impatient and she broke in. “But he is not an angel from heaven. He must obey. Am I right? Does a son show respect to his mother or not? And now some of his clothes are missing. So I thought you might know, perhaps he rested here one night.”
For the first time the woman Le Cinglata spoke, and Lucia Santa marveled at her brassiness, her lack of shame, her hard voice. “Ah,” the woman said. “Your son is a man grown. He earns his own bread and some for your other children. We are not in Italy. You rule with too iron a hand, Signora.”
Here, now, the Le Cinglata woman made her mistake. Met with rudeness, Lucia Santa could become angry and voice her true feelings. She said coldly, politely, “Ah, Signora, you don’t know what trouble children make. How could you, you who are so fortunate not to have any? Ah, the worries of a mother, a cross pray to Christ you will never have to bear. But let me tell you this, my dear Le Cinglata. America or no America, Africa, or even England, it does not signify. My children sleep under my roof until they are married. My children do not become drunkards or fight with drunkards, or go to jail or go to the electric chairs.”
Now the woman Le Cinglata was angry and shouted back. “What? What? You’re saying that we are not respectable people? Your son is too good to visit here? But who are you? What part of Italy do you come from? In my province and yours there was not one of the nobility with the name of Angeluzzi or Corbo. And now my husband, the closest friend and fellow worker of your son’s true father, almost a godfather, he is not to be a friend to Lorenzo? Is that what you are saying?”
Now Lucia Santa was trapped, and she cursed the other woman’s slyness. She had an answer ready to hand but could not use it—that she objected not to the husband’s friendship, but to the wife’s. She did not dare. A jealous and deceived husband wreaked vengeance on wife and lover alike. She said defensively, “No, no, of course he can visit. But not work. Not stay so late amongst quarreling men. Not sleep here,” she concluded dryly.
The Le Cinglata woman smiled. “My husband knows your son slept here. He does not listen to idle gossip. He does not believe his wife would disgrace herself with a mere boy. He is thankful for your son’s protection. He gave your son twenty dollars for his good deeds. Now tell me. Does the boy’s own mother believe the worst of him?”
With the husband looking down her throat,