The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [32]
But then, without knocking, entering as if it were his household, Lorenzo came in, stopped short, and the tableau that this made explained everything to the mother.
Larry smiled with genuine fondness at them all, his mother, then the paramour, then the husband he had made a cuckold. They smiled back. But the mother saw that the husband’s smile had a falsity and contempt for youth; it was the smile of a man who was not deceived. And the female Le Cinglata—that a woman her age should have such a look on her face, the lips full and wet and red, the black eyes penetrating, looking directly into the youth’s face.
Lucia Santa watched Lorenzo with grim irony. Her handsome son with the false heart. But he—his hair like blue-black silk, with his straight bronze heavy features, his big nose, heavily fleshed and masculine, his skin unbroken by adolescent blemish—he, the Judas, turned his head to view his mother with affectionate astonishment. He put down the suitcase he was carrying and asked, “Ma, what are you doing here? And I was just thinking what bad luck I missed you home.”
She knew what had happened. He had waited to see her leave, watching from some hiding place. Never dreaming she was coming here. Then quick into the house to get his clean clothes. Figlio de puttana, she thought, how two-faced he is.
But she did not let her anger show. “Ah, my son,” she said. “You’re moving into your new home? Signor and Signora Le Cinglata are adopting you? My cooking doesn’t please you? One of your blood has affronted you in some way? You’re making a change, are you?”
Larry laughed and said, “Ah, come on, Ma, quit kidding.” He was appreciative. He found her witty. He gave her his big flashing smile. “I told you I’m just gonna stay here and help out awhile. I want to give you some extra money. Zi’ Le Cinglata has to go to court and then to the country and buy grapes. Don’t worry, Ma, any money I get, it’s yours.”
“Grazia,” the mother said. They all smiled, even Signor Le Cinglata, that the youth thought himself so clever he could call his cuckold “Uncle.”
Signor Le Cinglata fell into the spirit of the thing. “Lucia Santa,” he said familiarly. “I look on Lorenzo as my very own son. Ah, what a disgrazia we have no children. But now who will protect my wife when I am away? This business is hard and dangerous for a woman alone. There must be a strong man in the house. Your son has his regular hours on the railroad. Then he comes here until early morning. He must sleep during the daytime. Your children run in and out, in and out. Why shouldn’t he get his rest here, where everything is quiet? I have absolute trust in your son and I don’t care about idle gossip. A man who makes the money I make need not worry about his neighbors’ opinions.”
It was all clear to the mother. She felt an overwhelming contempt for these people. Here was a husband, and an Italian, who for the sake of money let his wife cuckold him. Here was a wife who knew her husband cared more about the business and money than about her honor and good name, and made his wife his whore. Lucia Santa was truly shocked, for one of the few times in her life.
Where would it lead her son, living with such people? She said to Lorenzo, not even in anger, “Get all your things, figlio mio, and come back to your own roof. I don’t leave here until you come.”
Larry gave them all an embarrassed smile. “Come on, Ma,” he said. “I been working five years now and bringing home money. I’m no kid.”
Lucia Santa stood up, commandingly stout in black. She said dramatically, “I am your mother and you dare defy me before strangers?”
The female Le Cinglata said with savage contempt, “Va, va, giovanetto. Go with your mother. When a mother calls, children must obey.”
Larry’s face became red through the bronze and Lucia Santa saw the man’s anger in his eyes. He looked like his