The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [43]
It had of course been the will of God that they met Frank Corbo. The farm owner was a first cousin of the Coluccis’ and they spent their summer vacation on the farm for the sake of their son’s health. Lucia Santa, a reconstructed peasant, raised her eyebrows at this repetition of a theme she had heard so much during the past summer. But, Mr. Colucci went on, what showed the hand of God was that they lived only a few blocks away from each other in the city, and every morning he passed the house of Frank Corbo. Mr. Colucci worked in the Runkel chocolate factory around the corner on 31st Street. Best of all, he was sure he could get Frank Corbo a job in the factory, but it was not for that they had come to visit.
No. Mr. Colucci had promised he would teach Frank Corbo to read and write. They would use the Bible as text. They had come tonight to keep their promise to visit him, to teach him, not only reading and writing, but about Jesus Christ. He would have to come to their class in the chapel of the Literal Baptist Church. Mr. Colucci wanted to make sure that Mrs. Lucia Santa Corbo would not object, would not be offended, if her husband came three nights a week to the chapel. He knew the respect, the consideration due an Italian wife and mother of children. He made no mention of religious objections, as if he knew there would be none.
Lucia Santa looked at him with a more kindly eye. She gathered that her husband would become a Protestant, but to her this was unimportant in every sense. He was a grown man. But the job at Runkel’s. He would bring home free chocolate and cocoa. The pay would not be insignificant. This was good fortune. Her husband could become a Jew if he wished. She gave not her assent, for that was not hers to give; the father could not be vetoed. She gave her blessing.
The tension relaxed, they talked about themselves, told each other what part of Italy they had come from, when and why they had left. The Coluccis did not smoke or drink. Religion was their life, for they believed in a living God. They told wondrous tales of the miracles their faith had wrought. At their meetings in chapel, believers fell to the ground in a trance and spoke in strange tongues; drunkards became total abstainers, evil men who regularly tattooed their wives and children black and blue became sweet as saints. Lucia Santa raised her eyebrows in polite astonishment. Mr. Colucci went on. “Sinners become God-like. I myself was a great sinner, in what manner I would rather not say.” His wife bowed her head for a moment, and when she looked up there was a small, grim smile on her lips. But Mr. Colucci had not said this boastingly. His was the manner of a man who had been the victim of a terrible misfortune and who after great suffering had been rescued through no virtue of his own.
Mr. Colucci went on to make himself clear. Even now, if Frank did not feel the faith, it did not matter. They were his friends, they would do everything to help him. Out of love for him and God. Faith would come in its own time.
The family was impressed, despite the words “love” and “God.” They had never met or even heard of a man like Mr. Colucci. Lucia Santa waited for some request, some trick that would exact payment for this good fortune. But there was none. She rose to make fresh coffee and bring out the tarelle. The father watched them all, impassive but seemingly content.
There could be no doubt. Everything was in harmony. Mr. Colucci sensed this and was carried away. He explained more about their religion. Everyone should love each other, no one should desire worldly goods. Shortly, Armageddon would come, God would wipe out the world, and only the chosen,