The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [95]
Angelina turned to take her leave and then the misfortune fell. Her eyes lighted on Gino, barely sixteen, but tall and dark and strong, handsome in the new gray suit bought from the hijacking longshoreman just for this occasion.
Gino had made himself useful opening bottles of soda and jugs of wine to serve the Italians in the kitchen. He was quiet and distant, he moved with a quick fluidity that had a strange attractiveness. All this made him seem respectful, in the old Italian tradition, a servant to his elders. Only Lucia Santa knew it meant the people here in this room were completely meaningless to him. He did not see their faces, he did not hear their speech, he did not care if they thought well or ill of him, and he did not care if they lived or died. He moved in a world that did not exist but in which he had been trapped and jailed for this one night. He served them to make time pass.
But since the relatives had no way of knowing all this, they were impressed—especially a distant cousin from Tuckahoe, Piero Santini, dark-bearded, thin as a rail from work, who owned four trucks. He had a fat and foolish wife, bedecked with false jewels, at present gobbling cookies by the ton, and a shy daughter of seventeen, who sat between her father and mother and could not take her eyes off Gino.
Piero Santini noticed his daughter’s heated glance, which was no surprise since he guarded her like a dragon. At first he was displeased, then reflected. His little Caterina had been brought up very strictly, in the old Italian style. Never mind “boy friends this” and “go on dates that” or dance outside the family circle. “Ha, ha, ha! Damma the dance,” Piero Santini would say as he did an obscene little jig.
He drummed into Caterina’s noodle what men wanted: to stick something between her legs and blow her belly up, then off, leaving her to shame, misery and the suicide of her parents. But she was ripe. How long could this go on? His wife was a numbskull and he himself was ready to buy two more trucks. He would be busy far into the night counting his money and spying on his help so that they did not steal the very balls from between his legs.
So Piero Santini, with that adaptability which had proven his success in business, switching his trucks from hauling produce to hauling garbage, sometimes even to carrying whisky when the price was right, turned his thoughts another way. Perhaps the time had come. He watched Gino and was impressed. What a quiet boy, and not lazy by any means. The way he moved showed a strong quick body; no doubt he could load a truck in half the time it took two lazy helpers and driver. He would be worth his weight in gold. (How Lucia Santa and all her friends and neighbors would have laughed at his thinking so of Gino—the champion job-loser on Tenth Avenue, an absolutely hopeless case.) Santini kept watching Gino. When his wife moved nearer a fresh pile of cookies and Gino served him a glass of wine, he patted the empty chair beside him and said in Italian, “Come sit here a minute, let me talk to you.”
This mark of favor drew the attention of everyone. Piero Santini, the rich cousin from Tuckahoe, so charming to this starving, poverty-stricken youth? All eyes devoured them. Teresina Coccalitti nudged Lucia Santa, who, despite her lack of cunning, understood what was afoot.
For like a magnet all glances must shift from the two males to the young maiden. Caterina Santini was a legend, a myth, an Italian flower who