Sofia's Tune (5 page)

“Your mother needs you, child. No matter how harsh she might be at times, she needs you beside her. I help her when I can, but you are the one she needs most.”

“Sister Stefania, I know. I know about my twin.”

The woman just smiled sweetly, as though Sofia had commented on the weather. “Go along now. But come back soon.”

“We should talk about it.”

“Talk, talk. People talk when they should pray. That’s what.”

Sofia gave up. She thanked her aunt and handed the cup back. Father Lucci was probably on his way to see Mamma anyway, and Sofia needed to be there.

Chapter 5

Antonio ate his midday meal when most people had their evening supper. That was the life of someone who worked in vaudeville. But it wouldn’t be his lot forever. He didn’t want the label of vaudevillian performer. He was a serious musician, or he hoped to be.

He stretched his fingers before he put the last bit of his cold bean sandwich in his mouth. Time to practice. He brushed the crumbs from his plate and returned it to the shelf above his sink. Then he scrubbed his utensils, giving Luigi a glance. “Good dog. You stayed on your bed while I ate. Whatever did I do to deserve such a faithful companion?”

Phonograph music wafted in through his lone window from somewhere below. Luigi turned toward the sound. “Do you hear that, boy? Someone’s playing one of those records with your picture on it.” It amused Antonio to think about the children he’d encountered outside the theater who were calling Lu “Nipper,” the name of the dog on the label. “You may not look just like that dog, but you certainly are as loyal. Your demeanor has made you famous, boy.”

Luigi lay down and put his paws over his ears.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like people thinking you’re that other dog? Well, I don’t blame you. People think I’m nothing but a low paid vaudeville piano player, and that’s not who I am either. Not all together.”

To prove his point he sat down at his piano and began playing Brahms. Fifty years ago Steinway & Sons was founded in this very building, or at least that’s what the landlord had told Papà when they moved in, which explained the presence of the old piano. It had been left behind and somewhat neglected. Papà had bought it from the building’s owner, paying installments for several years. Antonio and his father worked together on Papà’s day off to clean it up, repair some keys, and tune it. Even the bench was unique, a prototype that was supposed to have been height adjustable with the turn of a key, now long lost.

Steinway pianos were made uptown now, but something besides this instrument had been left behind. Antonio could sense it in the walls of the Varick Street loft. Hope, creativity—he wasn’t sure what to call it, but it seemed to envelop him every time he walked through the door. What others might see as dilapidated, drafty, and dowdy, he knew as a comforting shelter where inspiration bloomed like a hopeful spring weed through cracked pavement.

After he’d practiced long enough to begin to feel aching in his fingers and legs, he rose, shaved, and dressed in his best suit, a brown tweed his father had called his performance attire. Most folks would be home from work by now and hopefully willing to talk. “For you, Papà. I go to Mulberry Bend for you.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets he considered the fact that he had no weapon. He pondered whether it would be prudent to carry a gun or a knife when he went knocking on doors in a part of town where he might not be welcome. He wasn’t sure, but it might be wise to arm oneself in such a situation. But it didn’t matter. Antonio had nothing to take along. He didn’t even know how to wield a weapon if he had one. For all his luck, some criminal would take it from him and use it against him. However, he did have one avenue of defense.

“Come here, boy.” Antonio clipped a leash to Luigi’s collar. “I know, you don’t like that. Don’t usually need it, do you boy?” He patted the dog to reassure him. “I trust you all right, but not everyone has a heart as good as yours.” A clap of thunder outside convinced Antonio to collect his Mackintosh. He did not wish to ruin his best suit in the rain, and the overcoat was better protection than an umbrella. Plopping his homburg atop his head, he led Luigi out the door. Better to rely on something he knew how to handle: Lu.

Antonio climbed the steps to the el stop, confident Luigi would be admitted.

“Say there, Tony,” the ticket taker greeted him. Everyone seemed to be so fond of nicknames these days. Antonio thought they were more suited to pets. “You’ve brought your theater dog with you. Nipper, right?”

Luigi growled. Chuckling, Antonio handed over the fare. “Call him whatever you like.”

When they took a seat, Luigi didn’t take his eyes off Antonio.

“Oh, come on, boy. What does it matter so long as you get to ride? Look there.” Antonio glanced out the window. “The rain’s letting up. Isn’t that fine?”

A girl with long brown braids asked to pet Luigi and the attention helped to soothe both Antonio and his dog. The ride would be short. Antonio inhaled deeply and sat up straighter, telling himself there could not have been anything sinister in his father’s death. Just a misunderstanding, as the police had said. The people in the Bend would just help clear things up for Antonio and satisfy Nicco, that’s all. Then he could breathe easier, say goodbye to his father in peace, and move on toward getting trained at the best music school he knew of, Oberlin College in Ohio. Telling himself all this did nothing to stop the chill running up his neck.

When he got off the el, a church bell announced the hour. He paused, wondering if God recognized church bells as our call to prayer, or if God even heard our prayers. Antonio hoped so because he needed some courage. Pulling the collar of his Mackintosh up toward his chin, he knew where he’d head first. The church might be the best place to start. After asking three people, who each gave him an odd look and a dismissive shake of their heads, a small girl finally told him to head to Mulberry Street between Canal and Hester. “Mind yourself. You can’t get in the front. Go next door.”

It was only after he arrived that he understood her instructions. Men labored on various levels of a scaffold, sending clouds of dust down to the street. The lower level was nondescript. He was contemplating where to turn when a door suddenly flung open. He tied Luigi’s leash to a basement railing more for his own comfort than to dissuade Lu from straying. “Sorry, boy. No dogs in church.”

The dog whimpered a bit, but he’d wait. He always did. Antonio hurried over just before a nun closed the door. “
Mi scusi
! Wait a moment!”

The woman turned, smiled, and waved to him. Ah, he was right to come here. When one is a newcomer the church is often first to welcome him.

“
Buongiorno
, young man. I am Sister Stefania. Please come in.”

Luigi began to bark.

“Quiet, Lu. I will be right back.” He turned to the woman. “He is very faithful. He will wait for me.”

She put both hands to her cheeks. “Ah, bring him in, too. But be quick about it before Mother Superior sees him.”

Antonio dashed over, untied Luigi, and picked him up in a rush. He would not miss this opportunity to get information.

Once they were settled in a small kitchen, and drinking coffee with cream, Antonio introduced himself and explained his mission. “I have reason to think, Sister Stefania, that someone in this neighborhood may have information on…” How should he bring up something so vile to this gentle woman? “That is…you see, my father died.”

A momentary look of surprise passed over her face, and then she frowned. “I am so sorry,
Signor
Baggio. Did he get last rites? Pray God he did.” She rose to fetch more
pizzelle
to set in front of him, even though he hadn’t eaten anything thus far. He recognized the regional Italian biscuit from street vendors’ carts he’d seen, and this simple treat—something he’d never had on his own kitchen table—helped to remind him he was now in the middle of a culture different than that he’d grown up in. He took one and thanked her.

“Would you like me to light a candle for your father? I would be happy to. I do not mind that you are northern Italian.”

He cringed, barely avoiding choking on the
pizzelle
. Perhaps he should not have given his last name. He better get right to the reason for his visit, since she realized he was from a different neighborhood. “Thank you. That is very kind of you. My father died under suspicious circumstances, Sister. You see, I believe someone from Benevento might know what happened.”

She gasped and plunked down hard on her chair. “My home, Benevento? Why do you think so?”

“I do not say the people from there are bad people. Not at all. It is just that some men with the Benevento dialect have been asking for me, knowing that I am my father’s son.”

“So why didn’t you ask them what happened, young man?”

“I did not have the opportunity to meet those men.” This was a very difficult story to unfold, and a difficult fidgety woman to hear it. “I was working when they inquired. I’m afraid I missed them.”

“Ah, so I see. You have come looking for them.”

Finally. “I have, Sister.”

She reached for his arm. “As I was just telling Sofia—”

“Who?”

“My niece, Sofia. You would like her. Very nice girl.
Bella figliòla
!”

“I am sure she is very…pretty, Sister. Certainly. But I have come to find out—”

She held up both arms. “Like I tell her, there is no use living in the past. In Italy, we understood the past is behind us and the future is not for us to know. We labor for the day. That is all.” She snatched away his cup.

He gobbled down the rest of the biscuit and then rose, holding his hat to his chest. “
Grazie
, Sister. You are most hospitable.”

Her wrinkled face brightened, as though he could not have offered a better compliment. She stretched out her arm and he bent to receive her blessing. Then he clicked his tongue and Luigi jumped up and followed him outside.

Dismayed that he’d not learned anything save for the fact that the southern Italian penchant for shutting out others still held true, Antonio shoved both hands inside his pockets, allowing Luigi’s leash to trail along the uneven sidewalk back toward the train. This had been a bonehead idea. If the church would tell him nothing, what hope was there anyone else here would talk?

He sighed and stared down an alley at a string of white laundry flapping between two windows. He’d tried. That should fulfill his duty to his father. He clicked his tongue again, knowing Lu would follow. Antonio had trouble convincing himself his obligation had been fulfilled. The mystery would not unchain him so long as the possibility still existed that someone was trailing him.

The sound of children laughing made him turn to look for Luigi. The little brown and white dog was surrounded by giggling girls. A boy from a balcony above shouted down at them. “The Victor dog! Sure looks like him.”

“No he doesn’t,” another said.

“Sure does, because he cocks his head, listening, just like that dog.”

Antonio squeezed his way through the scarfed heads. Many of the children were without shoes and had been playing in puddles. Lu was enjoying their coos and pats on the nose. Antonio had to indulge them.

One of the girls glanced up at him. “
Signore
, he looks like the dog on that label,
sì
?”

“I suppose he does. You’ve said hello, Luigi. Come along, now.”

“He is your dog?”

There was no doubt when the pup answered Antonio’s command. The girls skipped down the sidewalk behind him, enjoying their discovery. “Come back tomorrow,” they shouted as Antonio climbed the steps to the el.

Perhaps he should. Maybe it would not be raining and miserable out and the children could introduce him to their families as their friend. He leaned down and picked up his dog. “Good boy, Lu. You did your part.”

When he was several blocks away he stuck his hand in his pocket and discovered a slip of paper that he had not put there. Thinking one of the children who had crowded around him had given him a secret gift, a sketching perhaps, he drew it out. The words scrawled there appeared to have come from a practiced hand, not a child’s at all. He was able to make out the Italian words.

Come back. Mulberry Street holds the secrets you seek.

He spun around, but of course too late. No one seemed to be following him. Someone did not think of him as an outsider. This mysterious ally was enough to merit a return trip.

Before he went home he stopped by the Fourteenth to see if Mac was there. Antonio had no work for tonight, but it would not hurt to inquire. The man had been generous with him.

“Tony, there you are! I was hoping you’d come by.”

Antonio sighed. It was hopeless trying to get Mac to address him by his proper name. “Got some work for me, then?”

“Ah, no. My regular is back. But wait here a minute. I have to go check on the seamstress. Dolly isn’t happy with her hems. Don’t go anywhere, lad. I have news.” He closed the door when he left.

As Antonio waited in the dark office, moisture ran down the collar of his Mackintosh and landed on his shoes. He did not have the energy to wipe it off. The tension he’d worked up going over to the Bend had pilfered the pluck he normally tried to exhibit while at the theater. It would not do to have Mac and others think he was anything other than confident. No one here knew about the grief Antonio had endured. It had been all he could manage to muster up enough courage to tell the nun, and that had exhausted him.

He glanced around the small office. The room was nearly concealed in a hallway painted black, and with the door shut it felt like a dungeon. Such a dim workspace for a man like Mac, whose happy-come-what-may attitude beamed like a lighthouse beacon most days. Mac seemed to like Antonio. Hopefully he’d find at least a partial job for him tonight. While Antonio did have work this Sunday, the church did not pay as much as the theater. If only he could get a steady position.