Lucia, Lucia

  “No. Lucia.” Aunt Lu says her name softly, with a perfect Italian accent.

  “Loo-chee-uh,” Kit repeats. “Like the opera?”

  Aunt Lu smiles, and Kit notices a deep dimple in her right cheek. “Papa called me Lucia di Lammermoor.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He owned the Groceria.”

  “On Sixth Avenue?” Kit leans forward in amazement. The Groceria is revered as an authentic Italian market and is therefore one of the biggest tourist traps in the city. It features all the best imported staples, including Tuscan olive oil, fresh pastas, and hanging salamis from every region. It sells cheeses from around the globe, and mozzarella cheese made fresh daily that floats in tubs of clear water like golf balls. The store is known for its elaborate displays of breads, meats, and fish.

  “Do you still own it?”

  Aunt Lu frowns. “No, dear. It was sold about twenty years ago. The family business is now centered around managing apartment buildings.”

  “Tony Sartori owns other buildings?” Kit can’t believe that the king of duct tape would have other properties.

  “He and his brothers. Tony is a real piece of work. So impatient. That temper. The boys today are nothing like my father. Sometimes they remind me of my brothers, but my brothers had respect for the family. Today I’m lucky if they remember I live up here. I know old people aren’t terribly interesting to young people, but I am, after all, their aunt, and their only connection to their father’s people.”

  Kit nods, feeling a little guilty. She hadn’t been too excited about spending any time up here, either.

  Aunt Lu continues, “Tony is the eldest son of my eldest brother, Roberto. Of course, my brother has been dead for many years.”

  “So, how many of you were there growing up?”

  “I had four older brothers. I was the baby.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They’re all gone. I’m the last of the original Sartoris. I miss them, too. Roberto, Angelo, Orlando, and Exodus.”

  “Great names. Exodus. Were you all named after opera characters?”

  “Just two of us.” Aunt Lu smiles. “Do you like the opera?”

  “My grandmother does, and she passed it along to me. I’ve offered to burn CDs of her record albums, and she won’t let me. She likes to stack them on her record player and let them drop and play through, scratches and all. Gram thinks the scratches make the music better.”

  Aunt Lu refills Kit’s teacup. “You know, Kit, when you’re old, you like to hold on to all the little things that meant something to you. It feels comfortable and right. Let her have her old ways. They’re her ways, you understand?”

  “Yes, I do. Is that why you live in your nephew’s building? Or is the Sartori family holding out to make a big sale on the building, and then you’ll cash out and move uptown with a view of Central Park?”

  “Sure, sure. I’m holding out for my view of the park.” Aunt Lu smiles.

  “I don’t blame you. You should get something out of living here. The place isn’t exactly maintained, but I don’t like to complain. I’m afraid Mr. Sartori would throw me out.”

  “I know the feeling,” Aunt Lu says quietly.

  “Of course, my place is in worse shape than yours. My bathroom wall is ready to cave in.”

  “How should they know how to take care of these properties when everything they have was handed to them? I worked my whole life, so I know the value of things.”

  “When did you stop working?”

  “I retired in 1989 when B. Altman’s closed. Of all the employees, I had been there the longest, since 1945. They even gave me an award.” Lucia picks up an engraved crystal paperweight off the coffee table and hands it to Kit.

  “This is kind of like a perfect-attendance certificate in high school.”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  Kit returns the award to its place on the table. “You were there so long. You must have liked your job.”

  “Oh, I loved it.” As Aunt Lu remembers, her face is transformed. Beneath the distinguished older woman she is now, Kit can see the young woman with moxie and beauty. Kit is ashamed that she tried to come up with an excuse to avoid this cup of tea. After all, Lucia Sartori is no Greenwich Village kook like the guy on Fourteenth Street who dresses up like Shakespeare and walks through Washington Square Park broadcasting sonnets. Kit looks over into the alcove where Lucia’s mink coat hangs on a dress mannequin. The sleek black fur looks almost new in what little light is coming through the windows. The rain has stopped and left behind a late-afternoon sky the color of a gray pearl.

  “Aunt Lu? May I call you Lucia?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ve always wondered, since you wear it a lot, what’s the deal with the mink coat?”

  Lucia looks off into the alcove. “The mink coat is the story of my life.”

  “Well, Lucia, if it’s not too much trouble, can you tell me the story?” Kit picks up her cup of tea and settles back in her chair as Lucia begins.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Loo-chee-uh! Loo—”

  “Mama, I’m coming!” I shout from the top of the stairs.

  “Andiamo! Papa needs the envelope!”

  “I know, I know, I’m on my way.” Quickly, I grab my purse and throw in lipstick, keys, my small leather datebook, a bottle of clear nail polish, and my felt pincushion in the shape of a small red tomato with the elastic wristband. I’ve chosen a simple navy-blue dress with a full skirt, deep tiered pockets, and a button-down bodice with a stand-up white collar, mist-blue stockings, and blue high-heeled shoes with a single strap and beige button. I throw open my everyday hatbox and pull out a small turquoise velvet cloche that swoops over one eye, keeping my side part flat and neat. I take my short white gloves, slam my bedroom door, and click down the stairs so fast, I’m in the vestibule in under a minute.

  “Tell Papa I want him home at six.” When Mama issues an order, I obey. She pushes a loose curl back into place, tucking it into her chignon. The strands of white in her black hair are becoming more pronounced, but her skin is still smooth as a girl’s. Her high cheekbones are flushed with pink, and her jawline is strong.

  “Remember,” she says as she tucks the envelope into my purse, “we have our big dinner tonight.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Bracciole. Papa is cutting the tenderloin himself. The meat will be so delicato, it will fall off of Claudia DeMartino’s fork.”

  “Good. I really want to impress her.”

  “And we will. Make sure you’re on time.” Mama kisses my cheek and pushes me out the door. What a perfect autumn day. The sun is so bright on Commerce Street, I close my left eye to let the pupil in the right adjust, then open both.

  “Bellissima Lucia!” our neighbor Mr. McIntyre comments as I pass.

  “Why can’t I find a good Irish boy with that brand of blarney?” I ask him.

  He laughs heartily, chomping down on the end of his cigar. “I’m too old. Anyhow, you’re destined for a nice Italian boy.”

  “So they say.” He knows, and I know that from the moment my brothers and I were born, Mama had the same wish for us. Bring home an Italian. Mama’s sermons about “marrying our people” can be re-created by my brother Exodus, down to the praying-hands gesture she makes when invoking God, begging Him to have us use our heads. We may laugh when Ex imitates her, but we know she means business. Papa is no problem. He always says, “Stai contento.” If we’re happy, he’s happy.

  The schoolboys on Seventh Avenue South whistle as I pass. “Lucia!” one of the boys calls out. When I don’t respond, he hollers again, “Lucia! Lucia!” Sometimes I turn and wink; after all, they’re just boys.

  My brother Angelo hoses down the sidewalk in front of Sartori’s Groceria, Greenwich Village’s only Italian fresh market. My brother has opened the wall-size display windows and rolled back the awnings to let the sun dry the terra-cotta floor.

  Ange
lo has a classic, angular face; wide-set brown eyes; full, even lips; and a small nose. At five foot eight, he’s the shortest of my brothers, but many people believe he’s the best-looking. Mama thinks he should have been a priest, because he’s the peacemaker in the family. Angelo spritzes the Halloween pumpkins stacked neatly near the entrance and makes a motion as if to spray me with the hose.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Angelo laughs. He’s twenty-nine, a full four years older than me, but he’ll never be too old to tease me.

  “Where’s Papa?” I ask.

  “Can’t you hear him?”

  I lean in the door and hear the voices of Roberto and Papa raised in an argument. “They’re fighting again?”

  “As usual. I serve two masters. One wants everything as it was in the old country, and the other wants it like the A&P up the street. Nobody wins.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” I tell him.

  The door is propped open with a giant can of crushed tomatoes. Papa and Roberto are nose to nose before crates full of ruby-red apples.

  “I buy the apples where I buy the apples!” Papa yells.

  “You pay too much!” Roberto counters.

  “I know the farmer for thirty-two years! He grows the apples just for me! I don’t buy produce off a truck. Who knows where it comes from?”

  “From an apple tree! An apple tree, Pop. They’re all the same! And who cares where they come from when they’re fifty cents less a bushel?”

  “I care! I care a lot! Half the fruit on those trucks is rotten! I won’t sell old and rotten in my shop!”

  “I give up! You hear me? I give up, Pop!” Roberto grabs his clipboard.

  “Don’t yell at Papa!” I shout at my brother.

  Roberto, at six foot one, is much taller than our father, but he shrinks a bit at the sound of my voice. “It’s none of your business. Stick to your sewing,” he says petulantly, then turns and goes to the stockroom. Roberto looks like our mother’s people: black hair and brown eyes, long, straight nose, and thick, expressive eyebrows. He acts like them, too; he has a terrible temper. When I was little, he always seemed to be shouting, and his anger frightened me. Now I yell back.

  “Here’s the envelope from Mama.” I give Papa the envelope filled with cash.

  “Grazie.” Papa takes the money to the register and places the bills neatly under the metal catch. “How’s my girl?” he asks in a serious tone.

  “Papa, why do you worry about me?” I ask, but I know the answer. He worries about everything, his family, his business, and the world that is changing too fast for him. Since the war, business has doubled, his daughter has become a career girl, and his sons have developed big mouths and lots of opinions.

  “I can’t help it.” Papa shrugs and dumps the coins into the register. “I want you to be happy.”

  “Papa. I am happy,” I promise him.

  Everything about my father exudes warmth and humor; the room fills when he enters. Papa has curly salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes. I’m the only one of his children who inherited his blue eyes, and this is one of the many things that seem to bind us in a special way. When Papa laughs, which is often, his eyes crinkle shut. He has broad shoulders and a thick waist like a dockworker’s, but his hands are like a musician’s, with long, tapered fingers.

  “What’s happiness, anyway, Pop?” I throw my arms around him and give him a big hug. On my way out, I shout toward the stockroom, “Now I have to go to work. Lots of sewing to do!” and to my father, “See you later, Pop.”

  When I’m out on the sidewalk, I hear Papa holler, “Lucia di Lammermoor!” I turn back. “Be careful!” he calls after me.

  I throw him a kiss and walk to the bus stop.

  Every morning when I hop off the bus at Thirty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue, I am still awed by the fact that I have a job at the best department store in New York City. I never take it for granted. My favorite moment is when the passengers exiting the Thirty-fourth Street subway station merge with the crowd on the sidewalk and, like a great wave, we walk up a hilly portion of the street that suddenly dips down and reveals B. Altman & Company, so grand it covers an entire city block.

  When the store opened at this location in 1906, it was called the Palace of Trade, and the name still fits. On Fifth Avenue, where most of the buildings stand out as architectural wonders, this one is special. The style is Italian Renaissance, six sprawling floors with twenty-foot ceilings, immense and spectacular. The majestic storefront has a series of colonnades made of French limestone that reach up to the second floor. Over each giant window is a half-shell awning of smoky green glass; from the opposite corner they look like a series of elegant Tiffany lamp shades.

  The interior is filled with the highest-quality goods from every corner of the world, each item carefully selected and displayed to fill the customer with longing, just like Papa’s store. Each time I walk through the main entrance, and it’s been this way every day of my working life, I feel a rush of excitement followed by a jolt of self-confidence. I look up at the twinkling chandeliers, inhale the fine perfumes—sweet notes of delicate freesia, woodsy musk, and fresh roses—and believe anything is possible.

  I still can’t believe that this is where I work, that every second Friday I receive a paycheck printed on pale blue paper with my name typed neatly in black. PAY TO THE ORDER OF: MISS LUCIA SARTORI. The bottom right corner bears the official stamp of R. Prescott, Vice President, and in the bottom left corner, “Custom Department” is neatly handwritten.

  I never take the elevators to our offices on the third floor. I prefer the escalators, because I don’t want to miss a single display. They’re changed monthly by the window dressers, who are renowned for their realistic tableaus. Last winter they built an ice-skating pond with mirrors on the floor, surrounded by evergreen trees with clumps of artificial snow, and set out mannequins skating à deux with glass stars swinging over their heads. The male mannequin wore a navy-blue and white Nordic wool sweater. The display was so popular that every daughter in New York City, including me, bought her father that sweater for Christmas.

  As I pass the display cases, deep glass boxes lined in velvet and trimmed in polished cherry wood, I do a quick inventory of new arrivals. The latest Austrian crystal brooches, sleek leather gloves from Spain, and beaded evening bags twinkle under the soft white lights. Everywhere you look, a treasure. Thank heaven for layaway!

  My route never changes. Each morning I walk across the main floor through Men’s Furnishings, past Custom Shirts, through the Silk Department, past the Camera Department, around Engraving and Stationery to the escalator, up to the second floor, through Infants’ and Children’s to Misses’ Wearing Apparel, and then up to the third floor, through Furs, Stoles, and Coats. By now I’ve removed my gloves, and I touch the sumptuous mink and fox coats as I pass. The luxurious sable! Regal ermine! Chic leopard! A girl could get lost in here forever and never tire of the glamour.

  By the time I push through the double doors marked SPECIAL ORDER DEPARTMENT FOR DRESSMAKING AND TAILORING into the Hub, a large workroom with a long cutting table, drawing boards, sewing machines, and steam presses, I’m ready to work. My boss and chief designer, Delmarr (no last name, how avant-garde!), pours himself a cup of coffee from a black-and-white-checked herringbone thermos. He looks as though he posed for the “Seen Around Town” article in the Herald, in his gray tweed jacket with the black suede elbow patches and black cashmere slacks. “Half the battle is looking the part,” Delmarr has told us. He is tall and lean, with feet so large that he has his tasseled suede loafers custom-made. “Navy subs,” he calls them. “A good cobbler is a genius. Making a stylish and comfortable pair of shoes takes artistry and architecture.”

  Delmarr has an open face with wide cheekbones, deep dimples, and a strong chin. It’s a handsome face, but there is substance and wisdom in his intelligent eyes and graying temples. Delmarr is a “sophisticate,” my best friend, Ruth, would say. When he isn’t working long hour
s, he’s out on the town with one of a long line of society girls. Delmarr is the quintessential ladies’ man, tall and handsome, with no intention of ever settling down. Now and then his name shows up in the society pages. Delmarr knows everybody, it seems. When a new client walks in for a consultation, he doesn’t rest until he figures out some connection to her. And when it comes to design, he knows what will be fashionable before the pack. Delmarr has a talent for the moment.

  “Hey, kid,” he says now with a big grin. “What’s the word from Greenwich Village?” He pulls a silver case from his jacket pocket, removes a cigarette, and lights it.

  “Well, it’s the first week of October, so the apples are in.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. Nobody laughs like Delmarr; it’s from the gut. “With news like that, we might as well be in Ohio. What’s next? A hayride through Central Park?”

  “You never know.”

  “So, your father will spend the day stacking apples into a pyramid, crafting a perfect display. Sometime I’d like to watch him,” Delmarr says sincerely. “You know that’s a talent. Presentation. That’s a real talent.”

  “I told you, I come from artistic farmers.” I steal a cup of coffee from Delmarr’s thermos and head over to my desk.

  Ruth Kaspian, my fellow seamstress, looks up from her drawing table. “What’s with the navy blue? It’s positively funereal. Somebody die?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “It’s so severe. You’re too pretty for severe. The dress has got to go.”

  “It was a gift.”

  “Give it back.” Ruth takes a stub of pink chalk and gently rubs it along the hem of the dress she has drawn.

  “I can’t. It came from family. My future mother-in-law.”

  “Ick.” Ruth makes a face, slides off her stool, and stretches. She is tiny; compact, really, maybe five foot one. We’re both twenty-five, but she could pass for much younger. She has beautiful dark curls that frame her face in neat ruffles. Her pale skin and brown eyes are offset by her bright red lipstick. “I get it. You’re wearing it to impress Mrs. DeMartino. The old soft soap. Let me know if it works. My future mother-in-law gave me an umbrella. Maybe I should open it indoors and scare the devil out of her. She’s superstitious, you know. Russian.”