The Boy Who Granted Dreams

  “Hey, close that. Otherwise da cold comes in an’ it fucks up my digestion.”

  “I was just looking at something,” said Christmas.

  “What?” said Sal, getting up and pushing him aside to close the window.

  “See that?”

  Sal leaned out. He gave a grunt of admiration. “Cadillac Series 314,” he said; “V-8.”

  “Pretty nice car,” said Christmas.

  “Pisser, sometimes I think ya constipated in da head. That car’s a jool. A real jool.”

  “I wondered who it belonged to,” said Christmas, slipping the tiny package into Sal’s pants pocket. “I guess it belongs to the guy who’s got the keys to it.” He pretended to search through his pockets. “No, it’s not mine,” he said. “How about you, Mamma? Have you got the key to that Caddy in your apron pocket?”

  “You shouldn’t oughta drink, pisser,” Sal laughed. “Why would ya think ya mother …” he stopped, looking serious. He looked at Christmas who was smiling. And Cetta was smiling, too. Then he looked down at the street with a puzzled expression. He reached into his pocket, found the little package, opened it in silence, and dangled the key in front of his eyes. He began shaking his head, pressing his lips together and puffing through his nose; his eyes red and brows joined in a frown, shaking a large black finger at them, not saying a single word. He looked down at the Cadillac in the street again. He turned to look at Cetta and Christmas, who were watching him while they embraced. He breathed like a bull, one, two huge breaths, swelling his chest. He clenched his hands.

  Then suddenly he banged his fist violently on a little table with a vase on it. One of the table legs broke off. The vase fell to the floor and shattered. “What the fuck got inta ya? You got sawdust in the head where ya spose t’ have brains?” he yelled, kicking the table and the shards of the vase. “A Cadillac Series 314! Now I gotta rent me a garage so’s it don’t get ruint!” He stamped out of the house, banging the door so hard that a framed cross-stitch motto saying Pace e Bene crashed to the floor.

  “Happy New Year, Mr. Tropea,” came a voice from the ground floor.

  “Get fucked!” Sal roared from the stairs.

  “What’s the matter with him, Mamma?” Christmas asked.

  Cetta smiled at him. “You touch his heart,” she said. Then she looked out at the street.

  From the window of his house Zip saw a big tall man come up to the Cadillac. First he looked at the hood for a second, he turned back, and checked the trunk. The man gave a kick to one of the tire rims, then immediately bent down, pulled out a handkerchief, and polished the rim where he’d kicked it.

  Zip’s father came up behind his son and put a hand on his neck. Zip liked to feel his father’s big warm hand there. It made him feel safe.

  “Nice car, eh, Albert?” said the father.

  The man down in the street put the key in the lock and opened the door. He stayed there, peering into the car without getting in.

  Zip’s father flung the window wide open and leaned out. “Great car, Mr. Tropea!” he shouted.

  The man by the car looked up, but he didn’t say anything. He has a stupid look on his face, Zip thought. Then the man climbed cautiously into the car. He started it, then revved the motor several times, exaggeratedly.

  “Pa, I decided I wanna be called Zip.”

  “Zip? What kinda name is that?”

  The man in the Cadillac started honking the horn over and over. He got out of the car and looked up, waving his arms at the building across from Zip’s. “What the hell are ya waitin’ for? Holy shit! At least let’s go for a ride!” he yelled.

  “Did ya know I got my own gang, Pa?” said Zip.

  “A gang, huh?” The father cuffed him gently. “When are ya gonna get over makin’ up stories?” he said, and looked across at the window across the street. “See him?” he said, pointing to an elegant young man in black, who was laughing as he stood next to a woman. “That’s Christmas Luminita. He’s one who made it outa here. He’s rich now.”

  Zip recognized the man who had told him to watch over the Cadillac. Christmas, that’s quite a name, he thought, smiling; and he stroked the ten dollar bill in his pocket.

  “And you think that guy got t’ be important like he is by makin’ up stupid stories?” said Zip’s father as he closed the window.

  The man in the Cadillac kept on honking the horn.

  69

  Manhattan, 1929

  Christmas shivered in the cold January night. He turned up the collar of his fucking cashmere coat and wrapped more of the white silk scarf around his neck. He stroked his hand against the worn slats of the bench in Central Park.

  Then he stood up.

  The Lincoln Limousine was waiting for him, double-parked. There where Fred, old Saul Isaacson’s driver, used to wait for Ruth.

  Christmas got in the car. “Let’s go,” he said.

  The Lincoln moved off.

  Christmas unwound the scarf from his neck and smoothed down the collar of his overcoat. He looked out the window. New York City was glittering with lights. But the brightest one of all, at 214 West Forty-Second Street, was on the theater where more than a thousand light bulbs spelled out Diamond Dogs on the marquee.

  The Limousine stopped in a sea of people, kept at a distance by barriers and police. A supernumerary with a machine gun slung over his arm opened the door of the Lincoln. He wore a flashy suit, like a real gangster. Christmas grinned at him as he got out of the car. The actor covered the crowd with his gun. Eugene Fontaine, the producer, had thought of it. “The theater starts in the street,” he said. People in the crowd applauded. The photographers’ magnesium flash bulbs popped. Two other fake gangsters hustled Christmas through the crowd. At the entrance to the theater, a girl dressed as a whore welcomed Christmas with a long provocative glance. And then a shabbily dressed young boy with a grimy face pretended to stumble against him. When the kid moved away, he held up a pocket watch. People laughed and clapped again. Flashbulbs were still going off. Christmas came into the lobby. He shook dozens of hands, smiled at everyone, answered questions for journalists. Then he went backstage. He slipped through a rear exit into the alley next to the loading dock. Even from there he could hear voices from the street and from the theater.

  “Makes your head spin, doesn’t it?” someone said from behind him.

  Christmas turned to see who it was. He saw a shabbily dressed boy, his hands shiny with wax, smoking a cigarette. He was thin, with dark circles under his eyes.

  “I’m Irving Solomon,” said the boy. “I play–”

  “Joey ‘Sticky’ Fein, I know,” said Christmas.

  “Uh, actually …” said the boy, embarrassed, “I play Phil Schultz, also known as Waxy.”

  Christmas looked at him and smiled. “Sure,” he said.

  “There isn’t any … Joey ‘Sticky Fein’ in your play,” said the young actor.

  Christmas looked at the ground. Lost in memories. And then he looked directly at him. “Make sure Wax has some dignity,” he said. “He wasn’t just a traitor.”

  “‘ … wasn’t’?” said the boy.

  Christmas didn’t answer him. He looked at the young actor’s waxed hands, the dark makeup under his eyes. He smiled. “In the second act, when you come on in your hundred and fifty dollar suit, you should almost be dancing. Moving your weight around like a prizefighter … like this …” Christmas suddenly moved lightly and nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the way Joey had.

  “Solomon, what are you doing out there?” roared the stage manager, appearing at the door leading to the dressing rooms. “And quit smoking.”

  The young actor looked intensely into Christmas’ eyes. “So you really knew this guy?”

  “Go,” said Christmas, smiling. “Break a leg.”

  A few minutes later, the stage manager reappeared in the alley. “Mr. Luminita,” he told him, "you should come inside now, it’s almost time.”

  Christma
s nodded. Alone now, he looked up at the starless New York sky and then came backstage again. Beyond the curtain, he could hear the muffled buzz of the audience.

  “Break a leg,” he told the actors.

  The boy who was playing Joey was off by himself, lightly shifting his weight. Like a boxer.

  Christmas came out from behind the curtain and walked down into the audience. Applause. Christmas smiled, hunched over, and went to the back of the audience. He stood there, watching the people. In the first row he could see his mother with her black hair swept back and a deep blue dress, cut low. And beside her, sweating, and with scrubbed hands, Sal, squeezed into a brand new tuxedo. Slightly further on, he saw Cyril, “the richest negro in Harlem,” as he called himself, and his wife Rachel. Christmas had had to fight with the theater management who didn’t want people of color, as he called them, in the good seats. Cyril didn’t know any of this. Christmas saw Sister Bessie, showing off a ring with a gold dollar set in it. And then he smiled at Karl, who, having escorted his hardware magnate father and mother to their seats, was now confabulating with the managing directors of WNYC, undoubtedly talking about new programs. He waved at the technical staff from CKC who would be recording the play for a later radio broadcast. He looked affectionately at Santo, new store manager of Macy’s, sitting next to Carmelina whose belly was round with their first baby. He had to laugh when he saw Lepke, Gurrah, and Greenie in their dazzling silk suits seated halfway back. Seated all around them was everybody who was anybody in New York. The younger ones in tuxedos, the older ones in tails. Eugene Fontaine told him it was sold out for three weeks, before even a single review had been printed. Actors, journalists, rich people. Everyone.

  But standing there at the back of the audience, Christmas couldn’t feel completely happy. He closed his eyes. All his life rushed past. Swiftly. Unfinished.

  “House lights,” said the manager.

  The train was late. Ruth glanced anxiously at her watch. She couldn’t manage to stay in her seat. She pushed open the window and leaned out. The wind tangled her hair. She closed the window again. The elderly woman sitting across from her looked up and smiled. Ruth smiled tightly back at her.

  She didn’t have time. All at once she was out of time. She’d never make it.

  “We’ll get there,” said the old lady.

  “Yes,” sighed Ruth and sat down. Her head was bent as she tried to breathe normally and to stop her legs from trembling. She placed a hand at the center of her breast. Under the white blouse she could feel the shape of the red lacquered heart Christmas had given her five years before. The enamel was chipped now. She tried to hold it in her fingertips. But now she was standing again, opening the widow, looking out. The sooty air came violently into her lungs, her face.

  When she closed the window, the old lady laughed and put a gloved hand to her mouth. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, just look at you,” she said. She fumbled in her purse and shook out a linen handkerchief. “Come here, you restless girl.” She rose on unsteady legs and leaned over Ruth, wiping off her cheeks. “Put some makeup on, dear. You’re a mess.”

  Ruth stared at her without answering. She checked the time again. Then she reached up to the luggage rack and pulled down her little crocodile valise. She opened it and took out the green silk dress Clarence had given her and her small leather makeup kit. She rushed out of the compartment to the bathroom.

  She stopped at the door. She’d gone into a bathroom like that another time, five years ago, on a train that was traveling in the opposite direction. In one hand she’d been holding the red-lacquered heart and the other was clutching a pair of scissors.

  She pushed down the handle and went inside.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. That other time, her hair had been long and curly, and she’d just read Christmas’ lips as they said “I’ll find you.” That other time, she’d clipped off her dark ringlets and had bound her breasts tightly, so that she wouldn’t have to be a woman.

  She leaned over the washbasin and rinsed her face. She looked in the mirror again. The drops of water looked like tears. But she wasn’t weeping. Not this time.

  She unbuttoned her blouse, stepped out of her wool skirt and left it on the floor. She looked at her reflection, as she had that afternoon when she’d decided that she’d kiss the elfin boy from the Lower East Side. She opened the little leather pouch and, as on that earlier day, she put pale foundation and powder on her face. She lengthened her eyelids with a black pencil. And at last she applied a creamy layer of lipstick. The same red as the lacquer heart. She combed her hair. She looked in the mirror again. Now she knew she was a woman. She no longer needed to touch her own skin to know that.

  She put on the green dress, slowly, carefully.

  Once back in the compartment, she saw the old lady look her over. She didn’t say anything. But a faint smile came over her wrinkled face; slight as the far-off memory of something she’d never forgotten. When the train pulled in to Grand Central and she saw Ruth rushing to the exit, she softly murmured, “Good luck.”

  Ruth almost stumbled as she was getting off the moving train. She ran along the track, past the gaggle of passengers crowding through the station, and went as fast as she could toward the line of taxis.

  “New Amsterdam Theater,” she said, getting breathlessly into the car. “As quick as possible.”

  As the car threaded through the streets, Ruth didn’t even look around at the city where she’d been born and raised. The city that had been present at the violence she’d endured and the city where her unique, great, possible love had grown.

  When the taxi stopped, all she could see was the huge blazing sign that said Diamond Dogs.

  And people, so many people on the street. Ordinary people and others dressed as gangsters or prostitutes. She paid the cab and got out, and stood there, not moving, in front of the theater entrance. As if suddenly she had no more breath left in her. Or as if she needed to fix every single detail in her mind.

  Then she took her first step onto the red carpet. She didn’t think it looked like a long streak of blood. Her life no longer included spilled blood. It was red, like her lips. Red, like a lacquered heart.

  She came into the lobby. Attendants were drawing the velvet curtains shut. They were about to close the doors. She went up the few steps to the hall. Carrying her coat in one hand and the crocodile bag in the other.

  “Miss,” said a voice from behind her.

  Ruth didn’t stop.

  “Miss …”

  She didn’t know if she would find him. She didn’t know if he would still be waiting for her. She didn’t know what their future was going to be like. She didn’t even know if they were going to have a future.

  “Miss! Where are you going?”

  She only knew that she had to try. That she wasn’t going to die in a cage. Just for being afraid.

  “House lights,” said the manager.

  The audience was plunged into shadow. The people who were still standing sat down. They lowered their voices to a confused murmur of excitement.

  Attendants had closed the velvet curtains to the hall, to Christmas’ right and left. He was leaning back against the rear wall of the theater, standing, with his eyes shut. All his life was rushing behind his eyelids. Quickly. Still not complete.

  “You can’t go in,” said a voice from beyond the curtain to his left.

  Then a series of confused noises, like a struggle. A voice …?

  Christmas opened his eyes.

  The rustle of the curtain on his left being swept aside. Christmas turned, his head lowered.

  He saw an emerald green dress. It was silk.

  “Miss, you can’t go in there,” hissed a voice.

  He looked up. Ruth was so beautiful. Glowing. She was looking at him. Her deep emerald eyes shone with an intense light. She was holding her coat in one hand, a little suitcase in the other.

  Christmas’ mouth opened slightly. He was filled with a violent and unexpe
cted emotion that paralyzed him. Stupefaction. Perfection.

  He barely managed to raise his arm at the attendant who was holding Ruth back.

  The attendant stepped back.

  Ruth looked at Christmas. She didn’t move.

  “Dark,” said the manager.

  He heard the light switches click.

  The theater was plunged into darkness.

  The audience was quiet. A tense and vibrant silence.

  The attendant moved the curtain aside to go out. And in that blade of light Christmas saw Ruth’s hands opening almost simultaneously. The coat and the valise fell on the floor.

  Someone in the last row said, “Quiet!”

  Christmas smiled. In the silence he could hear Ruth’s footsteps approaching him.

  “I came back,” said Ruth.

  Christmas could smell her perfume.

  The stage curtain rose, rustling. Christmas reached out his hand and slipped it into Ruth’s.

  A voice sounded from the stage.

  “Good night, New York.”

  THE END

  Author’s Acknowledgement

  My thanks goes out to Minutillo Tutur who has watched over me and has guided me with a steady hand. To Maurizio Millenotti who has enabled me to use his art as a way to outfit my characters. To Peter Davies who, with his insatiable curiosity, has shown me his city as it once was.

  Thanks to Silvana Fuga, who has supported me throughout the years and treated me enthusiastically to her raw and fascinating criticism. Also, to Sole Ferlisi, for her stirring and passionate remarks.

  Additionally, I would like to thank Silvio Muccino, who has shown me how to procure the sun with which I have illuminated my characters. My thanks also goes to Vincenzo Salemme, who responded to my hopeless uncertainty with friendship and gratitude.

  Also thanks to my hero: David Bowie for his title: Diamond Dogs, which I have appropriated for my personal gang.

  Finally, to you Carla, I must give my thanks. Were it not for you I would have simply ceased to exist.