Kiss Carlo

  Nicky stood on the steps of The Master at 310 Riverside Drive, the tallest building on the street, at twenty-seven floors. He was already nervous about meeting the possible players in his bright future and auditioning for them, and the imposing building, built with bricks in shades of every color from purple to rose to indigo, somehow made his anxiety worse.

  A white-gloved doorman opened the brass-plated door, nodding at Nicky. He entered the lobby, an Art Deco masterpiece, elegantly polished in black and silver. Nicky came prepared; he’d completed his paperwork at home, including a résumé for the directors of the theater, a copy of his honorable discharge, his approved application for education entitlement under the GI Bill, his birth certificate, and a document stating that he had not exercised his education option prior to the Abbe Theater course work. Most importantly, he had revisited Twelfth Night, and prepared a monologue.

  The doorman directed Nicky to the theater off the main lobby. Nicky poked his head inside, and immediately fell in love with the midnight blue jewel box. The stage floor was painted in black lacquer, reflecting a gold velvet stage curtain. The three-hundred-seat house was modern, and if Nicky had to describe it, he would have called it a Broadway house, north of the grid. He was itching to get on that stage. He could see himself there, feel the floorboards beneath his feet, and the beam of the follow spot on his face.

  He checked his watch, on time for his appointment, went up the stairs to the second floor, and rang the bell marked Abbe Theater School. Removing the wool cap he wore when he drove the cab, he folded it in half like a slice of pizza. He took a seat in the hallway on the bench.

  Soon a young woman in dungarees and a white blouse emerged from the door of the studio. “Are you Nick Castone?”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. O’Byrne will see you now.”

  Robert F. O’Byrne had been in the movies in Hollywood. Nicky was nervous about meeting him, but he pulled himself together, knowing confidence was at least thirty percent of any performance. Perhaps he was off on the percentage. Hadn’t Sam Borelli taught him about confidence? Suddenly he had no memory; Nicky’s anxiety took over.

  When the lanky, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties opened the door to pick up a file from the secretary’s desk, he smiled and looked at Nicky. “Are you an actor?”

  “Does one run of Twelfth Night count?”

  “Depends on the scene. Depends on you. Come in.”

  Nicky followed Robert into a room with a table and chair at one end. Robert grabbed a folding chair from a small utility closet and handed it to Nicky.

  “I saw you in the movies, sir,” Nicky offered.

  Robert smiled. “You did?”

  “My cousin Rick took me.” Nicky didn’t know why or where they came from, but his eyes filled with tears. “He got killed in the war. He’s the only one in my family that did. We all went too. There were seven of us altogether, seven boys. Three brothers in my Uncle Dom’s family. Three in my Uncle Mike’s. I’m an only child. Orphan actually. Uncle Dom and Aunt Jo took me in. Ricky was the one who loved the show. Every Saturday, cartoon, newsreel, double feature. He sat through it twice. I know he’d be happy that I was here. That I was going to be an actor.”

  Robert sat down at the table and indicated that Nicky should sit across from him.

  Nicky pulled all his paperwork out of his pockets and put it on the table. “I would have been here sooner, but I had to wait for your spring semester to commence.”

  Robert looked down at the pile. “You can give this to Miss Fletcher when we’re done,” he said kindly. “She handles the paperwork.”

  * * *

  Miss Fletcher closed the shades on the windows of the outer office. She knocked on the studio door, pushing it open enough to peek in. “Mrs. O’Byrne said to remind you you have theater tickets tonight.”

  “That’s right. Thanks, Kathy. Here’s what we’ve got.” Robert turned to Nicky. “You can enroll in our first-year classes.”

  “I’m in?”

  “You’re in.” Robert grinned.

  Nicky exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath the entire time that night, but perhaps even longer, since the day he found the posting at the Drama Book Shop. “Thank you.”

  “You show a lot of promise, Nick.”

  “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “We need an actor to read during auditions. You would sit in and read lines with the actor up for the part. Would you like to do that?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.”

  “We can’t pay a lot.”

  “I drive a cab.”

  “How many hours a week?”

  “As many as sixty.”

  “You have to drive those hours to make ends meet, don’t you?”

  Nicky nodded. “More and more all the time, sir.”

  “What else can you do?”

  “Anything.”

  “It’s important for you to be around here as many hours of the day as possible. We encourage the students to sit in on scene classes, as many as you can, in addition to your own course work. We’re open six days a week.”

  “I’d be here seven if I could.”

  Robert leaned back in his chair. “We just lost our janitor in the building.”

  “I could clean up around here for you.”

  “I’ll talk to the owner. He asked me if I knew anyone. Unless you love driving a cab.”

  “I can take it or leave it.”

  “Call me tomorrow, and I’ll have an answer for you. And it would be great if you could come in on Wednesday. We’re holding auditions. You’ll meet my wife, Gloria. She’s the director of the play. And the truth is, in our partnership, she’s the one with the talent.”

  Nicky shook Robert’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You did a fine job, Nick. Thank you.”

  Nicky turned to leave the office. “Mr. O’Byrne?”

  “Please call me Robert.”

  “I don’t know what happened to me before. You know, when I came in. I haven’t thought about my cousin in the longest time.”

  “Maybe you needed him, and he entered your consciousness at the right moment.”

  Nicky left the office and went down the stairs and out into the night. His pockets were lighter, now that he’d left all the documents on the secretary’s desk, or maybe he was just lighter because he was sailing.

  It was a cold April evening that had poured rain while Nicky was inside. All that was left of it was the glassy hue on the sidewalks and the cold wind that follows a spring storm. He put on his cap and pulled up his collar as he walked to the subway station. He was filled to the brim with the possibilities of his own potential. He didn’t know why he had been led to the Abbe Theater School, but he had never felt such a warmth and connection to a place in his life—well, not since Borelli’s. Nicky knew he wasn’t going to do anything less than his best as long as they’d have him. He would not squander this magnificent piece of luck.

  * * *

  The water in the pan on the hot plate boiled, making bubbles of white foam. Nicky added spaghetti to the water, careful to stir it thoroughly so the noodles wouldn’t clump. On the other burner, he placed a small pan. He drizzled olive oil until it danced in drops in the heat. He added garlic, picking up the pan and shaking it to cover the cloves in the oil. He drained the spaghetti, threw it in a bowl, and put a pat of butter on the hot strands. He cracked a fresh egg into the olive oil and garlic, cooked it sunny side up, and then threw the egg onto the spaghetti, tossing it thoroughly, until the strands were glazed golden yellow. After sprinkling cheese on the spaghetti, he poured himself a glass of homemade wine from Uncle Dom’s basement vintage and sat down at his table in his apartment to read the paper.

  When he’d finished his meal, he felt satisfied. He lay on his bed and picked his leather address book off the nightstand. He had to share the news of the Abbe Theater School with someone who would understand the importance of it. It’s not every day a m
an’s life changes for the better. He flipped to the B’s and found Calla Borelli’s phone number.

  He dialed her house, picturing the old gray clapboard on Ellsworth. He wondered if she had fixed the warped planks on the front porch or had the concrete repoured on the front walk. Probably not; Calla wasn’t a homebody. Nicky dialed the number. He took another sip of Uncle Dom’s wine.

  An operator came on the line. “I’m sorry, that line is no longer in service.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been disconnected.”

  “For how long?”

  “The phone company does not release private information.”

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  “No, sir. I cannot.”

  “Thank you.” Now it was Nicky who felt disconnected. He flipped through the book and called the theater box office.

  “Borelli’s.” From the flat greeting, Nicky knew it was Rosa DeNero on the line.

  “Rosa, it’s Nicky. Nicky Castone.”

  “Who?”

  “Nicky Castone. I used to work at the theater.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “A couple years ago?”

  “Yeah, I remember you. The actor that went to New York to make it. You were always busting my chops.”

  “That’s me. Is Calla Borelli there?”

  “I think she’s down in the dressing room.”

  “Could you ask her to come to the phone?”

  “I have to leave the booth.”

  “It’s important.

  Rosa sighed, and for the next three minutes, Nicky had enough time to beat himself up for being a bad friend. He wondered if Calla would even take his call.

  “Hi, Nicky,” Calla said breathlessly into the phone.

  Nicky couldn’t tell from the tone of her voice if she was happy to hear from him. “How are you?” He sat up straight and held the receiver close to his ear.

  “I’m doing well. How are you?”

  “I’m still in New York.”

  “Your aunt Jo keeps me informed, when I see her. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “Well, this time you’ll have to give her the news.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve been accepted at the Abbe Theater School. I’m going to study there and read with the actors when they audition.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Thanks. I knew you’d approve. Hey, I called your house. Your phone was disconnected.”

  “We sold it.”

  “You loved that house.”

  “It was too much to keep up with.”

  “I understand. You’re talking to a guy who lives in one room. Besides, you’re a career girl. Do you really need a big house?”

  “Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. It’s gone.”

  “How’s it going at the theater?”

  “We’re working hard. Doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream right now.”

  “Great play.”

  “You know, my dad always said to direct what you’re feeling, and I’m feeling like I’m living in a very strange world.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Frank Arrigo got married.”

  Nicky sat up. “To you?”

  “Nope.”

  “His loss.”

  “You’ll never guess who he married.”

  “I don’t know. Faye Emerson from the television show.”

  “She’s already married.”

  “Forgive me. I don’t have a television set yet. I don’t know who is married and who isn’t.”

  “You only know pretty ladies who you don’t watch on television.”

  “Right.”

  “Frank married Peachy DePino.”

  “My Peachy?” Nicky was stunned.

  “She’s not yours anymore.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Big wedding at Palumbo’s. Somebody said Mario Lanza sang ‘Be My Love.’”

  “Pure corn. I hate that song.”

  “Me too.” Calla chuckled.

  “She got Mario Lanza?” Nicky was mystified.

  “Frank got Mario Lanza. Frank thinks big. He’s built her a big mansion in Ambler.”

  “Is that all?” Nicky felt peevish. Frank had even stolen the site of his personal epiphany as the place to reside with his former fiancée.

  “There will be more. Much more,” Calla assured him.

  “All of it could have been yours,” Nicky teased her.

  “The marker was too high.”

  “You’d have gotten used to it. You would have adjusted to the altitude.”

  “I doubt it. Hey. Maybe you should come home sometime and see the circus for yourself.”

  When Calla hung up the phone, she knew Nicky wouldn’t come home anytime soon—not for a visit, not to see the play, even if it was his favorite. He hadn’t come to any of the others since he moved away; why would this one be any different? Whatever he was doing in New York was so much more compelling than any production at Borelli’s—or at least, that’s how he made her feel. She wanted to tell Nicky that Peachy DePino had met Frank at the theater around the time Frank was trying to sell the building out from under her. But that might have hurt him, and she wouldn’t do that.

  Calla had kept the biggest news to herself. The theater was closing. She had run through the money that she had inherited when the house was sold, and the current slate of productions had not done better than break even for the company, despite their best efforts to promote them. Calla wasn’t sleeping, haunted by her own regrets.

  Nicky hung up the phone in New York. He felt odd. Calla seemed happy to hear from him, pleased about his news, but distant. Maybe she was upset about losing Frank. He couldn’t figure out why. Arrigo was nothing more than a big hunk of cheese, and everyone knows cheese is only an accompaniment, not the meal. He was surprised that Peachy had married him, but on the surface of things, they did seem an awful lot alike. Nicky was happy for her. After all, the acquisition of Peachy DePino’s long-term security by way of a proper marriage was another indulgence paid on the road to Nicky’s salvation—or, as they say at the Steinway & Sons factory, another piano off his back.

  11

  At twilight the blossoms on the trees along Riverside Drive swayed like marabou feathers in the breeze. The windows of the Abbe Theater studio were propped open, as Nicky had just washed them. He could hear the muffled cheers and whistles from the fans watching a softball game in Riverside Park. The field lights pulled on and glowed in the trees like white moons as he dusted the window seats. When he was finished with that task, he collected the sides left behind by the actors who had come through to audition for the summer production, Of Mice and Men.

  The last student had signed out of the studio, leaving Nicky free to give the large studio, waiting area, and office a good mopping and dusting. He’d assembled the buckets, mops, and rags when his boss, Gloria Monty, came out of the studio, stuffing her purse with a script and her notes, which spilled out of a folder in bits and pieces like confetti.

  Gloria was a high-energy dynamo, slim, sleek, and small, built like a cigarette. She cursed and crammed the bits of paper inside before snapping the handbag shut. “Sorry you had to hear that.” She laughed.

  Her dark brown eyes were expressive; her matching hair was chopped into a bob. She had college-girl style, preferring trim pencil skirts, sweaters, and low-heeled shoes to day dresses. Though she wore simple wool swing coats, her hats were works of art. Gloria would use typewriter ribbon on the crown, or line the brim with a row of cocktail picks. There was a swizzle stick twist of the avant-garde Elsa Schiaparelli in her otherwise traditional style.

  Nicky noticed that the best directors, including Gloria, had a distinctive style. Sam Borelli wore the same tweed jacket with a tan-and-black weave to every rehearsal, but his neckties expressed a flair. Sewn by hand by Vincenza, they were made of bright silks in shades of turquoise, magenta, and purple. Calla certainly had a knack for fashion. The directors who taugh
t at the Abbe School were original too. The professor who taught character study wore silk tunics and Nehru jackets.

  Nicky pumped the mop into the fresh soapy water.

  “Now the prince turns into Cinderella,” Gloria joked.

  “As long as I’m the prince once in a while, I’m fine with being Cinderella, or even her understudy.” Nick grinned.

  “You’re not the only person around here pulling two shifts. I have to go home and make Robert dinner.”

  “You’re a good wife.”

  “I’m a better director.”

  Gloria sat down on the top of the receptionist desk in her hat and coat and lifted her feet off the floor so Nicky could mop under them. “How long have you been an actor?”

  “I worked at a theater in Philadelphia before I moved here. I did a little of everything.”

  “That’s why you do anything we ask around here.”

  “I consider this church. I’m here to serve.”

  “You’re very generous. And you’re a natural.

  “I can’t take any credit. I learned everything at that Shakespeare company.”

  “Oh. That’s why you know how to read with actors. And that’s how you know the classics.”

  “I appreciate when you let me sit in during auditions.”

  “You’re the first person to ever thank me for that job. Most actors hate doing it. It’s a chore.”

  “Not to me. The words change colors every time a different actor interprets them.”

  “You’re nimble with a love scene. A lot of practice?”

  “Just enough to be grateful.”

  “You don’t have a nice girl?”

  “I was engaged for seven years.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t love her enough.” Nicky wrung out the mop and pushed the pail off to the side.

  “And then you heard the siren’s call of the American theater.”

  “I always leave that part out,” Nicky admitted.

  “I’m working on something I think you’d be right for.”

  “A play?”

  “Not exactly. It’s a teleplay.”

  “Television?”

  “I’m directing something new in Midtown. It’s a saga. We film it every day. They’re very popular. We tape them, like a movie, but they go on the air live like the theater.”