‘How valuable, Arturo?’
‘It looked plenty valuable, Father. I’m awfully sorry, Father. I’ll never steal again as long as I live.’
‘Tell you what, Arturo,’ the priest said. ‘I’ll give you absolution if you’ll promise to go to your mother and tell her you stole the cameo. Tell her just as you’ve told me. If she prizes it, and wants it back, you’ve got to promise me you’ll get it from the girl, and return it to your mother. Now if you can’t do that, you’ve got to promise me you’ll buy your mother another one. Isn’t that fair, Arturo? I think God’ll agree that you’re getting a square deal.’
‘I’ll get it back. I’ll try.’
He bowed his head while the priest mumbled the Latin of absolution. That was all. Easy as pie. He left the confessional and knelt in the church, his hands pressed over his heart. It thumped serenely. He was saved. It was a swell world after all. For a long time he knelt, reveling in the sweetness of escape. They were pals, he and God, and God was a good sport. But he took no chances. For two hours, until the clock struck eight, he prayed every prayer he knew. Everything was coming out fine. The priest’s advice was a cinch. Tonight after the banquet he would tell his mother the truth – that he had stolen her cameo and given it to Rosa. She would protest at first. But not for long. He knew his mother, and how to get things out of her.
He crossed the schoolyard and climbed the stairs to the auditorium. In the hall the first person he saw was Rosa. She walked directly to him.
‘I want to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Sure, Rosa.’
He followed her downstairs, fearful that something awful was about to happen. At the bottom of the stairs she waited for him to open the door, her jaw set, her camel’s hair coat wrapped tightly around her.
‘I’m sure hungry,’ he said.
‘Are you?’ Her voice was cold, supercilious.
They stood on the stairs outside the door, at the edge of the concrete platform. She held out her hand.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘I don’t want this.’
It was the cameo.
‘I can’t accept stolen property,’ she said. ‘My mother says you probably stole this.’
‘I didn’t!’ he lied. ‘I did not!’
‘Take it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it.’
He put it in his pocket. Without a word she turned to enter the building.
‘But Rosa!’
At the door she turned around and smiled sweetly.
‘You shouldn’t steal, Arturo.’
‘I didn’t steal!’ He sprang at her, dragged her out of the doorway and pushed her. She backed to the edge of the platform and toppled into the snow, after swaying and waving her arms in a futile effort to get her balance. As she landed her mouth opened wide and let out a scream.
‘I’m not a thief,’ he said looking down at her.
He jumped from the platform to the sidewalk and hurried away as fast as he could. At the corner he looked at the cameo for a moment, and then tossed it with all his might over the roof of the two-storey house bordering the street. Then he walked on again. To hell with the altar boy banquet. He wasn’t hungry anyway.
Chapter Seven
Christmas Eve. Svevo Bandini was coming home, new shoes on his feet, defiance in his jaw, guilt in his heart. Fine shoes, Bandini; where’d you get them? None of your business. He had money in his pocket. His fist squeezed it. Where’d you get that money, Bandini? Playing poker. I’ve been playing it for ten days.
Indeed!
But that was his story, and if his wife didn’t believe, what of it? His black shoes smashed the snow, the sharp new heels chopping it.
They were expecting him: somehow they knew he would arrive. The very house had a feeling for it. Things were in order. Maria by the window spoke her rosary very fast, as though there was so little time: a few more prayers before he arrived.
Merry Christmas. The boys had opened their gifts. They each had one gift. Pajamas from Grandma Toscana. They sat around in their pajamas – waiting. For what? The suspense was good: something was going to happen. Pajamas of blue and green. They had put them on because there was nothing else to do. But something was going to happen. In the silence of waiting it was wonderful to think that Papa was coming home, and not speak of it.
Federico had to spoil it.
‘I bet Papa’s coming home tonight.’
A break in the spell. It was a private thought belonging to each. Silence. Federico regretted his words and fell to wondering why they had not answered.
A footstep on the porch. All the men and women on earth could have mounted that step, yet none would have made a sound like that. They looked at Maria. She held her breath, hurrying through one more prayer. The door opened and he came inside. He closed the door carefully, as though his whole life had been spent in the exact science of closing doors.
‘Hello.’
He was no boy caught stealing marbles, nor a dog punished for tearing up a shoe. This was Svevo Bandini, a full-grown man with a wife and three sons.
‘Where’s Mamma?’ he said, looking right at her, like a drunken man who wanted to prove he could ask a serious question. Over in the corner he saw her, exactly where he knew she was, for he had been frightened by her silhouette from the street.
‘Ah, there she is.’
I hate you, she thought. With my fingers I want to tear out your eyes and blind you. You are a beast, you have hurt me and I shall not rest until I have hurt you.
Papa with new shoes. They squeaked with his step as though tiny mice ran around in them. He crossed the room to the bathroom. Strange sound – old Papa home again.
I hope you die. You will never touch me again. I hate you, God what have you done to me, my husband, I hate you so.
He came back and stood in the middle of the room, his back to his wife. From his pocket he extracted the money. And to his sons he said, ‘Suppose we all go downtown before the stores close, you and me and Mamma, all of us, and go down and buy some Christmas presents for everybody.’
‘I want a bicycle!’ from Federico.
‘Sure. You get a bicycle!’
Arturo didn’t know what he wanted, nor did August. The evil he had done twisted inside Bandini, but he smiled and said they would find something for all. A big Christmas. The biggest of all.
I can see that other woman in his arms, I can smell her in his clothes, her lips have roamed his face, her hands have explored his chest. He disgusts me, and I want him hurt to death.
‘And what’ll we get Mamma?’
He turned around and faced her, his eyes on the money as he unrolled the bills.
‘Look at all the money! Better give it all to Mamma, huh? All the money Papa won playing cards. Pretty good card-player, Papa.’
He raised his eyes and looked at her, she with her hands gripped in the sides of the chair, as though ready to spring at him, and he realized he was afraid of her, and he smiled not in amusement but fear, the evil he had done weakening his courage. Fan-wise he held the money out: there were fives and tens, a hundred even, and like a condemned man going to his punishment he kept the silly smile on his lips as he bent over and made to hand her the bills, trying to think of the old words, their words, his and hers, their language. She clung to the chair in horror forcing herself not to shrink back from the serpent of guilt that wound itself into the ghastly figure of his face. Closer than ever he bent, only inches