«You’ll never be a gentleman,» said the proprietor. «Go on, get your things and get out of here. Go home and sleep!» He turned to the lieutenant with a significant look, as if to say—this is your job, get him out of here!
Then he took us by the arm and led us into the other room. The man and woman sitting opposite us followed. «I’ll get rid of those bums in a minute,» he said, ushering us to our seats. «I’m very sorry, Mr. Miller. That’s what I have to put with because of this damned Prohibition law. In Italy we don’t have that sort of thing. Everybody mind his own business… What will you have to drink? Wait, I bring you something good….»
The room he had brought us to was the private banquet room of a group of artists—theatre people mostly, though there was a sprinkling of musicians, sculptors and painters. One of the group came up to us and, after introducing himself, presented us to the other members. They seemed pleased to have us in their midst. We were soon induced to leave our table and join the group at the big table which was loaded with carafes, seltzer bottles, cheeses, pastries, coffee pots and what not.
The proprietor came back beaming. «It’s better in here, no?» he said. He had two liqueur bottles in his arms. «Why you don’t play some music?» he said, seating himself at the table. «Arturo, get your guitar… go on, play something! Maybe the lady will sing for you.»
Soon we were all singing—Italian, German, French, Russian songs. The idiot brother, the chef, came in with a platter of cold cuts and fruit and nuts. He moved about the room unsteadily, a tipsy bear, grunting, squealing, laughing to himself. He hadn’t an ounce of gray matter in his bean, but he was a wonderful cook. I don’t think he ever went for a walk. His whole life was spent in the kitchen. He handled foodstuffs only—never money. What did he need money for? You couldn’t cook with money. That was his brother’s job, juggling the money. He kept track of what people ate and drank—he didn’t care what his brother charged for it. «Was it good?» that’s all he cared to know. As to what they had had to eat he had only a rough, hazy idea. It was easy to cheat him, if you had a mind to do so. But no one ever did. It was easier to say, «I have no money… I’ll pay you next time.» «Sure, next time!» he would answer, without the slightest trace of fear or worry in his greasy countenance. «Next time you bring your friend too, hah?» And then he’d give you a clap on the back with his hairy paw—such a resounding thwack that your bones shook like dice. Such a griffin he was, and his wife a tiny, frail little thing with big, trusting eyes, a creature who made no sound, who talked and listened with big dolorous eyes.
Louis was his name, and it fitted him perfectly. Fat Louis! And his brother’s name was Joe—Joe Sabbatini. Joe treated his imbecilic brother much as a stable-boy would treat his favorite horse. He patted him affectionately when he wanted him to conjure up an especially good dish for a patron. And Louis would respond with a grunt or a neigh, just as pleased as would be a sensitive mare if you stroked its silky rump. He even acted a little coquettish, as though his brother’s touch had unlocked some hidden girlish instinct in him. For all his bearish strength one never thought of Louis’ sexual propensities. He was neuter and epicene. If he had a prick it was to make water with, nothing more. One had the feeling, about Louis, that if it came to a pinch he would sacrifice his prick to make a few extra slices of saucisson. He would rather lose his prick than hand you a meagre hors-d’oeuvre.
«In Italy you eat better than this,» Joe was explaining to Mona and myself. «Better meat, better vegetables, better fruit. In Italy you have sunshine all day. And music! Everybody sing. Here everybody look sad. I don’t understand. Plenty money, plenty jobs, but everybody sad. This is no country to live in… only good to make money. Another two-three years and I go back to Italy. I take Louis with me and we open a little restaurant. Not for money… just have something to do. In Italy nobody make money. Everybody poor. But god-damn, Mr. Miller… excuse me… we have good time! Plenty beautiful women… plenty! You lucky to have such a beautiful wife. She like Italy, your wife. Italians very good people. Everybody treat you right. Everybody make friends rightaway…»
It was in bed that night that we began to talk about Europe. «We’ve got to go to Europe,» Mona was saying.
«Yeah, but how?»
«I don’t know, Val, but we’ll find a way.»
«Do you realize how much money it takes to go to Europe?»
«That doesn’t matter. If we want to go we’ll raise the money somehow…»
We were lying flat on our backs, hands clasped behind our heads, looking straight up into the darkness—and voyaging like mad. I had boarded the Orient Express for Baghdad. It was a familiar journey to me because I had read about this trip in one of Dos Passo’s books. Vienna, Budapest, Sofia, Belgrade, Athens, Constantinople… Perhaps if we got that far we might also get to Timbuctoo. I knew a lot about Timbuctoo also—from books. Mustn’t forget Taormina! And that cemetery in Stamboul which Pierre Loti had written about. And Jerusalem…
«What are you thinking about now?» I asked, nudging her gently.
«I was visiting my folks in Roumanian «In Roumania? Whereabouts in Roumania?» «I don’t know exactly. Somewhere in the Carpathian mountains.»
«I had a messenger once, a crazy Dutchman, who used to write me long letters from the Carpathian mountains. He was staying at the palace of the Queen…»
«Wouldn’t you like to go to Africa too—Morocco, Algeria, Egypt?»
«That’s just what I was dreaming about a moment ago.»
«I’ve always wanted to go into the desert… and get lost there.»
«That’s funny, so have I. I’m crazy about the desert.»
Silence. Lost in the desert-Somebody is talking to me. We’ve been having a long conversation. And I’m not in the desert any more but on Sixth Avenue under an elevated station.
My friend Ulric is placing his hand on my shoulder and smiling at me reassuringly. He is repeating what he said a moment ago—that I will be happy in Europe. He talks again about Mt. Aetna, about grapes, about leisure, idleness, good food, sunshine. He drops a seed in me.
Sixteen years later on a Sunday morning, accompanied by a native of the Argentine and a French whore from Montmartre, I am strolling leisurely through a cathedral in Naples. I feel as though I have at least seen a house of worship that I would enjoy praying in. It belongs not to God or the Pope, but to the Italian people. It’s a huge, barn-like place, fitted out in the worst taste, with all the trappings dear to the Catholic heart. There is plenty of floor space, empty floor space, I mean. People sail in through the various portals and walk about with the utmost freedom. They give the impression of being on a holiday. Children gambol about like lambs, some with little nose-gays in their hand. People walk up to one another and exchange greetings, quite as if they were in the street. Along the walls are statues of the martyrs in various postures; they reek of suffering. I have a strong desire to run my hand over the cold marble, as if to urge them not to suffer too much, it’s indecent. As I approach one of the statues I notice out of the corner of my eye a woman all in black kneeling before a sacred object. She is the image of piety. But I can’t help noticing that she is also the possessor of an exquisite ass, a musical ass, I might say. (The ass tells you everything about a woman, her character, her temperament, whether she is sanguine, morbid, gay or fickle, whether she is responsive or unresponsive, whether she is maternal or pleasure-loving, whether she is truthful or lying by nature.)
I was interested in that ass, as well as the piety in which it was smothered. I looked at it so intently that finally the owner of it turned round, her hands still raised in prayer, her lips moving as if she were chewing oats in her sleep. She gave me a look of reproach, blushed deeply, then turned her gaze back to the object of adoration, which I now observed was one of the saints, a dejected crippled martyr who seemed to be climbing up a hill with a broken back.
I respectfully moved away in search of my companions. The activity of the throng reminded me of the lobby of the Hotel Astor—and of the canvases of Uccello (that fascinating world of perspective!). It reminded me also of the Caledonian market, London, with its vast clutter of gimcrackery. It was beginning to remind me of a lot of things, of everything, in fact, but the house of worship which it was. I half expected to see Malvolio or Mercutio enter in full tights. I saw one man, obviously a barber, who reminded me vividly of Werner Krause in Othello. I recognized an organ grinder from New York whom I had once tracked to his lair behind the City
