When they returned to the matter of Gino’s suit, the three together finally selected a beige gabardine that went well against his tanned face. Brancato was smiling now—a shy young fellow, Papa decided, very much like himself in the old days. He was filled with singing tenderness as he pondered the enigma of God’s ways, that such a splendid young man should come to enrich their lives. For Giovanni felt this was destiny. The young man was heaven-sent to marry his daughter.
He was pleased to see that Carlotta was touched by Gino. The magic was in her eyes. Gino Brancato talked a great deal now, as though he had not talked in a long time, and Carlotta listened and smiled.
Giovanni saw them leave together. Gino had asked Carlotta to have a soda with him. How long they were gone Giovanni could not recall but it was twilight when Carlotta came back to the shop. He left his bench, weary with the delicious fatigue that comes from satisfying work.
Walking home beside Carlotta, old Giovanni’s serenity was a shadowy thing he almost feared. With quiet joy he took Carlotta’s hand. Her own fingers twined in his.
“You like him, don’t you, Papa?”
“Long time ago, thirty-five year maybe, and I’ma like Gino. Strong. With big dream.”
And suddenly he began to cry.
Gino came to the shop regularly, always with a gift for Papa—the things the old man loved: round goat cheese, salami, wine. And gifts for Carlotta—small things in small packages: once a pair of earrings, another time a gold locket. And always flowers. Once he came straight to the shop early in the morning after fourteen hours on the road, a black stubble of beard covering his tired face and in his arms a pile of roses for Carlotta.
She never took the flowers home. Papa understood why and assumed that Gino did too. She set them in vases around the shop, their scent making the place cooler.
Usually he arrived a few minutes before Carlotta, wearing the beige gabardine Papa had tailored, looking for all the world like a suntanned banker from uptown. Then he and Carlotta would slip out the back way and get into his small car. They had to be circumspect because Donna Martino had many friends in the community. It saddened Giovanni. There was so little for them to do at that hour: visit a movie or sit in the park—anywhere to be alone, to talk and plan. Giovanni longed to invite the young man to his home and when he apologized for not doing so Gino smiled and told him that Carlotta had explained,
All through the summer things went on like that. Every day Giovanni saw the rising torment of Carlotta’s frustration at having to hide her love like a criminal thing. Saying goodbye to Gino, she would come into the shop, breathless and miserable. Three months of deceiving Donna Martino, of hurried clandestine meetings with Gino, were beginning to show.
Giovanni wanted to say words of encouragement but he scarcely knew how for he had never done it before. Besides, there was something formidable about Carlotta at those times, like Donna Martino, tense and explosive. Sometimes it seemed she was about to fall into her father’s arms and Giovanni would smile and wait and hope. But she was like the mother, too proud to break.
One afternoon she showed him an engagement ring, a simple gold band with a winking stone in it. She held out her hand and turned it in the sunlight, watching the colors inside the stone. Here at last was a time to talk to his daughter about the future, to speak importantly like a wise parent, to advise her on what to say to Mama. But the sight of the ring stiffened him with excitement. He stared open-mouthed, inarticulate with delight.
“She’sa purty ring,” was all he could say.
Carlotta slipped the jewel from her finger and put it in her purse. For it was time to go home now and Mama must not know
“Carlotta,” he faltered, “you are happy—no, yes?”
“No, Papa.” She kissed his cheek, and the kiss was like a period at the end of a sentence. She didn’t want to talk it over with him and though it pained him he knew why. None of his daughters had ever talked to him of important matters. Now it was too late to begin.
The next day Gino came to the shop. And what he had to say made Giovanni feel strong and a man among men.
“Signor Martino,” said Gino, speaking Italian, using the proper Italian phrases for such an occasion. “I wish to talk to you of an important matter.”
“What is it, my son?”
“Yesterday, Signor, Carlotta consented to become my wife.”
“Ah. So?”
“So now, today, I am here to beg the honor of becoming her husband.”
Like that he said it. A man’s way, a nobly phrased request, straight to the point.
“Ho,” said Giovanni, “so that’s it.”
Gino’s eyes showed their alarm.
“You do not approve of me, Signor?”
Giovanni lit a cigar and puffed it slowly. He was determined to act as a father should, stern and dignified.
“It is not a matter to be decided quickly, young man. As a father I have the right to know certain facts. There is the matter of money, Signor Brancato. Money is very important as my wife will tell you. Though I am not rich, Carlotta has known a certain standard.”
“She will not want, Signor. I swear she will never know hunger or cold.”
“We are in America, my son. It is not a matter of hunger and cold. It is a matter of how much? You gotta say just how much.”
Brancato shrugged uncertainly.
“A few hundred, Signor. I am not wealthy. But a few hundred I have. And these.”
He stretched out his hands, turning them over near the face of Giovanni Martino. They were eloquent, those thick knuckled fists; they implied so much that the old man was ashamed to say more. For Gino was indeed like himself thirty-five years ago, strong with the old dreams, alive with the old dreams.
“You will have to speak to Carlotta’s mother,” he said.
“I know.”
“I am positive she will refuse.”
Gino clenched his fists.
“We must marry soon, Signor. Carlotta is miserable. It is not right that my love should bring her unhappiness.”
“Her mother will refuse.”
“Then we will marry without the blessing of Signora Martino.”
“I will speak to my wife,” Giovanni said importantly. “I will get this matter straightened out as soon as possible.”
That night Papa broke the news to Donna Martino. They were alone in the living room, Carlotta having gone to the theater with Bettina and her husband. Papa sat near the radio, listening to the ten o’clock news. Opposite him in her deep chair Mama drowsed. She filled the chair like a sleeping mountain. As long as one of her children was out in the night, Donna would remain in that chair, waiting for the front door to open. Nervously, Giovanni watched the drowsing mountain. She was a volcano and she would erupt, Papa knew, the moment she learned the news. He was a mere villager in the foothills with remote chances of survival once she exploded.
“Mama,” he ventured.
She murmured sleepily. It made him sit up—alert, ready to flee. He licked his lips.
“A great problem disturbs Carlotta,” he began in his native tongue. “It is serious.”
The mountain awakened.
“Problem? What now?”
“A young man.”
“There is no man in my daughter’s life.”
The explosion did not come. He gathered courage.
“There is, Carissima. There has been for three months. You have not been told.”
She lifted her face and stared at him with bright terrible eyes.
“Three months?”
“A fine young man, dear wife. His name is Brancato. Gino Brancato.”
“I know no such young man.”
“They wish to be married.”
As if struck by an earthquake, the mountain quivered. But there was no explosion. The hands of Donna Martino tightened.
“So now you tell me.”
“It was difficult to tell.”
“Is she pregnant?”
; It shocked Giovanni. His hands flew to his mouth as if he himself had said this and now he wished to push back the words.
“No, Mama. This is love. Carlotta is so beautiful. She has such nobility, such pride. You should not say, you should not think…”
“Three months,” she interrupted. “Three months of treachery.”
“It was not treachery, Mama.”
“I am the child’s mother. I brought her into the world. I should have been told.”
“You would have destroyed it. The young man is not wealthy like the husbands of the others. We were afraid.”
“And now you are not afraid. Now, with the child coming?”
He saw that the idea of a child was unshakable in her mind. It was a notion he had not anticipated and because she believed it so firmly he felt ashamed for her as he remembered the strong face, the clear eyes of Gino.
“This young man…”
“That dog!” she interrupted.
“He asked my permission…”
“Beast!”
It was useless to say more, to try. He sat humiliated by his own sense of inadequacy. He had hoped to tell his wife everything in the Brancato manner—simply, honestly, as Gino had done that afternoon. But the spark had died too soon and he slipped back into the comforting lassitude of despair.
“Who is this Brancato?” Donna asked. “How did she meet him? Tell me everything. Omit nothing, you hear? Nothing!”
He told her all there was to know. He spoke with deep weariness, almost with relief now that the entire situation had moved out of his sphere and into hers. He even told of his own foolish enthusiasm when he learned that Brancato had been in Palermo. Now it seemed ludicrous and infantile. But he left out nothing for it was her problem now.
As he finished, the sound of a car door slamming came from outside. Then Carlotta’s quick steps up the path as the car drove away. The door opened and Carlotta was inside. One look at Donna Martino and Carlotta knew her mother had been told of the man she loved. But Donna did not glance at the face of her daughter. Instead, she kept her eyes fastened to the silhouette of Carlotta’s waist. The melancholy face of her father told Carlotta of the old man’s ordeal. She bent down and kissed his forehead. It was like ice. And always she felt the searching eyes of her mother. She was angry and disgusted at this contemptible gesture. She turned and faced her mother, ready for whatever might come.
“Bring Signor Brancato to the house,” Donna said “I should like to meet the man espoused to my daughter.”
“I’ve wanted to, Mama. From the first.”
“I am anxious to make his acquaintance.”
A quixotic assertion. No tone of sarcasm, no mockery, no sinister insinuation. Donna’s face was soft now, ineffably calm. Even Giovanni was surprised.
“Yes,” Donna repeated, “I want to know this young man.”
It disarmed Carlotta, freeing her momentarily from the taint of suspicion.
“I’ll ask him to come tomorrow night.”
So Gino was at last coming to the house. This should have been a high moment but for some reason Carlotta found herself more disturbed than happy. She kissed her parents goodnight.
At the top of the stairs, she turned.
“Shall I ask Gino to dinner?”
“I never dine with strangers,” Donna said.
It tingled with sheer malice, telling her that Donna Martino had closed her heart to Gino Brancato, that Donna was scheming to tear him out of Carlotta’s life.
The next day Carlotta awoke with a profound sense of its importance. She had slept well but something more than the enchantment of sleep invigorated her. There was the majestic knowledge that somewhere beneath the morning sun walked the man she loved.
There had been other suitors. By Donna Martino’s standards Carlotta could have done better than her sisters. Even now she could hear Donna Martino’s shrill challenge, demanding that she do something with her life. It mystified Carlotta. For a while she had tried music. Then she had gone to art school. But in the long run all things resolved themselves in this room, this sanctuary with its few beloved books, and her violin. Here was peace. But there were obligations—that vagary called duty to one’s parents and the exasperating insistence that a woman must marry well. The room protected her from that.
Rosa had called her a snob. Stella had called her selfish. Bettina had called her neurotic and Mama had denounced her as a fool. But none had sought to take this room from her. And now she was giving up this room. Already it was dimly in the past, the shadow of Gino Brancato upon it. She loved him and she knew not why. He would probably never be a rich man but he gave her flowers and his eyes were haunted by his love for her.
They had agreed to meet at one o’clock. Gino was already there when she arrived, Giovanni looked at them with a face cast in misery. Gino’s arm went around the old man’s shoulder, hugging him briefly.
“Paesano.” He grinned. “Why so sad?”
“Trouble,” Papa said. “Tonight, trouble.”
Carlotta explained. “Mama would like you to come. Tonight at eight.”
“At last.”
“It may not be pleasant.”
“Leave it to Gino,” he said with assurance.
He pulled her out the back door to where his car was parked. It was early September, warm and lazy. He hummed softly as he drove, his cap tilted back, his body slouched comfortably. She leaned against him, pleased at the change in him. Now that she was promised to him the shyness was gone. She liked this touch of confidence even though it made her uncertain about herself. It was very satisfying to feel less strong than he.
Then she noticed that he was turning into her street. She caught her breath and tugged at his arm. He grinned as he swung the car in to the curbing before the Martino house.
“I’m going to miss those nights,” he said. “The nights I’ve driven past here, up and down, waiting for you.”
She could not control her uneasiness, the over-powering sense of her mother’s presence. She was ashamed of it before Gino but it was there. His serenity seemed foolhardy.
“You’d better go now,” she said.
“There’s nothing to fear. After tonight we’re free.”
“It’s better if you go.”
He took her hands as she glanced over his shoulder toward the porch.
Thinking of her mother’s great eyes watching them from behind the front curtain, she tried to withdraw her hands but he tightened his fingers.
“Promise me something, Carlotta.”
“Please go.”
“No matter what happens tonight, promise you’ll do what I say.”
“I promise.”
He let her go.
“Angela mia,” he said.
She reached the porch and watched his car disappear. Then she entered the house. For a moment she was speechless at what she saw. They stood there, her sisters—Rosa, Stella and Bettina. They were alert, watching her. Bettina came away from the window. They tried to be casual but it was no moment for casualness.
Carlotta managed to smile, to say hello.
Bettina nodded toward the street.
“I think he’s cute,” she said.
Carlotta ignored it, her eyes frozen with anger as they sought Donna Martino through the dining room. Donna stood in the kitchen door, her face a hard mask of confidence, telling Carlotta that this was only part of the evening’s business, that Gino Brancato was to face not only herself but three others who also lived by the proper code of love and marriage.
Carlotta looked at them scornfully. They were like sleek Maltese cats, rivaling one another in their furs, sisters only by accident of blood. But she pitied them too. For in spite of themselves they had not escaped their mother this time. Never had Donna Martino been able to reunite them, not even at Christmas. Instead they had always sent handsome gifts and feeble excuses. But now they had finally succumbed to the mother’s summons—and Carlotta knew why; because she had remained indifferent, even
contemptuous of their husbands, their possessions, their lives.
They did not speak, nor did Carlotta as she passed through the room and upstairs. They stood quietly, looking at one another. Then the front door opened. It was Giovanni. A houseful of people always delighted Papa. He clapped his hands and shouted hello.
“Hello,” they said in unison.
Through the space of two rooms Donna Martino’s heavy presence made itself felt. Then Giovanni remembered. His jaw dropped and his shoulders bent a little more.
Carlotta did not come down to dinner. Instead, she got into a grey tweed suit Papa had tailored. She put on low shoes. Then she began to pack.
Long before eight o’clock it was all done, the luggage stacked near the door, her coat, scarf and gloves spread on the bed. Standing at the window she watched the street below.
As Gino’s car drove up she hurried downstairs. In the dining room they turned their heads to watch her rush outside. She met Gino coming up the porch steps. He was in the gabardine Papa had made for him, his arms out to her. He lifted her high off the ground
“All set?” he asked.
She took his hand and led him inside.
They had not left the dinner table. She smiled proudly as she led him in. His fine shoulders, the glow of his sun-drenched face made the room shrink in size. Each step gave her more confidence. He smiled generously. He was making their throats flutter, this Gino, their hearts beat faster. She had been afraid that he might be grim but he was as gentle as a child.
Except for Papa, they did not rise from the table. The old man got up and his adoration of this boy lighted his face. Gino slipped his arm around the old man and hugged him.
The gesture put Papa out of control. He tried to do the honors but he couldn’t remember the married names of his daughters and he completely forgot to present his guest to Mama Martino, who sat glaring at him in disgust. To make matters worse, he knocked over a glass of red wine, the crimson streak spreading across Mama’s linen tablecloth. That was enough for Donna Martino. She struck the table a mighty whack.