Drinkwater tried to make me his friend-tried to get me to go to his house or out to a tavern sometimes-but I ignored his foolish talk and pretended not to understand him. Siciliani Siciliani trust family first, then villagers, then fellow countrymen. I trusted no one else, especially not shifty dark-skinned Indians whose idleness stole money from my pocket! trust family first, then villagers, then fellow countrymen. I trusted no one else, especially not shifty dark-skinned Indians whose idleness stole money from my pocket!

I couldn't cuff Drinkwater on the head to make him work faster, but I could cuff my brother Pasquale or my brother Vincenzo. If one of my brothers was my partner at the dye vat, I calculated, we would show these 'Mericani 'Mericani what hard work looked like. One Saturday, at the end of my shift, while the other workers ran home to their sleep and their amusements, I followed the boss dyer, Bryce, to the agent's glass-walled office. All that afternoon and evening, I had been rehearsing in English my reasons why it would be wise for American Woolen and Textile to pull one of my brothers away from his assigned work and put him to work with me instead. what hard work looked like. One Saturday, at the end of my shift, while the other workers ran home to their sleep and their amusements, I followed the boss dyer, Bryce, to the agent's glass-walled office. All that afternoon and evening, I had been rehearsing in English my reasons why it would be wise for American Woolen and Textile to pull one of my brothers away from his assigned work and put him to work with me instead.

Now I knocked on the agent's door. I would have not only Bryce's ear, but the ear of the big boss, too. Flynn, the agent-the pezzo pezzo grosso. grosso.

Bryce and Flynn smirked when they saw me standing there.

Their cigar smoke hung in the air like clouds over Mount Etna.

"Who's this this organ-grinder?" Flynn asked. organ-grinder?" Flynn asked.

The two both smiled and stared at me. "New dyer," Bryce said.

I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM556 556.

"Just hired him this week." He turned to me, asking me what I wanted, addressing me in a voice meant to scare me away.

"That Indian slows me down," I said. "I can earn a better wage if my work is not tied to his work."

"Who's he talking about?" Flynn asked.

"Nabby Drinkwater," Bryce said.

"Well, well, this is just what we need," the boss mumbled.

"Some wop calling the shots around here. Call his bluff, why don't you? Teach this dago a lesson. Just don't fuck with production."

My brain raced. Call his bluff? Call his bluff? Call his bluff? Call his bluff? I didn't know I didn't know Call his Call his bluff. bluff. Goddamn crazy English language. Goddamn crazy English language.

Bryce put his arm around my shoulder in a gesture of false friendship. He said he was glad that he had hired such a dedicated worker as I-and a genius besides. "You're so smart, maybe you you should be boss dyer instead of me. What do you think?" should be boss dyer instead of me. What do you think?"

Dangerous for me if I told him what I really thought: that it was a good idea. Instead, I stood there and shut my mouth.

"So Drinkwater slows you down, eh?" Bryce said. "Well, I'll tell you what we're going to do. Starting tomorrow, we'll transfer Nabby to the finishing department. You can work all by your lonesome-do your job and and his at your superior rate of speed. How does that sound?" his at your superior rate of speed. How does that sound?"

Their laughter at my expense began even before the door closed behind me. "I'll have the Indian clean the storage room and then get him the hell back in there before this arrogant wop keels over,"

Bryce told Flynn, sotto voce sotto voce. "He won't know whether he's coming or going by the time an hour's up. That'll shut him up."

That morning I went home to the boardinghouse but could not sleep. Now they were out to get Domenico Tempesta. To break the man who only wanted to make good money for doing good work.

Jealousy of superior men was everywhere, I realized-on both sides of the sea. Even foremen and agents were jealous of me.

The first shift without the Indian was the worst. I worked through dinner break, soaked in my own sweat, not even taking the I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM557 557.

time to look up at the other workers. Still, I knew they were laughing at me. I lost lost money that night. The second night went a little better (broke even). The third night was easier still. By the end of that week, I had conditioned myself for the two-person job they had given me to break me down. Working alone, I had increased the second-shift production of two men! After that, the snickering stopped, all right. The other dyers resented my industry. money that night. The second night went a little better (broke even). The third night was easier still. By the end of that week, I had conditioned myself for the two-person job they had given me to break me down. Working alone, I had increased the second-shift production of two men! After that, the snickering stopped, all right. The other dyers resented my industry.

Bryce, too. But I had gotten Flynn's attention. Flynn began to regard me as a worker to watch and consult.

Gradually, I rose through the ranks from laborer to second hand. Then, in 1916, a blood vessel burst inside Bryce's brain.

Good riddance to that son of a bitch. At his funeral, I approached Flynn and asked for the dead man's job. "We'll see," Flynn said.

"But Jesus Christ, man, wait until he's cold." Through three long nights' worth of work, I waited for Flynn's decision. Then the good news came. Flynn called me into his office so that he and I could have "a little chat." By the time I left, I had been named American Woolen and Textile's first boss dyer of Italian heritage!

Sons of Italy, how had this great thing happened? It had happened through hard work and seriousness of purpose. These are the keys to success in Stati Uniti Stati Uniti! Industry like mine is what has made America great!

24 July 1949 Bad cold for third day. I told that good-for-nothing daughter of mine to cut up an onion and wrap it up in cheesecloth for me to wear on my head and draw out the mucus, but she says, "Go lie down, Papa. Take a nap."

"What I do is my business, Signorina Signorina Stupid-Head!" I told her back. "Do as you're told and get me my goddamned poultice!" I don't want her snooping around these words of mine. . . . Where was I? My promotion? Ah, yes. Stupid-Head!" I told her back. "Do as you're told and get me my goddamned poultice!" I don't want her snooping around these words of mine. . . . Where was I? My promotion? Ah, yes.

I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM558 558.

No more piecework for Domenico Tempesta! In addition to my work at the mill, now at a fixed salary of thirty-five cents an hour, I took small masonry and repair jobs during the spring and summer months. Little by little, one penny after another penny, I saved my money rather than wasting it on pleasures like women and drink and stage shows. I made it my business to befriend an old Yankee dairy farmer named Rosemark. Rosemark's time was running out; he had property at the top of Hollyhock Hill but no sons to inherit it. He told me he had been talking to the big shots of the town of Three Rivers-Shanley, that goddamned crooked mayor, and his cronies. He wanted to make sure his wife would be provided for. I saw opportunity approaching. If Rosemark sold his land to the town, he told me, the town would divide the property into half-acre city lots. I had my eyes on these.

Too sick today, too much mucus in my head. I'll go listen to those no-good Dodgers on the radio and take a nap now, but not because that useless daughter of mine told me to. I thought of it before she said it.

26 July 1949 Neither of my brothers lasted at the mill. Soon after he was hired, Vincenzo was moved to the picking department, a demotion, and then was fired for running a small numbers game for American Woolen and Textile workers. Some of the foremen were regular players in Vincenzo's games of chance, but they acted the parts of pious saints when the police sergeant came to ask questions with Flynn, the agent, by his side. Of course, I was above suspicion during this little investigazione investigazione. I would never have wasted my money on gambling when good land would soon be up for sale. But my brother Vincenzo got the boot.

Vincenzo next became a greengrocer at Hurok's Market, where his good looks and foolish antics bedeviled lady customers into I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM559 559.

buying more bananas and beans than they needed. Customers of Cranston's Market, on the opposite side of the street from Hurok's, began to walk across the road just to buy their produce from my crazy brother. The Huroks were Jews-happy to put up with Vincenzo's nonsense if it meant ten pennies in their pocket instead of nine. "He's a nice boy, your brother," Mrs. Hurok told me once, when I stopped in for a pound of roasted peanuts. "He's a stupid-head," I responded, but not without some small sense of pride at her remark. Compliments about Vincenzo were as rare as hen's teeth, but perhaps, at long last, my good example had begun to sink into his stubborn cocuzza. cocuzza.

Customers would follow Vincenzo around the store, staring or calling his name-this much I witnessed myself. Vincenzo would whisper flattery into the ear of one woman, turn and sing a snatch of Verdi to another. His fruit-peddling each day was a performance!

"Hurok has increased my wage to seven dollars a week!"Vincenzo boasted one night at the boardinghouse. "It's because I'm so good for business!"

"Pfft," I said, waving my hand at him. "I make twenty-three dollars and fifty cents a week. What talent does it take to polish and pile fruit?" Still, I wrote a picture postcard to Mama, telling her of Vincenzo's modest success and my own more substantial achievements. That farmer up on Hollyhock Hill had died suddenly and I'd heard that the town was going to go ahead and buy his land and resell. I wrote to Mama that someday soon I would be a property owner just as my grandparents, the Ciccias, had been.

Bah! My pride in my brother Vincenzo was a boat that sank soon enough. Many of those women who visited him by day at Hurok's invited him to visit them after dark as well. Although my own good name was above reproach, tongue-wagging siciliani siciliani began to buzz like mosquitoes about my brother's life under the sheets with a regular League of Nations of willing women-not only Italians, but also Irish, Polish, Ukrainian-even that pockmarked Hungarian widow who ran the saloon on River Street. That one was I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM560 began to buzz like mosquitoes about my brother's life under the sheets with a regular League of Nations of willing women-not only Italians, but also Irish, Polish, Ukrainian-even that pockmarked Hungarian widow who ran the saloon on River Street. That one was I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM560 560.

not much younger than Mama and had a mustache thick enough to twirl on the ends! It was shameful but true: Vincenzo would poke his thing anywhere.

One day, that son of a bitch McNulty, monsignor of the Church of St. Mary of Jesus Christ, came to the dye room at American Woolen and Textile for the purpose of speaking to me. At his arm was Flynn, the agent-the big boss. Like my brothers and me, Flynn was a parishioner of St. Mary's. He was also a friend of the monsignor and a big contributor to the church. The monsignor reminded us of this every Sunday, nodding and smiling at Flynn, who sat with his family in the front pew reserved specially for Mr.

Pezzo Grosso.

Flynn told me to follow him and the monsignor to his office.

There he invited me with false smiles to sit, please sit, take a load off my feet, ha ha. Two thoughts entered my mind as I obeyed Flynn: either I was about to be fired or I was about to be ordered to start placing my hard-earned money in the collection basket at Sunday Mass! Damn them, I thought as I sat down. My own priestly studies in Rome no doubt had surpassed the scholarship of this fat-headed mick of a monsignor. I worked hard for my money while Flynn sat on his ass all day. Where my money went was my business.

"Now, Mr. Tempesta, I know you Eye-talian men are burdened with too much sex inside you," the monsignor began-to me me, a man who was as chaste as he- more more chaste, probably! From my boyhood experiences at the school in Nicosia, I knew all about the wandering hands of pious priests! "And while I understand and accept that it's a part of your nature," he continued, "I beg and entreat you to do something about that wild cur of a brother of yours." chaste, probably! From my boyhood experiences at the school in Nicosia, I knew all about the wandering hands of pious priests! "And while I understand and accept that it's a part of your nature," he continued, "I beg and entreat you to do something about that wild cur of a brother of yours."

"I have two brothers," I said. "Which brother do you mean?"

"The fruit peddler," Flynn answered for him. "That cocky little Romeo down at Hurok's Market."

An unfortunate problem had developed, the monsignor I Know[526-565] 7/24/02 2:08 PM561 561.

explained. A young unmarried Irish girl from a fine parish family had become pregnant by Vincenzo. She hadn't known any better; Vincenzo had taken advantage of her innocence. And while the girl's parents had no wish to see their daughter married off to the likes of my brother-they had arranged for her a proper marriage to a recent immigrant from Limerick-they nevertheless wanted to prevent further broken hearts and bastards. In defense of the good family name of Tempesta, the monsignor said, I must meet with Vincenzo and convince him to exert some self-control.

"My assistant, young Father Guglielmo, will be happy to help you at this meeting to give your orders moral weight and to hear, perhaps, your brother's confession and his recitation of the act of contrition," the monsignor said. "I would gladly attend the meeting myself, but perhaps it might be more effective if the young hooligan heard the message from one of his own kind."

One of his own kind-ha! For all of his faults, my brother was, like me, the son of a hero who had taken on a vulcano vulcano and received a gold and received a gold medaglia medaglia for his effort! What were that skinny little Father Guglielmo's credentials beyond his Italian name? Who was that puny little priest to advise Tempestas? for his effort! What were that skinny little Father Guglielmo's credentials beyond his Italian name? Who was that puny little priest to advise Tempestas?

"I'm sure Domenico here can get things under control," Flynn promised the monsignor. "He's not like most of the wops I got out on the floor. He keeps his nose clean and does his work."

Domenico Tempesta does the work of two two men, I felt like reminding that rich men, I felt like reminding that rich ipocrita! ipocrita! Earlier that year, Flynn had had his way with Alma, a German girl-one of the spoolers. When she grew big in the belly, she was hurried away to American Woolen's sister mill in Massachusetts and married off to a sheep shearer. That goddamned monsignor should have announced Earlier that year, Flynn had had his way with Alma, a German girl-one of the spoolers. When she grew big in the belly, she was hurried away to American Woolen's sister mill in Massachusetts and married off to a sheep shearer. That goddamned monsignor should have announced that that from his pulpit one Sunday! from his pulpit one Sunday!

I agreed, however, to honor the priest and the agent's request.

Better to deliver a lecture to my stupid-headed brother Vincenzo-a rap or two on his hard cocuzza cocuzza-than to lose my job or have to pour all my hard-earned savings into the monsignor's collection I Know[526-565] 8/19/02 11:34 AM562 562.

basket. In that respect, at least, the meeting in the boss's office was a relief.

That skinny priest Father Guglielmo called at the boardinghouse the following Sunday afternoon. From the way Signora Signora Siragusa flapped her hands and carried on, you might have thought the Pope himself had rung the bell instead of that scrawny priest. Siragusa flapped her hands and carried on, you might have thought the Pope himself had rung the bell instead of that scrawny priest.

He and I sat Vincenzo down in the signora signora's parlor. Vincenzo, who was always the most amiable of young men if not the best behaved, lit us all cigars before we began. When Father Guglielmo took a puff or two, I thought he would die from all the coughing that followed.

That one was more nervous than a dog during a thunderstorm!

"Vincenzo," I said, beginning my oration. "We speak to you today because your behavior brings shame on our deceased father and our beloved mother back in the Old Country. Your boots beneath the bed muddy the name of Tempesta."

Vincenzo's face looked at me the same way it had looked when he had crawled at my feet as a baby, back in Giuliana. "My behavior?" Vincenzo said. "My boots? Non capisco un cavalo Non capisco un cavalo, Domenico Domenico!"* Then, realizing that the language he had just used was not appropriate for a priest to hear, he turned to little Guglielmo. Then, realizing that the language he had just used was not appropriate for a priest to hear, he turned to little Guglielmo.

"Scusa, Padre. Scusa Scusa."

"Your boots beneath the beds of women!" I said. But still, Vincenzo looked at me with innocent eyes, as if he had kept his pants on since his arrival in America. I was beginning to lose patience. "Fungol! Fungol! " I shouted.**From behind the kitchen " I shouted.**From behind the kitchen door, I heard the signora signora gasp. Now it was my turn to apologize to that skinny priest. gasp. Now it was my turn to apologize to that skinny priest.

Big smile from Vincenzo now, as if his behavior was a source of pride, not shame. But I would wipe that smile off the face of that cocky brother of mine.

"It is time for you to marry and settle down and be done with it,"

I said. "Or, if your inclination is to remain a bachelor, to keep in check your male urges."

Vincenzo answered with chuckles, proverbs, shrugs. "Si hai I Know[526-565] 8/19/02 11:34 AM563 I Know[526-565] 8/19/02 11:34 AM563 563.

polvere, spara! * Eh, * Eh, padre padre?" he said, addressing the priest.

I struck the arms of Signora Signora Siragusa's parlor chair with enough force to raise two clouds of dust. "Fire your gunpowder, then, between the legs of one of the Siragusa's parlor chair with enough force to raise two clouds of dust. "Fire your gunpowder, then, between the legs of one of the signora signora's nannygoats who won't make you a baby!" I shouted.

More gasps from behind the kitchen door. Father Guglielmo blushed visibly and made the sign of the cross.

Vincenzo puffed on his cigar and laughed. "Better tell me then, big brother, which nannygoat is your your sweetheart. I do not wish to cuckold you." sweetheart. I do not wish to cuckold you."

All around the boardinghouse, movement and sound stopped.

Snooping ears seemed almost to burst right through the walls.

I explained to the priest-and to all the other eavesdroppers with their big ears to the wall-that what Vincenzo had just implied had been said in jest, ha ha. Then I continued, warning my brother that, as the eldest member of the proud Tempesta family of Giuliana, I was ordering ordering him to model all future behavior after my own. Vincenzo laughed and answered that he much preferred to him to model all future behavior after my own. Vincenzo laughed and answered that he much preferred to have have virgins than to turn back into one again. virgins than to turn back into one again.

"Saint Agrippina the Virgin Martyr herself is no purer than my brother Domenico," Vincenzo joked to that pallid priest, poking him. "You'll probably enjoy a woman's pleasures before Domenico does, eh, probably enjoy a woman's pleasures before Domenico does, eh, padre padre?" Father Guglielmo grew paler still and crossed himself again.

I had reached the end of my patience with that hooligan of a brother. Standing, I walked over to Vincenzo and slapped him across the face.

Vincenzo raised his fists. I raised mine. We stood glaring at each other, brother against brother, each of us attempting to sustain fierce expressions. But in Vincenzo's big eyes I saw him, again, as he had been as a bambino. bambino. . . . I saw Mama and Papa, the village square, Mount Etna against the Sicilian sky. I could not keep my fists raised against a brother. Nor could I surrender my pride. . . . I saw Mama and Papa, the village square, Mount Etna against the Sicilian sky. I could not keep my fists raised against a brother. Nor could I surrender my pride.

"Bah!" I said, dropping my hands. "As God and this priest are I Know[526-565] 8/19/02 11:34 AM564 564.

my witnesses, Vincenzo, from this moment forward, we cease to be brothers! You have slandered the family name and now you mock me! I forsake you! I will never speak to you again." And with that, I left the room, sending all the snoops at the boardinghouse scurrying. . . .

How to tell the sadness that followed?

Alas, my vow of silenzio silenzio was not difficult to keep. The following Saturday night, a Three Rivers police sergeant (goddamned mick named O'Meara) got a toothache and went home early. When he lit the lamp and entered his bedroom, first thing he saw was the plunging buttocks of my brother Vincenzo. As the sergeant stood in shock, Vincenzo groaned and rolled over, revealing to the moon and the husband his slimy thing and the smile on the face of O'Meara's faithless whore of a wife. The policeman drew his service revolver, aimed first at his screaming spouse, and then changed his mind and shot Vincenzo in the groin instead. was not difficult to keep. The following Saturday night, a Three Rivers police sergeant (goddamned mick named O'Meara) got a toothache and went home early. When he lit the lamp and entered his bedroom, first thing he saw was the plunging buttocks of my brother Vincenzo. As the sergeant stood in shock, Vincenzo groaned and rolled over, revealing to the moon and the husband his slimy thing and the smile on the face of O'Meara's faithless whore of a wife. The policeman drew his service revolver, aimed first at his screaming spouse, and then changed his mind and shot Vincenzo in the groin instead.

There was an investigation by the police department. Ha! Like one dog checking another dog for fleas! The sergeant was exonerated for having put "a greasy guinea" in his place. (That's what the Chief of Police himself said. I heard it from Golpo Abruzzi who heard it from his brother-in-law.) O'Meara's wife-that no-good puttana 'Mericana puttana 'Mericana-flaunted herself for decades afterward, as if horns didn't poke through the cap of her goddamned murdering policeman of a husband, who was laughed at by every siciliano siciliano in town! in town!

My brother Vincenzo, a buon'anima a buon'anima, died from infection nine days following the shooting. My brother Pasquale and Father Guglielmo were present at his bedside at Signora Signora Siragusa's. Father Guglielmo gave Vincenzo the Eucharist and extreme unction before the end. Siragusa's. Father Guglielmo gave Vincenzo the Eucharist and extreme unction before the end.

This I I saw to. This saw to. This I I arranged. arranged.

A crowd of sobbing young women, several nationalities, attended my brother's funeral Mass and burial at St. Mary of Jesus Christ Cemetery. This I was told by Pasquale; I witnessed none of it I Know[526-565] 8/19/02 11:34 AM565 565.

myself. I paid for, but refused on my honor to attend, the funeral of the brother who had mocked my chastity and spat in the face of family authority. Let saints and women forgive! A Sicilian's pride-his honor-is everything, figli d'Italia! figli d'Italia! What does a man have if he trades away his dignity as if it were a gold medallion? What does a man have if he trades away his dignity as if it were a gold medallion?

Following Vincenzo's death, it was my duty to write once again to Mama with the sad news of the death of her youngest son. Two or three weeks later, I myself received a postal card from across the sea, this one from a representative of that illiterate idiot Uncle Nardo: "Mother died 24 June. Malaria."

With a heavy heart, I responded immediately to Nardo's news.

In the good name of my mother, I demanded that that greedy Pig-Face go to the home of the magistrato magistrato and negotiate the return of my father's gold and negotiate the return of my father's gold medaglia medaglia to me, the firstborn son of Giacomo and Concettina Tempesta, and the medal's rightful owner. It was the least that goddamned Nardo could do, I wrote, to atone for all the terrible hardships he had visited on the Tempestas. No answer. I wrote two times more to Nardo, but that to me, the firstborn son of Giacomo and Concettina Tempesta, and the medal's rightful owner. It was the least that goddamned Nardo could do, I wrote, to atone for all the terrible hardships he had visited on the Tempestas. No answer. I wrote two times more to Nardo, but that figliu d'una mingia figliu d'una mingia ignored each of my attempts to retrieve that which I had been cheated of by the crooked official. ignored each of my attempts to retrieve that which I had been cheated of by the crooked official.

As for my middle and sole remaining brother, Pasquale, he cared little about family honor, justice, or rightful ownership as long as his supper was on the table. Pasquale had always been the simplest of men. . . .

How do I tell the sad, strange fate of my brother Pasquale? No strength left today. Tomorrow, I tell. Not today.

566 34.Dr. Patel said it was lovely to see me again. She was just starting some tea. Did she remember correctly? Bengal Spice?

"Fine," I said. "Great. Anything." I told her I liked the colors she was wearing: red and gold and . . . what would she call that shade of yellow, anyway?

She'd call it saffron, she said.

"Saffron? Yeah? I painted someone's kitchen that color once. Looks much better on you than it did on those kitchen walls." She chuckled, thanked me for the compliment, if that was what I had just bestowed.

"You see my brother today?" I asked her.

She had, she said. Yes. Things were about the same.

"I was just thinking on the way down here how weird it is: how before the war began, it was all he could talk about. Then, when they actually started firing Scuds and 'smart bombs' at each other, it hardly registered a blip on his radar. Why do you think that is, Doc?