“It was sent to you. Your schedule and itinerary were included.”
“It must have gotten lost. It’s a big ocean, no? But I here now. I here now! We jubilee!” Nicky turned to the crowd and waved his arms high in the air, and they cheered.
“Yes, yes, we jubilee,” Rocco agreed.
The crowd pushed forward, encroaching with enthusiasm. The thought that he might be discovered crossed Nicky’s mind, and he began to sweat. The friendly throng could easily turn into an angry mob. He wished he would’ve gassed up in Easton in preparation for a hasty exit.
“How did you get here? You were to come on the train from New York, and I was to greet you in Easton in an hour.”
“Change of plans. I wanted to see Philadelphia, the birthplace of freedom. I hope-uh you understand. Capisce? My first visit to America, a cause for excitement! And, independence. So, I drive-uh myself from the New York to the Philly to the Jubilee! The adventure! The experience! The Palazzini Cab Company of Philadelphia donated the sedan.”
“They did?”
“Everything was paid for. Gas included.” Nicky grinned, slapping Rocco on the back. “Petrol! Petrol! We-uh call the gas in Roseto Valfortore.”
“Well, we’ll have to thank them. Was your crossing comfortable?”
“The airplane was so fast. Zoom-uh. Zoom-uh,” Nicky said, reaching into his grab bag of bad Italian and finding an impression of Louis Prima.
“What airplane? Are you sure you don’t want to speak Italian? We have to work on your English.”
“Crossing?”
“The boat. You know, the ship.” Rocco spoke slowly: “Ocean liner.”
“Oh yes, yes. It was magnifico!”
Nicky formed his fingers into a closed umbrella shape and kissed them. The crowd cheered.
“The MS Vulcania is the best of the Naples line.”
“Da best-uh!” Nicky said enthusiastically. “What a line!”
The screen door behind the chief burgess snapped open and his wife emerged.
Rocco turned to Nicky. “This is my wife, the First Lady of Roseto, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Tutolola.”
Cha Cha Tutolola was in her mid-fifties and built like a tugboat. She wore a shift dress in broad panels of black, red, and blue, so she was dressed like one too. Her hair was dyed deepest black, her lipstick was rose red, and two bright pink triangles of rouge faked cheekbone hollows. She extended her hand to Nicky. “Ambasciatore, per favore—”
“No Italian, Cha Cha,” her husband chided her.
“Why not? I practiced for months,” Cha Cha whined. “I could give guided tours at the United Nations.”
“I learn-uh the English for you.” Nicky took Cha Cha’s hand in his and held it. “Bellissima, signora. Bellissima.” He kissed it, and the crowd cheered.
“Well, I learned the Italian for you, Ambasciatore.”
Cha Cha looked into Nicky’s blue eyes and then took him in head to toe, drinking in his height, thick hair, handsome face, and bright smile. The sum total of his attributes sent a charge through her that she hadn’t felt since she was stuck on the Whip at Dorney Park during a surprise electrical storm, and her metal safety bar was hit with a mild bolt of lightning. “You are much more handsome than your picture.”
“And you-uh are-uh more-uh . . . how do you say . . . stunning than the official portrait in the Jubilee book.”
“Black-and-white photography doesn’t do my coloring justice.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m a Snow White, you know. It’s all about contrast.” She lowered her voice and said with a wink, “It’s a brunetta advantage.”
The screen door snapped behind them.
“This is our daughter, Rosalba,” Rocco announced. “My only child. Flower of my loins.”
A teenage girl slunk down the porch steps without taking her eyes off Nicky. She had the look of a starved fox, her chin pointed down, her brown eyes locked on her next meal. Her full madras skirt was cinched so tightly at the waist that the whole of her rib cage moved up and down when she breathed. The button holes on her white blouse strained over her bust, which was pointed and hoisted high.
Rosalba extended her hand to Nicky.
“I see she gets her beauty from her mother.”
“She’s shy,” her mother whispered.
“Chief Burgess?” Nicky began.
“Please call me Rocco.”
“Rocco, mio figlio—may I call you mio figlio?”
“Of course, of course.” Rocco was flattered.
“The-uh United States government generously sent an attaché to accompany me on my travels here. She is-uh from da highest pinochles . . .”
“Do you mean ‘pinnacle’?”
“Si, si, pinnacle of la government. I would-uh like to introduce her to you now.” Nicky opened the sedan door and stuck his head in. The crowd burst into welcoming applause.
Hortense had the expression of an electrified Halloween cat. She whispered, “This better work, or I’ll kill you before Al DePino takes a run at you.”
“It will work,” Nicky whispered back.
Hortense’s foot, in a plain black leather pump, landed on the ground outside the car. She stepped out into the light.
As she was revealed, the applause ebbed, replaced with a soft chatter of surprise. An odd sound pealed through the crowd, a sigh of surprise laced with wonder, which turned to a faint grumble, until it was muted entirely. It was so quiet, Hortense swore she could hear the town butcher sawing salami on Garibaldi, a block away.
Nicky broke the impasse. “I would like you to meet Mrs. Hortense Mooney, attaché of Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt.”
The chief burgess and his wife shook Hortense’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Welcome to Roseto.”
“I am pleased to meet you both. Mrs. Roosevelt visited Pennsylvania many times. She knew of the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, and of Ben Franklin’s tomb.”
“Mrs. Mooney, forgive us, but we weren’t expecting you.” Cha Cha looked up at her husband anxiously. “We don’t have a hotel here. The closest one is many miles away. And the ambassador is staying in our only guest room.”
“So you don’t have accommodations for me?”
“We don’t.”
“I’ll just return to Philadelphia. It’s been nice meeting you. Ambassador, if we leave now, you can drop me at the train station and be back in time for your dinner this evening. Bye-bye, everybody!”
“No, no—surely you have a room to accommodate a very important member of the United States government,” Nicky insisted.
“Mrs. Viglione has the apartment over her garage,” Rosalba offered. “The men who were staying there moved out.”
“How do you know?” Cha Cha asked suspiciously.
“They were from Scranton, Ma. They were here to paint the church. Remember?”
“Those Ukrainians did a good job.” Rocco shrugged.
“Oh. Well, I’ll call Mrs. Viglione.”
“We planned a tour of the Capri blouse mill upon your arrival. Then we thought you could use a rest.”
“I could go for that right now,” Hortense said under her breath.
“Tonight we have the Cadillac Dinner.”
“Very-uh exciting. I much look forward,” Nicky said loudly.
“I’ll get your bags,” Rocco volunteered.
“No, allow me. In Italy, we handle our own bags.”
“Why?” Cha Cha wondered.
“Since da war.”