Nicky blanched. Borelli’s accepted donations in the costume shop. He maintained his composure. “I brought this from Eet-taly,” he assured Eddie.
“No doubt. It’s just funny. One country’s ambassador is another’s majorette.”
Nicky nodded and slipped out of the tent. He inhaled the night air as though he had spent the night underwater in a shark tank, holding his breath, waiting to be eaten alive. It felt good to finally be alone. He pulled up his pants, which were loose from perspiration and gyration. Nicky figured he’d lost ten pounds of water weight on the dance floor, and every ounce of it resided in the wool. He had never been so exhausted, not even when he was in the army and had to walk seventeen miles in the rain in a German war zone in wet boots with a wool sock with a hole in the toe. Nicky was so spent, even the thought of the old mattress in the airless guest room with its lingering scents of stale gardenia, mud plaster, and mothballs was appealing.
Nicky lit a cigarette as he trudged up the hill to Truman Street.
“Ambassador?” a woman called out to him in the dark.
Nicky kept moving.
“You need a key.” Cha Cha shook her evening bag in midair like a bell. She jogged to meet him, and then trotted beside him to keep up with his long strides. Soon she began to pant. By the time they reached the house, Cha Cha was heaving. She grabbed the porch railing, trying to catch her breath before climbing the stairs.
“Madame, I wish you a good night.” Nicky bowed from the waist, unlocked the door, and once inside, bolted up the staircase, two steps at a time. He was pleased he had figured out a way to ditch Cha Cha—all he had to do was outrun her on an incline.
Nicky went into the guest room and closed the door. He was peeling off the uniform and his drenched undershirt when he heard the bedroom door creak. He slammed his body up against it and waited. After a few moments, he moved away from the door. He cocked his head to listen before he crept back over and peeked out into the hallway. A gray-and-white mixed tabby cat was sniffing at the door. Nicky exhaled, relieved.
He hung the uniform in the closet. A plastic Star of Bethlehem, the Christmas tree topper, fell off the top shelf and almost impaled his skull. He cursed, picked it up, and stuffed it back into its place before lying down on the bed, his lower back and buttocks sinking deeply into the mattress while his legs stuck out straight like cocktail picks where the old mattress was still somewhat firm. He wanted to weep, and he might have, but there was no moisture left in his body; he had left it all on the dance floor at the Cadillac Dinner.
*
Hortense lay in the center bed in the alcove of the garage apartment. She had opened the windows on the garden side, and the soothing scents of freesia, gardenia, and night-blooming jasmine filled the room. The temperature was just right, cool enough but not cold. The mattress was firm, the pillows were plump, and the bed was made to her liking with cotton shams and fresh sheets.
Eleanor Roosevelt’s faux attaché felt divine. The wine Hortense had consumed had a lovely effect on her mood, and the macaroni with the Venetian gravy with the secret ingredient settled on her stomach lightly and without repetition. Hortense was content in a fashion she had not known for years. She drifted off to sleep without a single toss or turn, floating to the land of her dreams like a blue balloon the color of the sky, when it soars high enough and becomes one with the heavens.
*
Across town, Nicky was overheated, hungry, and restless. He had tried to open the windows in the Tutolola guest room, but they were either painted shut or locked, like a prison’s. At this point in the evening, he was so exhausted, he didn’t care. He collapsed into the bed and tried turning onto his side, but that produced a muscle stitch that forced him to get up to try and release it. He gave up, climbing back into the bed in the original buttocks-sagging-in-a-hammock position. He was almost asleep when he began to choke.
“Don’t say a word,” Rosalba whispered.
The chief burgess’s daughter was straddling him, one clammy hand over his mouth, the other on his neck.
Nicky couldn’t breathe. He pushed Rosalba off his body, but she came back like a cat.
“Get out of my room!” He tried to crawl out from under her and out of the bed, but the pit in the mattress sucked him back into the hole like organza quicksand.
“This won’t take long,” she said.
“I’ll bet.” Nicky rallied. He flipped his legs over the side of the bed and catapulted himself into a standing position using the strength of his arms, as if he were launching himself out of the inside of a pickle barrel. He was wearing his undershorts and nothing else in the presence of a young lady, but he didn’t care. He’d been in a war and knew when the enemy wanted to nail him. The uniform didn’t matter, and neither did the weapon or the ammunition. The only defense was to keep moving.
“I told you this room was hot.” Rosalba winked.
“I can’t open the windows.”
“Because they’re glued shut. Daddy did it when he found out I snuck out of the house at night.”
“He should have let you go,” Nicky said, rubbing his neck.
“That’s what I said.”
“The poor man.” Nicky felt pity for Rocco.
“Some people just need freedom. Let’s get out of this sweatbox. It’s cool in my room. We’ll have some fun.” Rosalba flung her hair around. The effect wasn’t seductive, but more like a mop when it is flayed around to dust cobwebs off the ceiling.
He opened the door wide. “Get out, or I will call your father.”
Rosalba shimmied off the bed and adjusted her nightgown. “You’re the worst ambassador that ever came to this town.”
Nicky closed the door behind her. He barricaded the door, using his body, which had sunk to the floor. A ceramic commedia dell’arte clown fell off a shelf over the door and clocked him on the head. It did not break, but Nicky wanted to smash it. He reached over and grabbed his cigarettes off the nightstand. If he had to, he’d stand guard behind the bedroom door all night to keep Rosalba out. He pulled a slim volume off the bottom shelf of the nightstand: The History of Roseto, Pennsylvania, by Ralph Basso.
Nicky opened the book and began to read. As the story of the town unfolded, he began to understand its people; with history came knowledge. Nicky fell asleep on the floor as the women of Roseto danced through his dreams.
*
Frank parked his car in a thicket off Evergreen Way in Haverford, a Main Line enclave whose rolling green hills and horse country had inspired the mural at Borelli’s. Now, the lush green fields were lawns, the bridle paths were circular driveways, and the farmhouses were replaced with mansions as opulent as the finest in Europe.
“You sure you can park here?”
“I want to show you something.”
Frank took Calla by the hand as they crossed the main boulevard, and led her to a fence line clustered with trees. “This isn’t a good spot,” he said critically. He led her around the curve of the street to another place along the fence.