Under a Gilded Moon(21)
Since Sal had become one of the few able-bodied males working for the local pensiones, as so many of the others had already emigrated to America, he’d been saddling Mr. Vanderbilt’s horse for him each morning. Already Sal had noticed the man knew how to pick the best horse in the stable. Of course cost would be of no consequence in his choice of wine.
The younger man, Vanderbilt, strained his neck toward the paper. “I don’t quite see, though, Richard, what you mean by moving the grand stairwell to one side and having it appear more fully as a major feature of the front aspect.”
The older man gripped the barrel of his pen over the paper. Then sent its nib back to the page.
Spires. And wings. And parapets.
Sal stood transfixed, mesmerized, longer than any good server should have.
Murmuring over the structure that was emerging on the piece of paper beneath the older man’s pen, both gentlemen paused. Glanced up at Sal.
“Perdonami,” Sal apologized. “Chiedo scusa.” He hurried away for the Chianti.
The two men, Vanderbilt and the one with the pen, talked late into the night. Called for more Chianti. More pecorino cheese and a platter of red-globed grapes they popped by twos and threes into their mouths, often both talking at the same time. Then, around three in the morning, two espressos.
They had circled a spire here, drawn arrows there, added windows. As a rosy dawn nudged at the edge of the vineyards, they had risen and stretched.
The younger man, Vanderbilt, offered a tired smile. And again the flawless Italian. “Grazie. Grazie mille. Non avresti dovuto rimanere sveglio con noi.” You should not have stayed awake with us.
Sal shook his head and risked a response in English. “At your service.” That much he knew by heart. The next he cobbled together. “I am good . . . I am the happy to be awake as I . . . as you work.”
Vanderbilt’s mouth lifted again under the mustache. “Bene. Your English is coming along very nicely.”
Bashfully, Sal took his risk then. Without stopping to think how presumptuous it was, he pointed to the oil painting in the front parlor over the fireplace, the landscape of Monte Bianco and its reflection in a shimmering lake, then bent to the table and sketched in more lines, the roofline higher—a fair match for the Alps—and reflecting in a fountain pool he drew in front.
The two Americans stared at the sketch, so rudely revised. Then at the upstart Sicilian boy.
“My God,” the older man said at last. “I daresay he’s right.”
“I hesitated to say so and offend you, Richard. But our young friend here has an eye for proportion. And grandeur.”
That next morning in Florence, the man Richard, whose last name turned out to be Hunt, and the younger man Vanderbilt checked out, and Sal helped them load their luggage into a hansom cab on its way to the pier where they would board their steamship for London. But just as the cab pulled away, Sal found in the pensione’s entryway the drawing the two Americans had labored on all night.
Far down the road, he ran after them calling, “Aspetta! Wait!”
He’d run for nearly a mile before Vanderbilt, apparently hearing his cries, finally poked his head out the hansom cab window. Seeing Sal, he shouted to the driver up high and behind them to stop.
“Good Lord!” Hunt said once Sal staggered up to the cab.
Those two words, at least, Sal understood, thanks to Father D’Eridita.
“He ran that entire way?” Vanderbilt asked his older companion, eyes tracing their path.
“It would appear so. I feel a bit winded merely contemplating the thing.”
Catching only individual words—he and ran and thing—Sal tried to hand the two men the paper they’d left. “Is importante? Yes?”
Vanderbilt laughed—but not derisively. A gentle laugh, and quiet. “The truth is, we have far better renderings than this. And be assured we have already mentally included your revisions. You may throw this away.”
He made a tossing away gesture with one hand. But then, perhaps struck—even troubled—by the look on Sal’s face, he paused. “Or you may keep it.” He pointed to Sal, then crossed his arms over his chest as if he were clutching something close. “Lo tieni tu. You keep it.”
“Grazie.”
Vanderbilt inclined his head here. “I am hiring a great many of your people to build my house in America. A great many stonecutters.” He paused, as if to gauge Sal’s understanding. Then repeated himself in Italian.
Sal made himself nod gratefully.
He did not say—in halting English or in Italian—that “his people” were Sicilians, not these Northern Italians who looked down on him and his kind. Nor did he offer that stonecutting was the profession of Northern Italians, especially those close to the Alps, whose fathers instructed their sons in the ancient art. His own people grew lemons and oranges, and also grew sons into strong men who were drafted into the army, or taxed until death or emigration yanked them away.
“Yes,” was what Sal said instead. “I like this. Grazie.”
Because someday—you never could tell—you might want to go to America.
Vanderbilt had drawn a small paper rectangle from his inside coat pocket. “Take my card. I realize the chances are remote, but I like a young man who would try and outrun a horse and cab in order to deliver a sketch that might have been lost. If ever you should come to America, you must come work for me.” He’d smiled a shy, boyish smile. “That is, if you would like.” Once again, he’d repeated himself in Italian.