Somewhere in the Stars Read online

  SOMEWHERE

  IN

  THE STARS

  ESSENTIAL PROSE SERIES 141

  SOMEWHERE

  IN

  THE STARS

  Frank Polizzi

  TORONTO—BUFFALO—LANCASTER (U.K.)

  2017

  Copyright © 2017, Margaret Colvin and Guernica Editions Inc.

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Michael Mirolla, editor

  Interior layout: Jill Ronsley, Sun Editing & Book Design

  Cover design: Allen Jomoc Jr.

  Guernica Editions Inc.

  1569 Heritage Way, Oakville, (ON), Canada L6M 2Z7

  2250 Military Road, Tonawanda, N.Y. 14150-6000 U.S.A.

  www.guernicaeditions.com

  Distributors:

  University of Toronto Press Distribution,

  5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto (ON), Canada M3H 5T8

  Gazelle Book Services, White Cross Mills

  High Town, Lancaster LA1 4XS U.K.

  First edition.

  Printed in Canada.

  Legal Deposit—Third Quarter

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2017938078

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Polizzi, Frank, author

  Somewhere in the stars / Frank Polizzi. -- 1st edition.

  (Essential prose series ; 141)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77183-233-5 (softcover).--

  ISBN 978-1-77183-234-2 (EPUB).--

  ISBN 978-1-77183-235-9 (Kindle)

  I. Title. II. Series: Essential prose series ; 141

  PS3616.O42S66 2017

  813’.6

  C2017-902333-0

  C2017-902334-9

  This novel is a tribute to my uncle, Nicholas Sparta, who was wounded while serving in a tank squadron during the Italian Campaign of World War II.

  I

  Nick could see the Coit Tower spiraling its way out of the fog, as he leaned on the railing at the epicenter of the Golden Gate Bridge, his eyes blinking then closing, a salty brine massaging his face, finding himself adrift like so many sloops on the sea or barges on a river. As a child he remembered when Papà would take him sailing in the San Francisco Harbor, the city rising in blue-green sea water, flanked by its bridges linking all the Bay Area, everything in motion, ships coming in and fishing boats going out, an occasional Navy boat patrolling, people walking along the shore and matchbox-size cars chasing each other across the bridges. Papà’s face was brown and wrinkled, his hands swollen and chapped from netting fish, contrasted by his jet-black hair, slicked back with pomade, and his light blue eyes that shined with kindness, even when he scolded his son for being a muschitta.

  By the time Nick was a teenager, Papà stationed him on the rudder. His father relied on the sea, negotiating the high and low of tides and the tidal forces of nature, saying these things would help Nick navigate life. He trusted his son so much at the helm that he could shut his eyes, feel the warmth of the sun, the smell of a saline sea, something he could never do on his purse seiner searching for the mother lode of sardines. He would recount many tales of his voyages, at an age for Nick when stories could be repeated. One time, after they left the safety of the bay, on a calm and blue sky afternoon, Papà ordered his son to turn the sailboat around, to Nick’s objections on the way back home, and when they first saw the international orange towers of the bridge, the waves began to swell above their heads, the winds howling as they slid into the bay water. Papà taught Nick about other things like the stars and how they were more than astrological signs, these pointed lights showing the right direction if one knew how to read them. Everything natural mattered to a fisherman and, like his father, if Nick couldn’t be on the water, he liked to be near the sea or above it, riding his bike on the walkway of any bridge.

  Nick’s eyes opened wide at the edge of his country, high above the smokestacks of a Cunard ocean liner entering the bay, and slowly hummed the melody of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” a song often played on the radio he loved to listen to at home in North Beach. It was as if the words were on a ball undulating on nature’s grey screen, before disappearing precipitant into the sea. Nick loved the tune but didn’t believe it was about him—an American-born guy, but still having that foreign look, that Mediterranean look—una faccia, una razza, an old Italo-Greek saying, “one face, one race.”

  Only nine days before, a cataract of black smoke had zigzagged in funnels across the sky of Pearl Harbor and Nick was stunned just like everyone else across America. Though over two thousand miles away from the Hawaii Territory, he knew that things in his life were never going to be the same and temporarily lost the ability to form lucid words about what was happening. He stammered sounds that echoed scant meaning, while his thoughts turned murky as the fog that encircled him, the remaining lyrics of that folk song opaque.

  There was a sudden clearing on the water underneath him and within a short while a US Naval destroyer cruised through the channel of the bay. Before it reached Fisherman’s Wharf, Nick pulled out his mother’s opera glasses to get a closer look. As the destroyer slowed down, it looked as if all the purse seiners were chugging away from the dock, one after the other, following the warship like ducklings to Treasure Island, his father’s being the last one, judging by its height and wide frame. When Nick could no longer see his father’s boat, he became anxious, as if the scene were some blurry mirage right out of a Hollywood movie. Surely it was a sleight of hand, a magician’s fingers sprinkling over a puff of smoke and all is vanished. But he could not mistake Papà’s boat. Five minutes later, Nick hopped on his maroon cruiser, designed to look like a motorcycle, and cycled as fast as his legs could pump, hitting his first hill near Fisherman’s Wharf. He dodged a trolley clanging him out of the way, made it to Columbus Avenue, turning left on Filbert Street, passing Saints Peter and Paul Church as he crossed himself and made it back home several blocks away.

  He carried his bike up the stairs and leaned it in the corner, then ran into their Victorian style house, calling out: “Mamma!”

  His mother, Lucia, came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Nicolo, chi cosa? Why you no in scuola?”

  “It’s a Reading Day before exams,” he said, rushing the words in between breaths.

  “Then, why you no study?”

  “Forget it, Mamma. You know I get high grades. For Christ’s sake, it’s about Papà! I saw him sailing away from the dock. All the fishing boats left.”

  “Allura,” she said, glancing at the wooden clock on the mantle. “Maybe they have to go to some place special to fixa them.”

  “It’s too early for something like that. Aren’t they supposed to sell off all the fish first?”

  Lucia averted her eyes from Nick. “Chi sacciu?” His mother had always relished life in the neighborhood, but suspicious things were happening all around her now and she didn’t seem to grasp it, or maybe it was her inbred, Sicilian survival skill when overwhelmed. She appeared smaller in her five foot two frame, streaks of gray suddenly poking through her black hair. His mother looked scared but wasn’t saying anything, always trying to protect her son.

  That afternoon the door creaked opened and his barrel-chested father walked in and, before he took his first step up the stairs, Lucia called out, while Nick stood behind her: “Gaetano, what happened to your boat?”

  “I saw you from the bridge, Papà,” Nick interrupted, as he w
atched his father speak with his eyes to Lucia, warning it was not the right time.

  “Somethin’ bad happened!” Lucia said, her hands on her hips.

  Gaetano plunked on the first step. “Nenti.”

  “Papà, I saw the destroyer.”

  “Since when does stranger tella you what to do with your boat?” Lucia insisted. “Who is this scanusciutu anyway?”

  “An officer from the Coast Guard spoke to me privately at the dock.” He looked at the wall. “The word spread around.”

  Her eyes widened. “You never have trouble with them before.”

  “Basta!” He flicked his fingers under his chin.

  “So when you get your boat back then?”

  “I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

  “You always saya that.”

  “Papà, were they looking for Japs?”

  “You read too many newspapers, figghiu miu.” His father grinned but Nick could see through his feigned expression, while Lucia placed her palm on her cheek as if she were holding up her face. “Allura, why don’t help your Mamma get ready for your birthday party tonight?” he said before climbing the stairs to wash away the reek of fish.

  Lucia turned towards Nick, looking even more fearful than before. “I didn’t want to tella your father to upset him, but Giuseppina next door told me that her husband was fired from his job on Montgomery Street. Somethin’ about his being Italian and the war. She only told me because I saw her cryin’ in the backyard.”

  “That’s pazzu, Mamma. When is the next shoe going to drop?” It pleased Nick that she shared her secret with him, something she would not have done before. His mother’s face looked flushed with grief, making his stomach feel weak, as if he might puke any minute. He tried to fathom his parents’ past life, bounced around like cargo poorly fastened to the deck, leaving the fishing village, Sciacca, in Western Sicily for the port of Palermo, then Naples, the ocean liner hub for the Americas, dropped off like baggage in Brooklyn, the gateway to the United States, and eventually third class by rail to the San Francisco Bay Area with plenty of fish filling his nets, now more quicksilver than all the silver that had come their way after such a long journey.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” She smiled. “I don’t need your help. It’s your special day—I can’t believe you’re eighteen. My handsome son.” She patted him on the face. “How did you ever get to be six feet, Madonna?” She left him standing alone in the living room. He turned on the radio, hoping to catch some big band jazz, anything to lighten up his ‘special day.’

  In the evening Gaetano instructed Nick to open the shed house. His crew had just arrived and he ordered his mates to step lively into the backyard, as if he were still on his purse seiner. His father twisted his bushy moustache, while the men brought in a makeshift table of long boards to be placed together over wooden horses, since the dining room table would not be long enough. Nick grabbed some of the heavier pieces under the watchful eye of his father.

  Zia Concetta had joined her sister in the kitchen but Lucia ruled her domain without a cookbook on the shelf. Everyone in the family, even the neighbors, agreed that Lucia’s sardine sauce was the best. Maria, Zia Concetta’s dark-haired daughter, maneuvered around the kitchen, rinsing, peeling and chopping. Nick peeked into the kitchen to assess the assembly line of ingredients for a menu of varied antipasti, the primo, pasta alla Norma for the children and pasta cu li sardi for the adults, to be followed by the secondo, featuring platters of both veal and swordfish spiedini with spinaci and patate alla siciliana as contorni, rounded off with espresso, fruits, nuts and gelato for the children. Ziu Francesco had made his own red wine from Primitivo grapes. Nick’s uncle carried a wooden crate of jugs from his cellar into their house, placing it on the floor of the kitchen, his bambini, little Francesco and his sister, Vincenza, in tow, gawking at the piles of food.

  As the guests settled around a table that now extended all the way into the living room, a parade of food followed. Nick felt it could have been a celebration for the feast of Santa Rosalia, judging by the excitement over the colorful display of food. He made it a point to be solicitous to the old Sicilian men, who reminded him of his father. He knew the fishermen did not want to mention aloud that their livelihood had just been abducted. That would be bad manners or worse, sfortuna—bad luck. No need for any malocchio, the evil eye, to ogle at Nick on his birthday. Instead, the fishermen spun tales and gestured their way through the past for Nick, tales of the Mediterraneo and the Pacific coast and how they were finally able to make good money in America, netting schools of sardines spotted in the dead of night by their telltale, phosphorescent glow.

  Nick devoured their stories, suspecting they might be the last he would ever hear, eyeing his father at the head of the table as he sat in silence. He was amazed that his father’s expression revealed no anxiety, but then who wanted to lose face in front of guests? Nick kept up with their wine consumption and prayed nothing embarrassing would spill out from all the banter. He swore he heard whispers in Sicilianu about the missing fishing boats, when all of sudden everyone raised their glasses to joyful cries of Buon compleanu! Cent’anni! Nicolo—sicilianu-americanu! He felt self-conscious everyone was celebrating in his honor, just because he happened to have been born. Nick panned the faces of his parents, relatives and paesani. Narcissism got the better of him. He wanted to freeze this friggin’ Frank Capra moment for what it was worth.

  After the espresso and Sambuca Manzi, Nick worked the table, lavishing attention on his uncle’s family, making the children, Francesco and Vincenza, giggle with light teasing. Cuginu Paul joined up with Nick when he went over to Maria. Nick held her hand. “Maria, you are a bella donna. I cannot believe my eyes. You have been sent from heaven to make the boys go wild.”

  Maria poked him. “Pregu, Nicolo, you are embarrassing me in front of everyone. You and my brother have been drinking too much of Papà’s wine.”

  “Come on, sis. Don’t be so snooty,” Paul interjected as he tugged her hair.

  “Leave her alone, cuginu. I started it.”

  “Why don’t we scram from here and hang one on?” Nick’s eyes brightened as Paul added in a low voice: “Maybe we’ll pick up a couple of broads for your birthday.” Maria got up in disgust and sat near her mother. “Let’s act like we’re looking for some more food in the kitchen and we’ll give everyone the slip. Whaddaya say, cuginu?” Paul blessed Nick’s forehead with wine like a priest spreading holy water in church.

  “Sure, why not?”

  The cugini hopped a bus on Columbus Avenue and zigzagged their way to Jack’s Tavern in the Lower Haight section, which was one of the few places in town that catered to Negroes. Nick looked around the crowded place dotted with cabaret tables lit by small table lamps, a cloud of smoke hanging over the customers’ heads and wafting its smell of nicotine mixed with a more pungent odor. It was cheaper to sit at the bar, so they plunked onto the bar stools, placing some cash on the counter. The Negro bartender gave Nick and Paul the once over but didn’t bother to proof them. The music set was just ending with a looser version of swing, not arranged like the big bands. Nick preferred swing any way it was played.

  “What’ll you all have tonight?”

  “A boiler maker,” Paul quipped as Nick frowned. “Ah, make that two for us.” Paul poked Nick in the ribs.

  “You want it mixed, young man, or a shot and a beer.”

  “Don’t mix it.”

  “We already had a lot of vinu, Paul,” Nick exclaimed as the bartender stepped away to pull the lever on the tap beer.

  “It’s your birthday, pal. We got a lot to celebrate.” They stared at each other in the oversized mirror hanging on the wall. The bartender placed the beers down and poured the whiskey. They clinked shot glasses and drank some. “Feels nice and warm inside, Nick. It’s been awhile since we spent some time together.”

  Nick drank his beer watching his cousin and he thought about growing up without siblings, one of the m
any things that made him feel different in North Beach, filled with large families of Italian immigrants, first coming from Genoa and Tuscany, followed by Sicily and Calabria. Emotional ties between Paul and him went way back. His cuginu was more like a brother, replete with all the ribbing, but once out of grammar school, Nick wound up in Saint Ignatius High School run by the Jesuits and Paul, Samuel Gompers Trade School, and that’s when things changed.

  Paul motioned to the bartender for another round, tapping his glass. As soon as the bartender set the drinks on the counter, they gulped them down.

  “Enlisted in the Army the other day.” Paul punched the palm of his hand. “Set the date.” The bartender wiped down the bar and pretended he wasn’t listening. The next set began and Paul bobbed his head to rhythm of R&B, leaning on the bar with his short, wiry frame.

  “You joined up!” Nick raised his voice over the music. “I thought you were going to wait till you got drafted.”

  “I was gonna surprise you with the news at the party, but didn’t wanna rain on your parade.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to help your father expand the business? Be a partner someday.”

  “Look, I wanna show everyone I’m a real American, not some guinea kid who thought Mussolini was a big deal.”

  “When you going in?”

  “June! Right after I graduate.”

  “You’re not going on some school trip, you know.” Paul looked away and Nick wondered how carefully his cousin thought this through. “I’ll buy the next round, cuginu.”

  “A double for me. So what are you gonna do?”

  “What?”

  “You know, Uncle Sam,” Paul shouted.

  Nick shrugged and lit up a Lucky Strike, as his cousin downed his double. Paul ordered several more shots for himself, but Nick waved off the bartender, nursing his second shot. About midway through the set, Paul staggered over to the side of the stage so he could get a better view of the drummer. A halo of smoke began to form above Nick’s head, while he pondered Paul’s declaration. Nick had mixed feelings about going to war against Italians. He really couldn’t figure out what he should do. He could hear Negroes in the audience slipping in calls of ‘play it’ to the musicians who added their own riffs. He welcomed the distraction until it wore off and ruminated some more—just wait to be called up and then sort things out. Though Nick admired Paul’s moxie, he wasn’t convinced he should follow him, in anything for that matter. He watched the Negro bartender cheerfully serving drinks, a face that revealed he must have been doing this a long time. When the band was finishing its last number, the bartender came over and asked Nick if he wanted another drink, but he shook his head no.