THE EVIL THAT MEN DO

4th Part

Photo by Patrick Schneider on Unsplash

I left the broom closet as quickly as I could—closing the door like a whispered secret between children—running down the hall just in time to see the man pushing the button for the lift. He looked directly at me as I approached signora Rabizzi’s door. It was the man who collected money from all the shop-owners. He was a tall man with movie star looks, and I nodded at him as I knocked on the door.

“She’s a little busy, kid,” he said with not unfriendly smile. “You’re Lorenzo’s boy, aren’t you?” he asked. “Yea, I thought so. You’re a dead ringer for him.”

“Si,” I said softly, waiting.

“No honest, you look just like him. How’s Fatima? She’s your Zia, right?”

“Si. You know her? Of course, you do,” I said, looking right at him, and he nodded. He had striking blue eyes the colour of the sea; with thin-arching eyebrows and high cheekbones. He had a touch of grey which seemed to add something to his features. And he had that friendly smile.

“I know her,” he said with a nod. “I’ve known her a lot. Very well,” he added with another smile and a quick barking laugh. “Tell her Giovanni says hello.”

“Giovanni?”

“That’s right. Giovanni Scaramucci.”

The door opened and signora Rabizzi stood looking at the man as he waited for the lift—and then she looked at me. She pulled me in without saying a word, slamming the door shut. I could hear him laughing through the thin door as the elevator reached the floor at the same time. She had her back against the door and was fighting back tears. She kicked at the door for added measure, and I wondered what that was all about. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. I could see a large red mark on her neck from where Scaramucci had choked her earlier.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I heard a scream.”

“Did you?” she asked, still leaning against the door, maybe thinking he might try to come back in. In a moment, the lift stopped and we heard the gate as he slid it open, and then closed.

“It was him, wasn’t it?”

“Never mind him. You stay away from him. In fact, don’t you ever let me catch you talking to him,” she added as she pushed herself away from the door. She straightened her skirt and ran her hands through her hair as she made her way into the tiny kitchen.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why? Because he’s Mafiaosa,” she said, stopping and turning to look at me before walking into the tiny kitchen once again. I followed her and sat down. The kitchen was always clean and tidy, the red and white tiled floor creaking under her bare feet as she walked to the refrigerator. I watched the afternoon light coming in through a narrow window, glistening off the chrome of the red vinyl chairs, as well as the table. There was a small vase of flowers in the middle of the table, and place mats in front of the four chairs.

“How do you know he’s mafiosa?” I’d never met anyone who was in the mafia, and I told her as much.

“You don’t need to talk to him. He’s a corruption.” She seemed to spit the word out and suddenly I was wondering why he was choking her.

“Why was he choking you? I thought he was your friend.”

“A man like him? He has no friends—not on this block,” she said, opening the refrigerator door. She took out a large jug of milk and poured a glass for me, putting it on the table. “Did you eat? I can make you a sandwich,” she said, not waiting for me to answer.

“I had a piece of chicken,” I said.

“And? That’s it? A piece of chicken?” she said, looking in the refrigerator. “Let me make you something to eat,” she added.

“He said he knew my father. Did he know my father?” I asked, as she dug things out of the refrigerator.

“Why would you ask me something like that?” she asked, sorting through the leafy greens spread out on the table.

“He asked me if I was his son, but he already knew the answer. Why would he ask me, if he already knows that I know?”

“Stay away from him,” she said again, cutting two thick slices from a loaf of fresh bread. She buttered the bread and slathered them both with mayonnaise. She cut up a tomato and put the pieces on one of the slices, then opened the refrigerator again and took out deli meat I was almost certain she’d bought just for me. She also took out a head of lettuce.

“Why do you know him? And Zia? He said he knew her as well.”

“How old are you now?” she said, slicing the sandwich in half and putting it on a plate she set in front of me.

“Sixteen.”

She stood against the wall, looking at me as I bit into the sandwich. She ran a hand through her hair again and then turned around and left the room. I watched her as she went into the bedroom, leaving the door open as she picked up her hairbrush and pulled it through her hair. She threw the hairbrush down and then turned to look at me through the open door; there were tears in her eyes. She picked up a scarf and tied it around her head, tucking the loose strands of hair into place before wiping her face clean and coming back into the small kitchen.

She pulled out a chair and sat down.

I ate my sandwich.

“His family are mafiosa,” she said a moment later. “They have been for five generations, now. Five. I never understood how people could let someone else rule their lives. How do they let that happen? It’s because they don’t have the same hunger. His father was padrino in this area, before the war. Do you know what that is?”

I nodded as I ate.

“He was one of the mobsters picked up during the war and that was the last we saw of him. Mussolini promised he’d destroy the camorristi, but he was no better than they were; not in the long run. Gino somehow stayed out of the war. He fought with the Germans when they first took over, with your father, and my Niccolo. Your father saved Gino’s life.”

“Why does everyone hate him so much?”

“Men like him…” She looked at me for a moment, and paused. Maybe she was re-thinking what she was going to say, or maybe it was something else entirely—a memory of her husband perhaps? I don’t know. I wanted her to tell me about my father. What he did, as much as I wanted to know why he did what he did. It wasn’t my business to say anything. How did my father know a man like Giovanni Scaramucci?

“What happened to your husband?” I asked.

“I told you, he was sent out to the Russian Front. Stalingrad. Gino could’ve hidden him away—like he did for himself and your father—but he only thinks about what’s best for him.”

“But why?” I said, talking around a bite of my sandwich; I washed it down with a hasty gulp of milk and looked at her.

“Things were…different here, during the war. There wasn’t enough food for one thing, not unless you were involved in the Black Market.”

“What’s that? The Black Market?”

“That’s where people sell contraband. They sell food, and blankets, even clothes for the winter. Anything you want, or need, you get on the Black Market. But the mafiosa ran the Black Market—everyone paid what they owed to Gino. The same way they do today. But if you didn’t have lira to pay, there were other ways of paying.”

“What other ways?”

She paused again, looking at me closely.

“I really shouldn’t say any more. I’ve said too much already.”

“You haven’t told me anything,” I said.

“Stay away from him,” she said, and stood up.

Photo by Alex Blăjan on Unsplash

Benjamin Messenger came across as a man who enjoyed his solitude, or so it appeared to me; whether he separated himself from people because of his injuries, or it was simply who he was, I never did figure out. But I’d watch him coming into the kitchen every morning to have the small continental breakfast signora Rabizzi offered all her guests—as well as me—before going back to his room and playing his violin in what seemed like an endless loop. The music he played was hypnotic, and it was always the same heart-wrenching piece: The Meditation, by Massenet. Sometimes, he’d start in the middle of the piece, playing the same bars over and over, for what seemed like hours. It didn’t matter where he started though, the music would drift through the halls, down the lift, through the open windows to the street outside, where people walking to work were used to hearing it. Momma and Zia would often hum the tune as they prepared for their day.

It came as something of a surprise when I went down to the shop later to finish with my chores, only to find Benjamin Messenger standing in the alleyway behind the shop, playing his violin. I sat on one of the three chairs in the back, near a stack of old crates, watching him. He had his eyes closed as he played, and I could see how transfixed he was as he hit the high notes, letting them hang in the air around him. The music hung on him like a wreathe, or maybe a halo. The sun bathed him in both light and shadows—like an ethereal vision one might see in a painting.

“Do you like it?” Momma asked me, and I nodded.

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I said.

Benjamin Messenger opened his eyes and looked at me. He smiled and stopped playing, tucking the violin under his arm and stepping into the back room where I sat with Momma. Zia was out front, dealing with customers. We could hear her, laughing and teasing the customers until they finally left. She came into the back room once the customers were gone, taking the echo of the bell hanging over the door with them.

“You did all my work,” I said to Benjamin Messenger as he sat down on one of the three chairs. The chairs were placed around a small table pushed up against the wall. I stood up and was quick to offer my chair to Zia when she came into the back room. She took it without saying anything, looking at Benjamin Messenger closely as I propped myself up on the empty crates. I could see Benjamin Messenger smile at her, but Zia turned away, ignoring him.

“It was the least I could do,” he said, looking distracted. “The acoustics down here are amazing, don’t you think? That’s why I moved the crates. They were muffling the sound. I didn’t think you’d mind if I brought them in.”

There was a strange silence that seemed to fill the room.

“Did you eat?” Momma asked me. “I left some chicken in the ice box for you.” Momma never called it the refrigerator, telling me it was always called the ice box when she was a child.

“I did,” I smiled. “And then I went to see signora Rabizzi and she made me a sandwich.”

“She did? Why? Didn’t you tell her you’d already eaten?”

“I think she just did it because she needed something to do. Signore Scaramucci was leaving when I got there.”

“Scaramucci?” Zia said, spitting the man’s name out. “That bastard.”

“He said he knew you. And Papà. He said he knew him, too. Is that true? He said I look like him.”

“I don’t want you talking to him,” Momma said.

“That’s what signora Rabizzi said,” I laughed. “She also said he was mafiosa. Is that true?”

“He’s a bad man,” Momma nodded, as if her saying he was a bad man was explanation enough.

“She said Papà saved him during the war.”

Momma nodded.

“She also said her husband died because he refused to help him like he did Papà. Is that true?”

Momma nodded again.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You don’t need to know. It was a long time ago,” Zia said. “Everything that happened, was a long time ago,” and I could see her looking at Benjamin Messenger, as if she was saying it to him. “It’s better that you don’t know.”

“Why? I’m sixteen. When were you planning to tell me? Or were you ever going to tell me? Don’t I have a right to know how my father died?”

“No! You don’t!” Zia said.

“Why? Did he die in the war?” I asked.

“You know he didn’t,” Zia said. “You were born after the war. You do know how babies are made, don’t you?”

“I have an idea,” I said, feeling the blood rush to my face.

“An idea?” she laughed. “Even signore Messenger knows it’s not something you have an idea about.”

“Why are you changing the subject?” I asked.

“I’m not changing the subject.”

“You’re not? I asked how my father died, not how babies are made.”

“And I told you to never mind,” she replied.

“No,” I said, looking at Momma. “It’s not enough,” I said. “I need to know what happened.”

“Well, it’s all we’re going to tell you,” Zia said.

“And I said it’s not enough. You can’t tell me not to talk to someone, or ask questions about my father, and not have a reasonable explanation for it.”

“She gave you one. He’s a bad man,” Zia said quickly.

“Yes. Of course he is, but that’s still not an answer,” I said, shaking my head.

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get.”

“Momma?” I said, turning to look at her. “I’m sixteen. How old do I have to be before you tell me what happened?”

Momma stared at me before she finally nodded.

“Your father was murdered,” she said, looking at Zia.

“No!” Zia said, standing up and knocking the chair over.

“Why?” I said.

“You don’t need to know why,” Zia said, looking at Momma and shaking her head. “He doesn’t need to know this. You can’t tell him!”

“He was mafiosa,” Momma said softly.

“Why?” Zia said. “Why would you tell him that? He doesn’t need to know that. Why couldn’t you just lie?”

“Lie? All our life since that day has been a lie,” Momma said. “ ‘Don’t go to the polizia,’ you said. 'These things have a way of working themselves out.’ Well, it hasn’t changed, has it? He’s old enough to know the truth. He deserves that much at least.”

“It’s not your story to tell,” Zia said, tears coming to her eyes.

Momma turned away from Zia and looked straight at me. “Your father was not a good man.”

“Did he kill people?” I asked. “That’s what you do when you’re mafiosa, isn’t it? You kill people?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “He wouldn’t tell me even if he did. He said it was better that way. Why would he tell me anything?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I countered.

“Because it’s a man’s world,” Zia said.

“That’s what you always say.”

So this was a little longer than what I usually put up. I hope you took the time to READ it. Why don’t you leave me a heart and let me know you were here? Have any questions? Ask me in the comments.

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