New York - The Novel

pleased to hear this, but he bowed his head respectfully.
    “And this young man,” Caruso turned to little Angelo, “do you learn things at school?”
    Angelo might be dreamy, but he did well at school. In fact, he could already read better than his elder brothers. He also had a talent for drawing. He was too shy to say anything, so his mother informed the great man of these facts, while Salvatore, who couldn’t see that Angelo’s talents did him any good, made a conspiratorial face at Paolo. So he was a bit taken aback by the next question.
    “And your brother Salvatore, is he kind to you?”
    There was a pregnant silence. Then Angelo burst into life.
    “No,” he cried loudly, “my brother is not kind to me.”
    Paolo thought this was funny, but Caruso did not, and he rounded upon Salvatore.
    “Shame on you.”
    “Anna looks after Angelo,” his mother interceded, not wanting the great man to think that her youngest child was neglected. But though he nodded, Caruso’s attention remained on Salvatore.
    “Your brother is a dreamer, Salvatore. He is not so strong as you. But who knows, he may be a thinker, a priest, a great artist. You are his big brother. You should protect him. Promise me you will be kind to your brother.”
    At that moment, Salvatore was ready to give Angelo a beating, but all the same he felt himself go very red, and promise, “Yes, Signor Caruso.”
    “Good.” From nowhere, the great man produced a chocolate and gave it to Salvatore. “This is for you only, Salvatore, so that you remember you have promised me to be kind to your brother.” He held out his hand, so that Salvatore had to shake it.
“Ecco
. He has promised.” He looked at them all, just as seriously as if he had signed a legal contract.
    And Salvatore looked at little Angelo, whose eyes were now very round, and at the tenor, and at his family, and secretly cursed his fate. Now what was he going to do?

    It did not take long for the news to travel. Within a day, the whole of Little Italy seemed to know that the Carusos had had a family meal with the great tenor. Giovanni Caruso was wise, though. When people said to him,“So the great Caruso is your relation?” he only laughed and said: “There are many Carusos. We are a tribe, not a family.” In this way, people were soon saying: “Giovanni Caruso does not admit that they are related, yet Caruso himself treats him like a brother. No smoke without fire.” By half denying the relationship, therefore, he made people suspect it existed. Even their landlord, seeing him in the street one day, stopped Giovanni with a smile and asked him to be sure to let him know if there was any little favor he could do him.
    As for Salvatore, he felt obliged to be kind to little Angelo. To Paolo, of course, this was an opportunity for harmless fun. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t persecute Angelo by taking an apple away from him, or stealing one of his boots, and gleefully telling the little boy: “Don’t worry, your brother Salvatore will get it back for you.” Angelo had to fight him several times.
    He was scarcely aware of the financial panic on Wall Street the following month. Such things had nothing to do with the poor folk on the Lower East Side. Then Uncle Luigi came by and said that one of the
banchiste
who dined frequently at the restaurant had lost a lot of money, his own and his clients’. “I hope your Signor Rossi is all right,” he had said. “Signor Rossi is far too clever to make any mistakes,” Giovanni Caruso had answered. But later that day Salvatore had seen his father looking worried.
    Two days later, his father went out to see the
banchista
. When he returned, his face was ashen. He went up on the roof to talk alone to Concetta, and Salvatore heard his mother scream. When the family was all together in the little apartment that evening, Giovanni broke it to them.
    “Signor Rossi has lost everything. All his clients’ money. It is very complicated, and many others are in the same situation, but our savings are gone. We must start again.”
    “It’s a lie,” cried their mother. “Money can’t disappear like that. He has stolen it.”
    “No, Concetta, I assure you. Rossi has lost most of his own money as well. He told me, he hardly knows how he will eat.”
    “You believe him? Don’t you see, Giovanni, what he is doing? He will wait a while, then he will disappear with all the money. He is laughing at you, Giovanni, behind your