New York - The Novel

the speed of the work. As the vast steel framework climbed steadily into the sky, the bricklayers and stonemasons followed right behind it. The Empire State Building was going up almost a floor per day.
    Just then, a few floors up and to the left, a large iron girder swung silently into view. Sitting astride it were a couple of men.
    “There go the Injuns,” one of the gang remarked.
    There were scores of Mohawk Indians on the site. Whole families of them had learned their ironworking skills on Canada’s bridges half a century before. Now they had come down from their reservation to work on the skyscrapers of New York. Salvatore liked to watch the Mohawks sitting calmly on the girders as they were swung up to dizzying heights in the sky. There, they guided them into the building’s mighty frame, where the riveters, working in teams of four, went about their deafening work. The Mohawks and the riveters were some of the most highly paid men on the site.
    Salvatore’s own pay as a bricklayer was excellent: more than fifteen dollars a day. Most important of all, he was employed. For there were plenty of good men who couldn’t find work, these days.
    It was a strange irony. Just as the Empire State Building had started to go up, America itself had begun to stagger. The country wasn’t hit by another stock market crash—there was no sudden crisis—but like a boxer who has taken a series of heavy blows, and starts to lose his legs, the mighty American economy had finally begun to sag.
    From its April high, the stock market had given up its new year rally. Each day, as the Empire State Building went up another floor, the market went a little lower. Not a lot, just a little. But day after day, week after week, the market kept on falling. Its defenses were down; it had given up the fight; it no longer saw any reason to rise. By summer, credit was getting tight. Companies were laying people off; companies were failing. Quietly, steadily, it just went on and on.
    Of course, many people declared that things would soon get better, that the market was now undervalued, and the economy still sound. Like seconds in the corner, they were shouting at their man to keep his gloves up. But their man was giving ground, and he seemed to have lost his heart. Wherever jobs were to be had, there were long lines waiting for them.
    At eleven o’clock, Salvatore noticed a silver Rolls-Royce passing down Fifth Avenue. He remembered the lady with the silver Rolls who’d once taken him and Anna to Gramercy Park, and wondered if it was the same person.

    As it happened, it was. Far below, Rose had just remarked to a friend: “When I think of my poor Mrs. Astor—and I mean
the
Mrs. Astor, of course—and that hotel they put on her house … Well, that was bad enough, but now they’re building this huge, dreadful
thing
…” She turned her head away from the site. “I won’t look at it,” she declared.

    When lunchtime came, most of the men went down to the base of the building, where an excellent cafeteria had been provided. Only the Italian workers stayed away. They knew that only Italian food, prepared by Italian hands, was edible. They brought their own lunches.
    Salvatore had just put some ham and mozzarella on a piece of bread when he looked out over the edge of the building again. A few floors above, the stone setters were at work on the outer face of the building, on a duckwalk suspended from above. Just below him was another line of suspended scaffolding, to catch anything that fell, and about fifteen floors below that, a second line of netting. There had been very few injuries on the huge site so far. Nobody had fallen off the outside.
    He was gazing down at the netting far below when he caught sight ofUncle Luigi. He was standing, perilously, in the middle of Fifth Avenue while the traffic went past him. He was waving his arms like a lunatic.
    The news had come. It didn’t take Salvatore long to reach his uncle, who embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks.
    “The child is born, Salvatore. All is well.”
    “Bene. Another girl?” Angelo and Teresa had produced a baby girl within a year of their marriage. They had called her Anna.
    “No, Salvatore. It’s a boy. A boy for the Caruso family.”
    “Perfetto
. We shall drink to him tonight.”
    “You’d better.” Uncle Luigi beamed. “He will be called Salvatore. They want you to be his godfather.”

    William Master didn’t go straight home that evening. Walking up