27. Maria #2
“Sounds worse than it was,” he says. “Actually, it was far better than those ties they’d put on me before.
Those things were vicious. Practically cut off my circulation.
With the chains, my ankles and wrists were fairly loose and I could move around, and even do stuff.
There was a porta-potty thing in one corner, and the mattress to lie on.
I could see out of the window, but the windows themselves were all secured by a metal mesh, and of course the door was locked from the outside, so I couldn’t go anywhere.
Also, I could see I was on the fifth floor, so there was no chance of attracting anybody’s attention down below in the street, and opposite was a church, so that was no good either.
So, then I just had to sit around and wait. ”
“What about food?”
“The guards brought me food. Actually, excellent food… all Italian. All cooked to perfection. I don’t know who Tony had working in his kitchen, but he knew his stuff. Oh, my darling…” he turns to me, smiling. “The risotto al tartufo was to die for!”
“That’s truffle risotto.” I tell the boys.
“Oh yes,” says Abe. “I remember Sandro mentioning truffle oil to me once before. That was just after he’d expertly dismantled and reassembled my SR-25, as I recall.”
Grant and Regan look from Abe to Sandro, and then stare at each other, but Papa just smiles blandly back at him, like it was nothing.
“What I want to know,” says Regan. “Is what happened to Tony.” Grant nods at that. “And how come Sandro was in the listening room, instead of the basement.”
“Yeah,” growls Abe. “Spent fucking ages searching that basement. Jesus, the amount of junk they had down there was unbelievable. And the place was huge.”
“I’m coming to that part, boys,” Sandro sips more tea and then continues his narrative.
“Of course, as soon as I saw the church, I knew exactly where I was.” He continues.
“You can’t be a good Italian-American and live in Brooklyn for as long as I have without having visited all the churches in the district at least once—at least, not the Roman Catholic ones.
” He chuckles at this. “But this church I knew very well. Saint Nicholas, it’s called.
Sal—Tony’s papa—had been an altar boy there, and I’ve attended many services over the years, including Sal’s confirmation.
“So, anyway, like I said, I knew exactly where I was—I was in Sal’s house, which of course was now Tony’s house. But what good was that? I was trapped on the fifth floor, with no chance of escaping, and no way of communicating with you… or anyone else, for that matter.”
“So, what did you do?” asks Regan, breathlessly.
“What could I do? I did the one and only thing that I was able to do. Luckily for me, I’m pretty good at it.”
“What was that?”
“I waited.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, seriously. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
“But… something must’ve happened.”
“Exactly. That’s the joy of waiting, son.” He chuckles. “Life’s not all about actually doing stuff,” he explains, “It’s also about being ready to do it, when the opportunity arises.”
“Wow,” says Regan, sitting back in his chair. “You know what…? That’s actually quite profound.” He seems genuinely impressed, and I smile at Papa and squeeze his hand to show him he has my support… if he needs it, though he seems to be doing just fine on his own.
“Yes,” says Grant. “Agreed. But… you do still have to act when the time is right. And Tony held all the aces.”
“No,” says Papa. “Not quite all.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you see… there was one ace that Tony didn’t have.”
“How could you know that?” Grant asks.
“Because—in a nutshell—I had it.”
“What? What ace?”
“I knew something he didn’t. His papa knew.
I mean… it wasn’t a secret, or anything, but I guess we never saw the relevance, never saw a need for the next generation to know about it.
Neither did I. I wasn’t proud of what I did…
or perhaps…” His eyes grow misty as he looks back across the decades. “Perhaps I was… just a little.”
“Proud of what, Papa?” I am completely confused. What on Earth can he be talking about?
He turns to me now, cups my face in his hands.
“Ah, Maria, cara mia,” he smiles affectionately.
“I wanted you to know least of all. You only knew me as an artisan—a restorer and tuner of old pianos. That’s how I wanted you to see me.
Not as… well, not as someone who takes life away, but someone who breathes new life into things…
into pianos. Someone who helps the world to be a better place.
Someone who helps people to play great music from composers like Palestrina, Monteverdi, Vivaldi, and Rossini… and of course Verdi and Puccini.
I gaze at him, uncertain what he is talking about.
“You, see, amore, when I was a young man—still a boy, really—and before I ever met your mother… there was some trouble back in Italy.” He takes another sip of tea, and hands his glass back for a refill.
“Well…,” he says. “I suppose maybe now is as good a time as any for the whole truth,” says Sandro quietly, turning the glass of iced tea slowly between his fingers.
“Perhaps I’d better start a little further back than that. ” He settles comfortably in his chair.
“You boys already figured out I was not always just some harmless old piano tuner.”
“That crossed our minds,” says Regan dryly.
Sandro smiles faintly.
“My father came from Italy after the war. Naples originally. He settled in Brooklyn and made a good living restoring and tuning pianos. Old-world craftsmanship. He believed a man should work with his hands and leave something beautiful behind him when he died.”
“And you?” asks Grant.
“Oh, I learned the trade. Since I was a little boy. But…” He shrugs.
“I was seventeen in 1978. Brooklyn was full of Italian-Americans talking about what was happening back home. Terrorism. Bombings. Corruption. Kidnappings. Politicians getting murdered in the streets. The Red Brigades. Fascists. Communists. Mafia. The whole damned country seemed to be tearing itself apart.”
“The Years of Lead,” says Abe quietly.
Sandro nods once, clearly impressed.
“Yes. Exactly. And to young men like me…” He spreads his hands. “It felt personal. Italy was not just some place our grandparents came from. It was our blood. Our history. Our people. And I hated seeing her humiliated.”
“So, you joined up,” says Grant.
“Oh yes.” Sandro smiles at the memory. “The second I turned eighteen, I went to Italy and enlisted in the Folgore.”
“The Folgore?” asks Maria.
“The Folgore Parachute Brigade,” says Abe immediately. “Italian airborne.”
Sandro points at him. “See? This one reads books.”
Regan snorts into his tea.
“We called them the Devils in the old days,” Sandro continues. “Very proud regiment. Special Forces. Hard men. Hard training. No room for weakness.”
“You saw combat?” asks Grant.
Sandro’s expression changes slightly then. Not darker exactly. Just older.
“Yes.”
Nobody interrupts him.
“Lebanon mostly. Early eighties. Peacekeeping, officially.” He gives a soft, cynical laugh. “Funny thing about peacekeeping. Everybody usually arrives armed to the teeth.”
“What happened?” asks Maria softly.
“There was an ambush.” Sandro stares out through the kitchen window for a moment, remembering it. “Roadside explosives. Small arms fire from rooftops. Chaos everywhere. Civilians screaming. Smoke. Dust. One of our vehicles caught fire.”
“You pulled men out,” says Abe quietly.
Sandro glances at him again.
“Yes.” A pause. “Two of them. One lived. The other…”
Nobody speaks.
“For that, they gave me this very shiny medal and shook my hand while photographers took pictures.” He smiles faintly. “The Medaglia d’Argento al Valor Militare. Silver Medal for Military Valor.”
Even Grant looks impressed by that.
“But I also caught some shrapnel through my side and shoulder. Nothing glorious about that part. Hurt like hell. They shipped me back to Italy, back to a clean, white hospital bed.” Again, his eyes grow soft as he remembers back.
“There was this one nurse… oh, they were all pretty things. And they took excellent care of us. But this particular nurse, well… she was… special. And we saw quite a bit of each other, whilst I was recovering. So, we grew close.”
“So that’s how you met Maria’s mother.” says Regan.
Sandro’s entire face softens.
“Yes.” His voice becomes quieter now. “Lucia.”
Even Maria smiles hearing the name.
“She was a nurse. Tiny little thing. Bossy as hell.” He chuckles softly. “Terrified of absolutely nothing. She used to sneak extra espresso into my room because she said hospital coffee was an insult to civilization.”
“That sounds about right,” murmurs Maria.
“She told me one day, very directly, that she would never marry a soldier because soldiers belonged to death before they belonged to their families.”
The kitchen falls quiet.
“And she made me promise,” Sandro continues softly. “No more guns. No more war. No more uniforms. She said if I wanted a life with her, then I had to choose life properly.”
“And you did,” says Grant.
“Oh yes.” Sandro smiles sadly. “Because by then I loved her more than Italy. More than medals. More than glory. More than anything.”
Maria reaches over and quietly takes his hand.
“So, I came home. And Lucia came too. Finished my apprenticeship under my father. Learned to restore Steinways properly. Learned patience. Precision. Delicacy.” He smiles faintly.
“Turns out piano restoration and soldiering are not as different as you might think. Both require discipline. Steady hands. Attention to detail.”
“And the medal?” asks Abe.
“Hidden away somewhere.” Sandro shrugs. “Lucia hated it. Said medals were just pretty little pieces of metal given to young men after older men sent them into hell.”
“Jesus,” mutters Regan.
“She wasn’t wrong,” says Abe quietly.
Silence settles over the kitchen for a moment.
“Then Maria came along.” Sandro squeezes her hand gently. “And Lucia…” His voice falters slightly for the first time. “Well. You know the rest.”
Maria nods quietly.
“I buried my wife,” Sandro says softly. “Raised my daughter. Tuned my pianos. Kept my promise. And for over twenty-five years, I never carried a weapon again.”
Grant studies him carefully across the table.
“Until now.”
Sandro meets his eyes.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Until now.”
“And because Tony didn’t know your background, he underestimated you,” says Grant, smiling widely, and Sandro smiles back.
“It never pays to underestimate your enemy,” he says.
“Of course, Tony had only ever seen me as a half drunk old piano restorer. An old drunkard with one foot already in the grave. Ha!” He chuckles, cynically.
“From Tony’s perspective, he was probably more concerned with keeping me alive long enough to make the swap, than with any remote possibility of me being a danger to him. ” He leans forwards in his chair.
“And he’d have been right too—a few weeks ago, that is. Before I came here… well I was indeed drinking myself into an early death, and relying entirely on this little one... “Here, he rubs my shoulder, affectionately. “For everything.”
“So, what happened, for fuck’s sake? What happened in the house?”
“Alright, alright. The house.” We all lean forwards, eager to hear what Papa has to say.
“As to your question about the basement, Abe,” he turns to Abe who acknowledges Papa’s glance with a nod. “Well, that I can’t really help you with. All I can tell you is—like I already said—when I woke up, I was already up in that fifth-floor room.”
“We saw the chains there.” Grant confirms.
“Yeah, well, as I’ve said… being young and foolish—as perhaps we all are when we’re young—he underestimated me. It was a natural thing to do. And all the time, I was waiting, waiting, waiting. One slip up, one half chance. That would be all I needed.
“And then, you guys came through the door.” He laughs.
“That got Tony’s attention alright. Well, there was smoke everywhere.
Loud bangs going off. People screaming. Everyone was running around, guns out, shouting orders, and generally panicking.
Tony came bounding up the stairs. Told all his security men to get down there and kill the intruders, then locked himself up there with me. ”
“And of course, that was his mistake.” Grant grins.
“Precisely. I didn’t wait. As soon as he stepped towards me, I threw myself at him. We went down with a thump, and struggled together on the ground. But by then I had one of my chains around his neck. After that… well, after that he went quiet. Very quiet.”
We all fell silent for a moment, contemplating Papa’s words.
“You did the right thing,” I tell Papa softly.
“I’d promised your mother, Maria. All those years ago. Made a solemn vow never to pick up a weapon, never to kill anyone ever again. But…” his voice breaks off.
“But you had to, Papa. He would’ve killed you if you hadn’t.”
“Yeah. My best friend’s son, Tony Moretti.
I’d been there for his baptism, and I’d watched the boy grow up.
Oh, he was a bad ’un from the start. Always proud, always playing the big man, yet never quite pulling it off, if you understand me.
Sure, people followed him, but their loyalty was only out of fear and money.
Not like Sal. His men were loyal out of love, honor, and duty.
” Papa sighs. “Sal knew. In his heart of hearts. He put on a brave face, of course. Tried to fool himself that the kid would somehow grow up, grow out of it. He never said anything, but I’m fairly certain he knew.
He was reluctant to hand over the business, I know that much.
” He again looks away, into space, his hands cupping his glass.
He’s silent for a long moment, then, eventually, he stirs, looks around him.
“I never thought I’d have to kill again.
Certainly, never dreamed it would be my best friend’s only son.
But sometimes… well, sometimes you have to deal with things as they are.
” He shifts in his seat. Stretches his shoulders, as if he’s been too long in one position, and then he looks at us all and smiles his ordinary, everyday smile.
“So that’s my story. The keys to my chains were in Tony’s pocket.
I knew you’d eventually find your way up to the top of the building, so, as I didn’t have a gun, I thought the best thing I could do is keep out of the way, and pay my respects to my old friend Sal.
So, I went and listened to some of his music in his listening room, whilst I waited. You know the rest.”