As she watches Julia and Robbie sleep, Antonia feels an internal keening: a primal, physical tug from her low belly that turns to quick tears before she is conscious of the feeling. She would like to cover their bodies with her body. She would like to cut off her arms and legs one by one and feed herself to the children sleeping in her apartment. She has just turned twenty-four.
Antonia misses Carlo. The mourning comes in waves. Robbie has Carlo’s nose, the set of his eyes. As she sees him more and more often in her son, Antonia finally understands that something has been stolen from her. Something irreplaceable. She does not know what to do with this feeling, so she cleans her home, reminding herself of Lina, scrubbing at wooden floors that were stained long before their family lived in the apartment. There is nothing to be done about this. So she stays awake and dreams, or sleeps dreamlessly, restlessly, wondering about the alternate possible versions of her own life. What she has control over, what she’s missed her chance at, and what will happen regardless of anything she decides.
She imagines being able to melt into molten anger like Sofia. How comforting, to direct a stream of fire in every direction. How final, to condense what is desperation and love and nostalgia into rage. Antonia imagines that rage would feel like action. It would feel like forward motion.
She feels so still.
* * *
—
Now if they stand shoulder to shoulder with other Family men, Paolo and Saul are indistinguishable from the old hands around them. This time four years ago they were so green they leaked sap; they were bright and awkward; a half-step behind. But fatherhood has added gravity to both of their silhouettes; experience has written lines on their faces, and as 1947 passes, Paolo and Saul find themselves steeped in routine.
When the war ended, the job changed. Somehow, and against all of his intention, Paolo has ended up in a mostly-for-show office on Nevins Street, where he spends his days tapping pen against paper and coming up with business ideas that range from dog grooming for aging Upper East Side socialites to intercepting ocean liners and hustling the passengers out of a few bucks in return for a tour of the city. For an hour a day, he alters the books that let the Family pay taxes without disclosing where their money comes from; Luigio Travel does a hefty business. At the end of the week, he turns his notebooks over to Joey and says, I think I’ve got some good ones here, boss. And Joey, out of pity or generosity, continues to pay Paolo the same as he did when Paolo was an indispensable forger during the war. And so Paolo fights a never-ending and vicious battle between the part of himself who is comforted and relieved to sink into the same set of tasks week after week, and the part of himself who dreamed of something bigger. Who thought it, whatever it was, would feel like more, when he got there.
* * *
—
During the day, now, Saul waits outside cafés while Joey takes meetings, or he is paired with an older Uncle, and asked to remind someone of their debt, which usually means punching the indebted man in the jaw a couple of times and asking about his children; occasionally twisting a wrist or brandishing a switchblade and threatening the loss of a finger.
Saul misses the ferry ride to Ellis Island, the soft German he could speak to reassure the families he was meeting, the ease with which he could help them. Speak English, not German, he would tell them. They’ll spell your surname wrong. Let them. Don’t cough. Stand up straight. Now that it’s over, Saul wonders why his interaction with those families ended where it did: at the other side of the Ellis Island ferry, as he handed them brown paper packets filled with falsified degrees and resumes and letters of recommendation with which they could start over as Americans. He wonders who they were: families so desperate they paid their weight in gold for a few false documents and a promise; once, a teenage girl, alone, who told him her family had sold their jewelry for her ticket. When will they be able to come? she asked, and Saul had said, don’t cough or touch your face when you get to the front of the line. Use only the first syllable of your surname. Weeks passed when he told this to four families, nine. Why didn’t you run after them, beg them to ask their relatives about your mother, kiss the hands that had touched European soil? Love for a place that wants you dead is an evolving beast.
With the end of the war, though, came the end of that job. And soon Saul found himself immersed in what anyone would call the scrap work of paid goons. Now his levelheaded stare, his impeccable work ethic, and his ability to close the door behind his face and fit in anywhere, while answering no questions, are all qualities that make him an intimidating and efficient errand runner.