Road to Rome

Unlike his father, Marco Costa was not religious.

The mother decided it was America's fault, and Marc was her first and only American-born child.Marco's eldest sister was already eight years old when she came to New York. She has always been protected in the small circle of Italian immigrants, and she still doesn't speak English very well.The elder sister spoke to her parents in a Neapolitan dialect as fast as a wild horse, which Marco could barely understand, but it was not "his" language after all, only the faint echoes of a strange land.The Costa son grew up in the port and learned to say "fuck you," "ass" and "bitch" in five different languages ​​long before he could read or write.As you can imagine, the parents did not appreciate this precocious language ability and sent their son to Catholic school before he was fully a sailor.It was probably at that school that Mark broke with the Church for good.

However, people could not find any real evidence of Mark’s dislike of the church.Ever since he could walk, he has gone to the same church with his family every Sunday.According to the handwritten notice posted on the gate, Mass in Italian at 10 am and Mass in English at 30:45.The Costa family always arrived at [-]:[-], even the week their father was arrested.Marco sat on his mother's right, on the side of the aisle.The rest of the benches are occupied by my sister, her husband, a leather merchant, and a growing number of nephews.Outwardly, the Costa son was always well-groomed, never tired of his sermons, and smiling at the end of Mass, and the whole parish of girls—and maybe a few boys— — have all ruminated over Marco Costa's dimples on the way home at least once.

Moreover, it is difficult to argue logically that the son of the Costa family hates the church.Doesn't this family sprinkle money into the Catholic Church like it sprays lawns, and keep priests deep in their pockets?It’s no secret that after the 1932 flood season, the Costa family generously renovated the parish priest’s residence, patching the roof and covering the cost of two new stained windows.In the following year, all the electric lights were replaced for the church, a pipe organ was purchased, and an organist was hired by the way, because "Mr. Costa likes the sound of the pipe organ, which reminds him of his hometown."Since 1935, the costs of flowers adorning the altar every Sunday, drinks and meals at Bible seminars, and excursions for choir children have all been billed to the Costa family.Even if anyone has an opinion about the source of the money, they are embarrassed to speak up.

Watching the priest flee from the pier, Marco is pretty sure this is the last time they will see each other.The church is like a miserly old dragon, now and then peeling off a tiny shiny scale to fool worshipers, while not allowing a single coin to slip through its claws.Since his father was unwilling to reject the church's request, Mark could only induce the church to reject them.It won't be too difficult. Judging from the priest's words, the Catholic Church doesn't enjoy too much involvement with the "organization" of the Costa family.

Antonio, he recalled the name, and wondered if he might be Italian too.He walks home.He hasn't driven since the tension between the various gangs in the Port of Manhattan has grown.There was a possibility of escape from a street shootout, but Marco had never heard of anyone surviving a car bomb attack.

It takes about four or ten minutes to walk, and I happen to be writing lines on the way.Marco never lies, at least not to his family, but sometimes the shape of the truth needs to be slightly adjusted, smoothing out sharp corners, introducing different lights and shadows, and carefully arranging the order of appearance to make it easier for Dad to accept.Costa Sr. just came home from the hospital last Tuesday with nothing to do with the kidney stones.Cardinal Brennan used the connections in the state government, and those connections pulled some other threads. After a chain reaction, the prison doctor issued a certificate allowing the prisoner to be temporarily released "to undergo necessary surgery."The old Costa stayed in a guarded ward for a week, changed hospitals halfway, found another attending physician who was willing to accept bribes to falsify surgical records, and finally went home to "recover".The police moved naturally outside the house, theoretically on guard day and night to prevent escape, but functionally no different than a decorative potted pine tree.

Marco jumped up the front steps, greeted the two uniformed policemen separately, and promised to bring them snacks and hot coffee later.All the police officers on duty, no matter day shift or night shift, Marco can call them by name, which makes them very happy and feel respected.That's what drives people to loyalty, Baba's view, respect, and money would be nice.Father was upstairs in the bedroom.Ever since he was in prison, it had been tacitly accepted that the downstairs study-cum-reception room had belonged to Marco, and old Costa had no intention of interfering with this new arrangement.Marco took off his coat and scarf, took a plate of Napoli puffs from the kitchen, asked his mother to bring the remaining desserts and coffee to the policeman outside the door, went upstairs by himself, and knocked on the bedroom door.

The sweet stuff disappears quickly, and both costas enjoyed the cream with hazelnuts.Father opened the window, cut off the end of the cigar, lit it, and finally asked about the pier.Marco explained the details of cargo and warehousing one by one, as well as changes in the Atlantic route. All American and Canadian ships are under threat. The North Atlantic is crowded with German U-boats. For the family business that relies on shipping, this year Definitely not a good year, maybe not for the next ten years.

"Also, the church sent someone to see me," Marco said finally, taking the dessert plate, standing up and sitting down again, pretending to remember this insignificant detail just before he left.

Father exhales cigar smoke through his nose: "Because of the Normandie."

"Yes, because of that ship. The church decided that we were not doing enough to be the guardian angels of Manhattan Harbor."

"Have you succeeded in convincing them to drop the idea?"

Marco shook his head.

"Who did they send?"

"The same one from last time. I asked for the name, Antonio."

"Never heard of it."

"I do not have either."

"The city is too big," my father remarked absently. "What day is it? Ask our priest on Sunday. Of course, don't—"

"Don't probe too obviously, I know."

Cigar smoke drifts in the cold wind.Even though the window was only half open, the temperature in the room dropped very quickly, and within 3 minutes at most, the chill would seep through sweaters and shirts.Marco walked to his father's writing desk, took out the tin box containing shredded tobacco from the cigar drawer, rolled one for himself, borrowed his father's cigar to light it, and the two smoked in silence for a while.

"Dad, who is behind the church?"

"Is there anyone but God?"

"It's not a doctrinal question, Dad, it's a political question."

"You'll see very little difference between the two."

Marco exhaled a puff of smoke and looked downstairs. They had no garden, and a row of shrubs pruned into a square was the only separation between the outer wall and the street.The sudden screeching of brakes made him nervous, but it was just an unruly van at the end of the street.The cold wind pulled the curtains, and he couldn't help shivering slightly, just like the priest on the pier an hour ago.

"Dad, who commissioned Bishop Brennan to come to you?"

"Who's going to keep the boat in the dock?"

"Navy? Department of Defense?"

"Sometimes I think you need a little more imagination, little Marco." Father put the cigar on the edge of the ashtray and kissed Marco on the forehead.Young Costa frowned at him, put out his cigarette, closed the window, and followed his father out of the bedroom, returning halfway to retrieve a dessert plate he had left on the table.

"Is it the White House?" He ran after his father into the kitchen and put the dishes in the sink.

"Onion and tomato soup!" cried the father happily, dipping his ladle into the steaming crimson soup as if he hadn't heard his son. "Would you like a bowl, little one? No? Please help I cut two slices of bread, thank you. Your mother's puceta baked like a sweet dream made of flour, I will write poems about her one day."

-

When the father says "our" priest.He meant Father Joe Childe, 73, who lived in a house the Costa family had financed to renovate.Father Childe baptized Mark and then each of his sister's children.Because of knee surgery two years ago—of course the Costa family paid for postoperative care—Father Childe did not celebrate Mass as often as he used to, and in the last year almost all of it was handed over to younger priests.

Marco knew where to find Father Childe, and no one would stop him.After the mass, he quietly left the crowd, walked quickly to the residence of the clergy, and stomped across the small garden with the sign "No Crossing" in order to take a shortcut.Normally he avoided the flowerbeds, but this morning it was snowing and he couldn't see the boundaries of the flowerbeds at all.

He took off his hat and was about to knock on the door.But the door opened by itself, and the people who came out almost bumped into Marco.He took a big step back, ready to apologize, but the other person spoke first.

"Mr. Costa."

It was the priest on the pier, but he was not wearing gray today, with a black robe under a black coat, a hat and a scarf in his hands, and his dark brown hair was disheveled, as if he had trekked against the wind for a long time.Before Marco could answer, Father Childe emerged on crutches and stood between them like a faded garden leprechaun.

"Good morning, Marco. I didn't know you wanted to come see me today."

"Good morning, Father." Marco glanced at Antonio, who didn't look at him. "Just to say hello, I haven't seen you in weeks. How are your knees? It's cold today."

"I can stand up, I can walk, there is nothing to complain about." The old priest touched Marco's cheek with the back of his hand. Since Marco could remember, Father Childe has been greeting him in this way, "I To introduce you, this is Father Antonio Pelligrini. Antonio, this is Marco Costa, whose father was for many years the most generous benefactor of the Church, and an exemplary Christian."

Marco turned to Antonio, looking straight into his pale blue eyes, the closest to gray blue he had ever seen: "It's an honor to meet you, Father Pelligrini."

"Hello, Mr. Costa."

The two shook hands, and the priest's hand was cold, just as Marco expected.

"I've never seen you here before, will you come often in the future?"

"Unfortunately, that's unlikely. I'm here today on some frivolous administrative matter that probably won't interest you."

"A messenger, yes?"

Antonio looked like he was about to smile, but finally lowered his eyes, and he couldn't see any other expression except a half-true humility: "Aren't priests all messengers, Mr. Costa? Maybe Father Childe agrees with me?"

The old man looked at them with gentle eyes, and put his hands on the handle of the cane: "Yes, Antonio, of course."

"If you don't mind, Father Childe," said Marco, "my mother and sister want to see you, and I'm afraid my sister is going to talk to you about the baby again. I don't know if you remember little Bruno, my youngest nephew. , and he's old enough to go to Sunday school."

"The one with a lot of freckles."

"That's my second youngest nephew, Father, Bruno is the one with asthma."

"Of course, of course."

The three walked back to the church, leaving more footprints in the "No Crossing" gardens.Father Child moved slowly on the thin snow, and the two young men politely fell behind, keeping a step away.

There are more people in the nave of the church, and they are all waiting for the English Mass at 10:30.Italian immigrants gathered in twos and threes at the side doors and transepts, sharing coffee and squashed desserts in cardboard boxes.Father Childe attracted their attention at once, like a magnet to a fanatic.Marco stopped outside the side door, pretended to light a cigarette, and moved slowly to the empty hedge.Antonio followed, put on his hat and scarf, put his hands in his coat pockets, a skinny starling standing quietly in the snow.

"Are there really 'administrative matters'?" Marco asked, exhaling smoke in his face.

"No. Just to see you, Mr. Costa. We know this is your parish."

"It's a great honor. Does Father Child know?"

"He's a . . . lovely nice guy who doesn't even need complicated excuses."

"You are derogatory in a very gentle way."

"You and I have very different definitions of 'derogatory'." The priest stared at him, blinking so little that Marco couldn't help but think of snakes, or some living thing that grows in deep water, "The bishop agrees with you proposal. He wants to know how much 'support' you need."

This was completely unexpected by Marco.He was so sure the other party would refuse that he didn't even think about the amount in advance.He threw the cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the heel of his shoe for a while. "Twenty-five thousand dollars."

This money is enough to buy an apartment in Manhattan[*01], Marco hoped that the other party would at least flinch, but the pair of light blue eyes still looked at him without blinking: "How do you want to receive our 'Support'? I'm sure you're more experienced than us at moving money surreptitiously."

Overestimates me, greatly underestimates the Catholic Church, Marco thought, "Never deliver to my place, nor to any store my family runs. Small bills, not big bills. Send to this church, disguised as another things, wine crates, flour sacks, you name it." "May I ask what the money is going to be used for?"

"If you know, it will be difficult to shirk responsibility when things are revealed."

"We would have preferred that things not 'come out', Mr Costa."

"Remember to pray."

The priest turned his head sideways, an action between nodding and evasion: "Then I wish you a pleasant weekend, Mr. Costa."

As he moves away, Marco grabs him again, this time by the elbow.Antonio looked back at him, then at his hands, sighed, and didn't try to break free.

"Mr. Costa, maybe next time try to get people to stay with words instead of actions."

"Your client is Roosevelt, right? The one in the Oval Office, don't play dumb."

"Is that what your father said?"

"He neither denied nor admitted."

"When people are neither denying nor admitting, they often don't want to admit directly."

"No wonder you guys are so generous, the federal government ultimately pays the bill."

"I don't know the financial details, Mr. Costa. I just—"

"A messenger, you said it." Marco let go, and out of a sudden mischievous impulse, he patted the priest's buttocks covered under his coat and robe. Antonio stared at him in amazement, and stood still, After a long time, I looked around stiffly to see if anyone had noticed this terrible scene.The side door of the church was closed, and no one was standing there. The sparrows surrounded the stone steps, pecking at the crumbs of the cake.

"I wish you a great weekend too, Antonio. Take it easy, your church has enough cramped asses already."

Marco walked away first, and his mother and sister waited outside the main door, waving their hands as soon as they saw him, Marco quickened his pace, and the snow slag rattled on the soles of his shoes.

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Note:

1.1940. In early 12, the average house price in Manhattan was $[-] a square foot