Theophilus North (34 page)

A terrible struggle was going on within him. “The only girls I know . . . I know a little . . . are twin sisters.”

“Great! Are they lively?”

“Yes.”

“What's their name?”

“Avonzino—Filumena and Agnese.”

“Which do you like better?”

“They're just the same.”

“Well, Saturday you sit by Agnese and I'll bring a friend of mine to sit by Filumena. You know what Agnese means in Greek, don't you?” He made no sign. “It comes from
hagne
—‘pure, chaste.' So put the damper on those lascivious ideas of yours. Keep calm. Just a pleasant get-together. Just talking about the weather and about those puzzles of yours. We'll give the girls a big thrill talking about your new inventions and patents. Is it a deal?” He nodded. “You aren't going to backslide, are you?” He shook his head. “Remember this: Lord Byron had to strap up his misshapen foot in complicated boots and half the girls in Europe were crying their eyes out for him. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. What does King Oedipus's name mean?”

“Swell-foot.”

“And who did he marry?”

“His mother.”

“And what was the name of that splendid daughter of his?”

“Antigone.”

I burst out laughing. Mino managed a hesitant laugh. I continued, “I've got to go now. Shake hands, Mino. I'll see you next Sunday at this time; but
first
I'll see you next Saturday at twelve-thirty at the Scottish Tea Room. Wear just what you're wearing now and be ready to have a good time. Remember, you don't win the right kind of girls by dancing with them and playing tennis; you win them by being a fine honorable fellow with a lot of zzipp in your eyes, and enough money in the bank to feed the little Antigones and Ismenes and Polyneiceses and Eteocleses. 'Nuff said.”

Passing through the store I told Rosa about the Saturday engagement. “Will you come?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you.”

“See that Mino gives the invitation to the Avonzino girls. He may need a little help from you, but leave as much of it to him as you can.—Signora Matera, you have the brightest boy on Aquid-neck Island.”

“Datt'a wot I tole you!” And she kissed me in the crowded store.

I shook hands with her husband. “Goodbye, Don Matteo!” (In southern Italy respected heads of families even in the working classes are addressed as “Don”—vestige of centuries of Spanish occupation.)

I reached a telephone and having called the Venable house asked to speak to the Baron.

“Grüss Gott, Herr Baron!”

“Ach, der Herr Professor! Lobet den Herrn!”

“Bodo, we had dinner in the Eighth City—remember?”

“I'll never forget it.”

“How'd you like to have lunch in the Ninth City?”

“
Schön!
When?”

“Are you free next Saturday at twelve-thirty?”

“I can get free.”

“You'll be my guest. You'll be enjoying the seventy-five-cent blue-plate lunch at the Scottish Tea Room on Lower Broadway at twelve-thirty
punkt
. Do you know where that is?”

“I've seen it. Will there be any police interference?”

“Bodo! The Ninth City is the most respectable of all the nine cities of Newport.”

“Have you got another of your plans on your mind?”

“Yes. I'll give you a hint. You won't be the guest of honor. You won't even be a baron. The guest of honor is a twenty-two-year-old genius. He has no feet.”

“What did you say?”

“A train ran over him when he was a baby. No feet. Like you, he reads the
Summa
and Spinoza and Descartes before breakfast—in the original. Bodo, if you had no feet, would it make you a little shy about meeting girls?”

“Ye-e-es. Maybe it would, a little.”

“Well, there are going to be three charming Ninth City girls there. Don't dress too elegant, Mr. Stams. And no pinching, Mr. Stams.”

“Gott hilf uns. Du bist ein verfluchter Kerl.”

“Wiederschaun.”

On Saturday morning I dropped in at the Tea Room and had a word or two with my esteemed and straight-backed friend Miss Ailsa Laughlin.

“There'll be six of us, Miss Ailsa. Can we have the round table in the corner?”

“We never hold reservations, Mr. North. You know that. Five minutes late and you must take your chances with the other guests.”

“When I listen to you, Miss Ailsa, I have to close my eyes—just to listen to that Highland music.”

“It's Lowland, Mr. North. It's Ayrshire. The Laughlins were neighbors of Robbie Burns.”

“Music, perfect music. We'll be here exactly at twelve-thirty. What is being offered?”

“You know perfectly well that on Saturday noons in summer we have shepherd's pie.”

“Ah, yes,
agneau en croûte
. Kindly convey my shy admiration to Miss Jeannie.”

“She won't believe it, Mr. North. She thinks you're a fickle deceiver. You and Miss Flora Deland behaving scandalously in our house!”

We are all prompt, but the Materas were promptest. They arrived five minutes early so that we did not see Mino rise from his rolling chair, adjust his crutches, and swing himself into the Tea Room—Rosa's hand in the small of his back as leverage. I arrived just in time to seat them. Rosa was the kind of girl who appears more attractive at each successive meeting; happiness casts a spell. Mr. Stams and the Avonzino girls followed immediately. Filumena and Agnese were bafflingly identical and so beautiful that the world was enhanced by the duplication. They were enchantingly and even alarmingly dressed. Rosa, who sat at my right, informed me that they were wearing the dresses and hats which they had made themselves from a Butterick pattern, five years before, to serve as bridesmaids at an older sister's wedding. These were of tangerine organdy and they had “built” wide-brimmed hats of the same material, stretched on fine wire. When they went down a crowded street passers-by formed two hedge-rows to watch them. Each had embroidered the initial of her first name over her heart to help us to identify her. Agnese wore a wedding ring. Her name was Mrs. Robert O'Brien; her husband, a naval warrant officer, had been drowned at sea three years before.

I made the introductions. “We're all going to call one another by our Christian names. Beside me is Rosa; next is Bodo—he is from Austria; next is Agnese; next is Mino, who is Rosa's brother; next is Filumena. Bodo, will you repeat these names, please.”

“They're all such beautiful names, except mine, that I'm ashamed. But we are Theophilus, Rosa, poor old Bodo, Agnese, Mino, Filumena.”

He was applauded.

It was a warm day. We began the meal with a glass of Welch's grape juice with a “scoop” of lemon sherbet in it (ten cents extra). Two of my guests—Mino and Bodo—were intimidated, but the twins were raving beauties and knew that everything would be permitted them.

“Bodo,” said Filumena, “I like your name. It sounds like the name of a very nice dog. And you look like a very nice dog.”

“Oh, thank you!”

“Agnese, wouldn't it be nice if we could build a big kennel in our back yard and Bodo could live with us and keep naughty men away. Mamma would love you, Bodo, and feed you very well.”

“And,” said Agnese, “Filumena and I would make flower-chains to put around your neck and we'd go for walks on the Parade.”

Bodo barked happily, nodding his head up and down.

Agnese continued, “But Mamma loves Mino best, so you mustn't be jealous, Bodo. Mamma loves Mino because he knows everything. She told him the date of her birth and he looked up at the ceiling a moment and said ‘That was a Monday.' Papa asked him why a leap-year comes every four years and Mino made it as clear to him as two-times-two-makes-four.”

I said, “Mino has given me permission to tell you a secret about him.”

“Mino's going to get married!” cried Filumena.

“Of course, Mino's going to get married. So are we all, but Mino's too young yet. No, the secret is that he's getting out patents for some games he's invented and they're going to sweep the country like mahjong. They're going to be in every home like parcheesi and jackstraws and he's going to be very rich.”

“Oh!” cried the girls.

“But you aren't going to forget us, are you, Mino?”

“No,” said Mino, dazed.

“You aren't going to forget that we loved you before you were rich?”

“Another secret,” I announced. “He's started inventing a practical boot so that he can climb mountains and go skating—and
dance!
”

Applause and cheers.

The shepherd's pie was delicious.

Agnese said to Mino, “And you're going to give Bodo some beautiful dog biscuits, and you're going to give Filumena a sewing machine that doesn't break down all the time?”

“And,” continued Filumena, “you're going to give Agnese some singing lessons with Maestro del Valle, and you're going to give your sister a turquoise pin because she was born in July. What are you going to give Theophilus?”

“I know what I want,” I said. “I want Mino to invite us all to lunch the first Saturday in August, 1927—the same place, the same people, the same things to eat, the same friendships.”

Bodo said “Amen”; everybody said “Amen” and Mino added “I will.”

Now we were eating prune whip. The conversation became less general. While I was talking to Rosa Bodo was asking Agnese about her interest in singing. All I was able to overhear was the name of Mozart. Bodo was suggesting to her a riddle that she was to put to Mino. He did not tell her the answer.

“Mino,” she said, “you must answer this riddle: what connection is there between the names of our host today and the composer I love best, Mozart?”

Mino looked up at the ceiling a moment and then smiled. “
Theophilus
is one who loves God in Greek and
Amadeus
is one who loves God in Latin.”

Applause and delighted wonder, especially mine.

“Bodo told me to ask you,” she added modestly.

“And Mozart knew it well,” added Bodo. “Sometimes he would sign his middle name in Greek or in Latin or in German. What would the German be, Mino?”

“I don't know much German, but . . .
liebe . . 
. and
Gott
—oh, I have it:
Gottlieb
.”

More applause. Miss Ailsa had been standing behind me. The Scots love learning.

Agnese addressed Mino again. “And does my name mean ‘lamb'?”

Mino shot a glance at me, but turned back to her. “It could come from that, but many people think it comes from an earlier word, from the Greek
hagne
that means ‘pure.' ”

Tears started to her eyes. “Filumena, please kiss Mino on the forehead for me.”

“Indeed, I will,” said Filumena and did so.

We were all a little exhausted by these surprises and wonders and fell silent while the coffee was placed before us. (Five cents extra. )

Rosa whispered to me. “I think you know someone who's sitting over there in that corner.”

“Hilary Jones!—Who's he with?”

“That's his wife. They've come together again. She's Italian, but she's not Roman Catholic. She's Italian and Jewish. She's Agnese's best friend too. We're all best friends. Her name's Rachele.”

“How's Linda?”

“She's home with them. She's out of the hospital.”

When my guests took their leave (Bodo whispering, “You should hear the conversation I'm accustomed to at luncheon!”) I crossed and shook hands with Hill.

“Teddie, I'd like you to meet my wife, Rachele.”

“Very happy to meet you, Mrs. Jones. How's Linda?”

“She's much better, much better. She's at home with us now.”

We talked about Linda and Hill's summer job in the public playgrounds and about the Materas and the Avonzino sisters.

Finally, “I want to ask you a question, Hill—and you, Mrs. Jones. I trust you not to think it's just vulgar curiosity. I know that Agnese's husband was drowned at sea. There must be many such widows in Newport, as there are all up and down the coast of New England. But I feel that she carries some particular burden—some additional burden. Am I right?”

They looked at one another in a kind of dismay.

Hill said, “It was terrible. . . . Nobody talks about it.”

“Forgive me. I'm sorry I asked.”

“There's no reason you shouldn't know,” said Rachele. “We all love her. Everybody loves her. You
do
see why everybody loves her, don't you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“We all hope that
that
and her wonderful little boy and her singing—she sings beautifully, you know—will help her forget what happened. You tell Mr. North, Hilary.”

“Please . . . you tell him, Rachele.”

“He was on the crew of a submarine. It was way up in the north, like near Labrador. And the submarine struck a reef or something under the water and the machinery broke down. And the ice began to crush it. And the compartments got closed. They had air for a while, but they couldn't get into the galley. . . . They had nothing to eat.”

We all looked at one another in silence.

“Airplanes were looking for them, of course. Then the ice moved away and they were found. Their bodies were brought back. Bobby's buried in the Naval Cemetery on the Base.”

“Thank you.—I'm only free on Sunday afternoons. Can I call on you a week from tomorrow and see Linda?”

“Oh, yes. Please come to supper.”

“Thank you, I can't stay to supper. Please write down your address, Hill. I'll look forward to seeing you all at four-thirty.”

Throughout the following week I met one or other of the Materas every noon when I picked up my New York paper. Italians, all of us. On Sunday morning I called on Mino at nine.