Signor Santa

I

THE whole blame, says my mother, lies on my father’s stubborn insistence that he play Santa Claus. If he had taken her advice in the first place and minded his own business, everything would have turned out differently; as it was . . .

‘But what was I to do?’ cries my father.‘Corpo di Bacco! Why lay all the blame on me? It was not my idea in the beginning. Gianpaolo himself suggested it. With my stomach, said he, I would make an admirable Santa Claus — and I thought, for the sake of the occasion . . . ’

And so on and so forth. Nevertheless, in all fairness, I do not think it just to lay the whole blame for what happened on my father. Certainly he acted from the best of motives

— that much cannot be denied; but can the same be said of Signor Simone? In this there are those of us who are inclined to take my father’s view of the matter; indeed, we are inclined to feel that if ever the last detail of all that bewildering tangle of cross-purposes which went to make up that fateful Christmas Eve were finally unearthed and laid fair and square before an impartial jury, Signor Simone would not have a leg left to stand on. On the other hand, there is also, without doubt, a certain amount of reasonableness in the position taken by my mother

— that is, that my father would have been much better off if, in the first place, he had gracefully withdrawn and let Signor Simone go ahead and be Santa Claus, since his heart seemed so set on it; still, can one exactly blame my father? After all, why should he have given in? Who did Signor Simone think he was anyway? Simply because he was Gianpaolo’s wife’s second cousin . . .

But let us not anticipate. To begin at the beginning: —

It was a couple of weeks before Christmas that we first learned of the great gathering which our paesanos, the Maccaluccis, were planning on having that Christmas Eve. (May God help us some day to forget it, as my mother wailed afterwards.) The celebration was to have a dual function, for not only were we to gather in humble memory of the Holy One, we were also to give honor to Erminio, the Maccaluccis’ second son, who was returning for his Christmas vacation from the seminary where he was studying to become a priest. They were going to have a great celebration — cards, music, dancing, as well as the traditional Christmas Eve supper, and they had invited all of their friends.

Gianpaolo grew very excited as he told us about it. Like all peasantItalians, he had a devout respect for holidays and formal occasions of any description, especially those of a churchly origin, and if necessary he would have mortgaged his house in order to celebrate this Christmas in a fitting manner — but fortunately such a drastic measure was not necessary. As usual, it was my father who provided the necessary finances — fifty dollars, to be exact. (‘ He must think you really are Santa Claus,’said my mother.) But to proceed: —

All, no doubt, would have gone without mishap, had it not been for the unexpected arrival, some ten days or so before Christmas, of Mrs. Maccalucci’s second cousin, Silvestro Simone. (Accursed be his name!) He was an imposing individual, matching, in fleshly bulk, the two hundred odd pounds with which Heaven (and my mother’s spaghetti) had adorned my father; he had a face like a beefsteak, a voice like a steam roller, and a huge belly which seemed almost too much for the rest of him to carry around. This man, this contemptible, loathsome scoundrel, had worked alongside my father and Gianpaolo in the Colorado coal mines of their youth, but it had been nearly thirty years since he and my father had seen each other. (‘Could he not have made it thirty more?’ wailed my mother.) During this time, much water, as the old saw has it, had flowed under many bridges; the passing years had carried my father and Gianpaolo many miles from those dark tunnels beneath the earth in which they had spent their first years in this country. These same years had carried Signor Simone many miles from the coal mines also, but in a different direction; for, while Gianpaolo and my father, imitating the course of the sun, had traveled westward, arriving, by successive stages, in California, Simone had journeyed east. He had been married (as we were to hear a dozen times from his own lips) three times; he had had six children by his first wife, four by his second, and eight by his last. (‘By God, Luigi, I bet you can’t beat that record!’ he roared to my father.) During these years he had been in one business after another — saloon keeper, restaurant owner, hotel proprietor; and he had wound up in Boston (where he had spent the past six years) as the proprietor of a fancy Italian grocery.

II

So much for a few brief facts about this reprehensible individual. Would any of us have resented him on the basis, so to speak, of himself? In all fairness, I must say I do not think so. We did not begrudge him his money, the diamond-studded elk’s tooth that dangled like a glittering eye from his stomach, the fancy Italian grocery (which from his description must have put to shame the Grand Central Terminal); certainly he could have had a dozen wives and fifty children for all we cared about it. What then? Just this — we did not like his manner. As my father so succinctly put it, who did Simone think he was anyway? He moved in on Gianpaolo, accompanied by his wife and the four youngest of their eight children, without warning, without apology, seeming to think that the more fact of his presence was sufficient to put the Maccaluccis in a very ecstasy of appreciation; he ate their food, drank their wine, slept like a king in the paternal bed (which, for want of another, Mr. and Mrs. Maccalucci had had to give up to the Simones, themselves sleeping on a mattress in the attic); and he did not offer to buy even an ice-cream cone for the children! And there is something more, too. In the morning, when the children were waiting in line, so to speak, to get to the bathroom, he — but let us not go into that; enough is enough; suffice it to say that never, in all of our collective experience, had we run across anyone with such a positive genius for making himself offensive.

Does this not make understandable, then, my father’s attitude in the matter? Had it been anyone but Simone (as my father himself will vehemently tell you), he would have withdrawn courteously at the first indication of a misunderstanding as to who was to play Santa Claus. But for nearly a week — that is to say, ever since the Simones had popped in from Boston for their ‘ visit ’ — we had been hearing reports, from both Gianpaolo and Mrs. Maccalucci, about his patronizing behavior; and therefore when, at dinner the Sunday before Christmas (to which the Maccaluccis had invited us in order to meet their house guests), Simone gave indication that he himself had intentions of playing Santa Claus at the celebration, we were more than prepared to resent his presumptuousness.

Long before he proclaimed his intention, however, my father had had more than enough of Signor Simone. He had never liked him, even back in the old days (as he later confessed), but in spite of this dislike, which he had almost forgotten, and which had been revived by the reports Gianpaolo had been relaying to us regarding his guest’s behavior, he had looked forward to seeing Simone again, to reminisce about the days of their youth, to discuss old names, old friends, old experiences which they had had in common — this was the spirit in which, accompanied by my mother and me, he had gone to the Maccaluccis’ for dinner, prepared, that is to say, to ignore all the ancient dislike and to meet Simone as an old friend, found again after many years of parting, with whom he could drink a glass or two of cordial wine for the sake of the old times. And did Simone make such an agreeable reunion possible? Did he, indeed? I will present only the simple facts. Would you like to know the first remark he made to my father as we entered the house?

‘Luigi Altieri!’ he roared, pumping my father’s hand and nearly knocking him down with a terrific blow in the small of his back. ‘You alive after all these years? By God, I thought you’d be dead long before now!’

This, the greeting he gave to my father; and to my mother?

‘Rosa, Rosa!’ said he, as though reproachfully. ‘You still? But how have you been able to endure each other?’ And then he laughed, and threw his massive arms about her. ‘But how fat you’ve become!’ he cried. ‘Per Dio, I should never have known you!’

My father, trying to recover his breath, which had been knocked out of his lungs by the pounding Simone had given him, coughed, sputtered, wheezed; my mother extended one cheek for the kiss which Simone straightway implanted on it through his moustache.

‘And this young man?’ said Simone, fixing a curious eye upon me. ‘Your son, no doubt?’

‘This is Robert, my youngest,’ said my mother coldly. ‘He is an artist.’

‘But no!’ he said, his features expanding; and suddenly he clasped my hand in a grip that made my toes quiver. ‘An artist! Well, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone!’ he cried, and opening his mouth he let loose an extraordinary sound that seemed to begin somewhere in the innermost depths of that remarkable stomach and thence to billow up through his lungs and out of his throat like the mounting roar of a flood-burst; he laughed, chortled, groaned; the walls rocked, the diamond elk’s tooth quivered; tears came to his eyes, and he slapped his stomach with his hands.

Was it then so humorous? We all stared; my mother coughed discreetly behind her handkerchief; I drew myself up, and —

But no matter.

III

Such was our introduction to this monster, but unfortunately our acquaintance did not end there; we had come to the Maccaluccis’ for dinner, and to dinner we stayed. Meanwhile, we met Mrs. Simone, a pale, ferret-eyed wisp of a woman, and the Simone children, two boys, two girls, the oldest ten, the youngest five; Mr. and Mrs. Maccalucci hovered around us anxiously, took our hats and coats, pulled out chairs, poured some wine; and at last we sat down to dinner.

In the meantime, Simone plied my father with questions: how had he fared during all these years?

‘One thing is sure, you have n’t starved!’ he said, glancing jocularly at my father’s stomach. ‘Do you have so many friends, then?’

My father laughed politely and muttered something behind his moustache; and at that moment the spaghetti arrived.

‘Ah!’ said Simone, tucking his napkin into his collar contentedly; and forthwith proceeded to heap a good half of the platter onto his own plate.

Midway through the meal the talk turned to the forthcoming Christmas celebration, and then it was that Simone made the remark which, like a lighted match tossed carelessly into a haystack, started everything.

‘I have been told,’ said he to my father in Italian, ‘ that you are planning to play Santa Claus for the children?’ And, before my father could answer, ‘That will have to be changed,’ said he (precisely, as my father remarked afterward, as though he owned the place). ‘For the past five years I have played Santa Claus for my children, and,’ said he (waving his fork in the air), ‘they would not know you, they would think you were an impostor—’

‘But, my good friend,’ began my father courteously, glancing timidly toward Gianpaolo, whose face had turned blood-red . . .

‘And besides,’ Simone continued obliviously, ‘you have not got the figure for it. Look!’ he cried, pounding his stomach. ‘You should see what a Santa Claus I make — ain’t that so?’ he added in sudden English to his wife.

At this point Gianpaolo, who had been making an ill-concealed attempt to disguise his mounting anger, exploded into action.

‘Eet’sa too late!’ he said, so excited that he too lapsed into English, which language, for some reason, he invariably used when he wished to be emphatic. ‘Eet’sa too late!’ he repeated, and then, finding he could not go on without resorting to his native tongue, he let forth a torrent of voluble Italian. The plans had all been made, he explained heatedly. It was impossible to change them now!

But why? Simone demanded. What difference did it make? It made lots of difference! said Gianpaolo. The plans had been made, and made they must stay. It was too late to change them! At this point a gleam came into Simone’s eyes. And what of his children? he demanded. How would they feel to see an unfamiliar Santa Claus? That could not be helped, said Gianpaolo, his own eyes glinting; Simone’s were not the only children who would be present; did Simone by any chance think the celebration was being given for his special benefit?

’Sangue de la Madonna!’ bellowed Simone, crashing his fist against the table. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Gianpaolo leaped up from his chair, quivering with fury. Simone rose like a great shaggy bear to meet him.

‘Stop!’ cried my father, getting between them. What nonsense! he added. He would gladly withdraw in favor of Simone —

Not for one moment, said Gianpaolo, looking venomously at Simone. The plans had been made, and made they must stay!

Simone shrugged and sat down again; finally Gianpaolo resumed his seat, and we went on with the dinner as though nothing had happened.

The question of who was to play Santa Claus at the celebration was not mentioned again, but once or twice I caught Simone giving furtive glances both to Gianpaolo and to my father. Ah, had we but known what lay behind those glances!

But we did not know. The following afternoon my father (despite the warnings of my mother that he had better mind his own business) went downtown, as per arrangement, and rented himself a resplendent Santa Claus outfit; and so the great day arrived.

IV

It was not yet five o’clock when we approached the Maccaluccis’ that fateful Christmas Eve, but already darkness had fallen. It had been drizzling all afternoon, and the streets were filled with puddles; long before we got to the house itself we heard the sounds of the gathering; the windows were ablaze with light, and we could hear singing and laughter, the lilting strains of an accordion, the strum of guitars. They had put holly wreaths and silver crosses in the windows, and through the panes we could see the shadowy forms of people moving about.

My father hid the box containing his Santa Claus outfit in the back of the car, and we went up the steps and into the house. There, in the small living room, dining room, and kitchen, upwards of fifty people were gathered. There was a huge fire roaring in the living-room fireplace, and underneath the Christmas tree stood a miniature manger, complete with the infant Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Three Wise Men of Bethlehem, all in tiny figures of wax; the walls and ceilings were festooned with ribbons of colored paper and the tip of the tree was crowned with a gleaming star. As Gianpaolo proudly told us, no expense had been spared to make the celebration a magnificent one; he had invited all his friends and their children, and the tables groaned beneath the pitchers of wine, and the house was filled with the tantalizing odors of the feast which the women were preparing.

In the midst of all this sat, in lordly fashion, Simone, ensconced in the most comfortable chair in the house, a goblet of wine in one huge hand; he nodded to us coolly as we entered, and I thought I saw a peculiar gleam, as though of calculation, come into his eyes as we went past him into the bedroom to dispose of our hats and coats.

Our arrival had interrupted the music and singing, but as soon as we had greeted the assembled guests and paid our respects to Erminio, who, since he was one day to be a priest, was treated with considerable awe by the rest, we found places and joined in the festivities. The accordionist and guitar players formed as it were a hub, from which all the other activity radiated; almost all joined in in the singing, and we heard again and again the familiar melodies of the land from which we had stemmed, — O Sole Mio, Ciribiribin, Santa Lucia, — folksongs, too, the songs of the field and the plough, deep in the memories of the oldest present; my father beamed and swayed and shouted; my mother nodded her head with a far-away look in her eyes. . . .

As it neared time to eat, the gathering became increasingly exuberant; the wine flowed more and more freely, faces became flushed, voices grew louder; the musicians perspired and struggled with their instruments and the house rocked to the sound of stamping feet and clapping hands. In the midst of all this, it was announced that the feast was ready, and in a few moments more great steaming platters were brought in and laid upon the tables set in the living and dining rooms.

In obedience to the Catholic custom, there was no meat. The main courses were of spaghetti with a savory sauce composed of olive oil flavored with garlic, parsley, and ground hot peppers; a dozen different kinds of fish, fried peppers in oil, olives, three or four kinds of salads, roasted chestnuts, a dozen varieties of Italian pastry drenched in honey, dates, dried figs, fresh grapes and apples and oranges. . . . For upwards of two hours we sat and gorged ourselves, while the flickering candles grew shorter and shorter, and the wind lashed the rain against the windows, and the logs crackled in the fireplace. Gallon after gallon of wine had been consumed, and by the time the feast was over there was not an adult present, at least among the men, who remained sober.

And what of Simone, during all this? He ate and drank as much as any four people present, making slanderous remarks, all the while, regarding the food: the spaghetti had not been salted enough, the fish was undercooked, the olives were dry. . . . Several times it looked as though Gianpaolo, who was seated opposite him across the table, were on the point of throwing some of the cutlery in his direction; but nothing, fortunately, happened, and the meal was concluded without mishap.

As soon as we had finished, the tables were cleared of everything save the fresh fruit, the nuts, and the wine, and the festivities recommenced. In obedience to the Italian custom, the plans were to eat, drink, and make merry all the night long, then go in a troop to early-morning Mass, then return for the Christmas Day dinner. Those who wished could catch an hour or two’s sleep in the meantime, but usually there were few, aside from some of the oldest, who slept; the festivities by tradition usually continued without letup from the afternoon of Christmas Eve on through Christmas Day.

V

It was now approaching ten o’clock, but the exuberance had not abated. At the tables the men played cards, shouting and slapping their hands on the table as they brought the cards down; the women busied themselves washing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen; some of the younger couples danced. And through all this the children ran about playing games, shouting, crying, throwing candies and cookies at each other . . . frantic mothers scurried about, trying to control their offspring ... an argument or two developed amongst the card players . . . someone spilled a pitcher of wine on the floor . . . yes, everything was progressing beautifully.

And then the fateful hour of midnight approached.

The plans, which my father and his paesano had gone over carefully a hundred times, were as follows: a few minutes before midnight my father was to take his Santa Claus outfit and go out in the back to the garage. Here a great sack had been hidden, filled with presents for the children. In the house, meanwhile, the children were to be herded into the living room, around the Christmas tree. Promptly at the stroke of midnight my father was to appear, dressed as Santa Claus, the sack of presents slung over his shoulder.

These, the plans; and what happened ?

Fifteen minutes or so before midnight, my father and his paesano exchanged a knowing glance. My father coughed, glanced at the children blandly, then, motioning to me to follow him, he got up from the table and went out the front door. We got the box with the Santa Claus suit from the car, then went around the house and to the back, where Gianpaolo was waiting for us in the garage. In a few minutes we had helped my father change into the Santa Claus suit, with its red coat and pantaloons; he stood up proudly and stroked the white whiskers which enveloped his ruddy face like a cloud.

‘Well, how do I look?’ he demanded.

But he looked magnificent! Gianpaolo reassured him, in a very ecstasy of enthusiasm; he straightened the coat, patted my father’s stomach, tucked one sagging corner of the trousers into the boots. Magnificent, magnificent! he repeated. And now for the presents, he added, turning to a canvas which had been laid over some jugs in one corner of the garage, where the sack of presents had been hidden. He lifted the canvas — and then it was that we gained our first inkling that all was not to happen, this fateful eve, as planned. The sack with the presents had disappeared!

‘ Sangue de la Madonna!’ Gianpaolo ejaculated, wrinkling his forehead in agony, and staring at the blank space beneath the canvas. He tore the canvas off frantically and began to search among the jugs, throwing them this way and that wildly.

But what was the matter? asked my father courteously.

Matter! said Gianpaolo. The presents — someone had stolen them!

What? said my father. But that was impossible!

At that moment, from the direction of the house, we heard a familiar voice calling our paesano’s name.

‘Gianpaolo, Gianpaolo!’

We rushed out into the yard. Mrs. Maccalucci was running toward us, her hair flying wildly in the drizzling rain.

‘ What’s-a-matter?’ cried her husband.

‘Simone!’ she gasped, then began to wail some more and wring her hands. Gianpaolo grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

‘ What’s-a-matter?’ he repeated.

Simone had stolen the presents and, dressed in a Santa Claus suit of his own, was even now preparing to give them out to the children!

‘Corpo di Bacco!’ bellowed Gianpaolo, and, pushing her aside, he ran toward the house, followed by my father and me.

We rushed up the back steps, through the kitchen, through the dining room, into the living room — and sure enough, there he was, surrounded by the awestruck children, dressed in a resplendent red Santa Claus suit, complete with whiskers and all.

‘Simone!’ screamed Gianpaolo.

And do you know what Simone did? He turned and looked at us blandly!

‘Che fai, what are you doing?’ stuttered Gianpaolo, so beside himself he could hardly talk.

‘But can you not see?’ retorted Simone suavely. ‘ I am giving the children their presents!‘

‘You? You?’ cried Gianpaolo; then, ‘Monster!’ he cried, and, leaping forward on his short bandy legs, he swung his fist against Simone’s jaw. Simone ducked, and with a push of one huge paw knocked Gianpaolo to the floor. My father stared at his undersized friend, where he lay on the floor, then turned to Simone.

‘So!’ he said; and without another word he leaped upon his friend’s assailant. The women screamed, the children whimpered and wailed, the other male guests began milling around excitedly; and in the middle of all this my father and Simone groaned, flailed, tugged. Suddenly my father dealt Simone a resounding smack that knocked him into the fireplace. He bellowed and struggled to regain his feet; suddenly the flames leaped over him and his whiskers caught fire.

‘Mamma mia!’ he screamed. ‘Help, help! ’

From vict orious antagonist my father turned abruptly to the rôle of rescuer; he reached forward and pulled Simone upright, slapping at the whiskers to put the fire out. Simone, however, apparently mistook these friendly blows as the signal of a new attack; he hit back; they began to wrestle; suddenly my father’s own whiskers caught fire.

They released each other and began dancing around, pulling at their smouldering whiskers. Someone threw a pitcher of wine over them; then all at once there was a scream: —

‘Fire! Fire!’

The paper festoons had caught flame; in a moment more the fire had swept to the curtains and the ceiling; pandemonium broke loose. Hysterical mothers grabbed for their children; the men rushed back and forth from the kitchen frantically, bearing buckets and pans of water; someone put in a call for the fire wagon.

From this point on so many things happened at once it is impossible to relate them with any pretense of order; the fire wagons arrived with much clanging of bells and screaming of sirens, and a great crowd of people collected in the street. We had already put out the fire, however, and presently the engines departed. Meanwhile a couple of police patrol cars arrived on the scene, and to these worthy guardians of the public morale much explanation had to be given before they could be persuaded not to herd ‘the whole damn bunch of us’ down to the station. Simone, upon orders of his erstwhile host, packed his clothes (still maintaining stubbornly that it was all a misunderstanding, that his intentions had been the most honorable), and, accompanied by his wife and children, departed in a huff for a hotel; then the guests, one by one, began to leave. At the last, none were left save the Maccaluccis and their own children, my mother and father, and me. My mother and Mrs. Maccalucci were weeping; we sat desolately amidst, as it were, the ruins, and surveyed the charred walls and ceiling, the water-drenched furniture, the sorry remains of the magnificent Christmas tree.

‘Per l’amore di Dio!’ wailed Gianpaolo. ‘Cousin or no cousin — if I ever see him again I’ll kill him!’

At that moment there was the sound of someone coming up the front steps, then entering the house.

‘But who can that be?’ muttered Gianpaolo, and, mumbling to himself, he started to rise.

At that moment — yes! — we saw the countenance and figure of Simone (carrying an umbrella archly) appear in the doorway.

He stood and looked at us all haughtily.

‘ Excuse me, ’ he said coldly. ‘ I forgot my shaving brush.’

Gianpaolo stared at him; then suddenly he let out a scream, and, picking up a long knife from the table, he started after Simone. Simone stared at the knife, paled, dropped the umbrella, then, whirling around, started pellmell down the steps, with Gianpaolo hard after him.

VI

These, then, are the simple facts of the case. In conclusion it may be added that Gianpaolo received thirty days for attempted assault with a deadly weapon; Simone, on the other hand, went scot-free, and even now, no doubt, is back in that magnificent Italian grocery in Boston, safely barricaded behind his salami and cheese. Is this, then, justice? On top of all that, my father had to foot the bill for the damages — one hundred and six dollars and eighty cents, to be exact. It is such things that make my mother bitter. If my father had not been so stubbornly insistent in the first place, says she, all might have turned out differently; as it was — But enough of all that; we shall leave it for the reader to judge.