The Eagle, The Emperor and Mostaccioli (short story)

The Eagle, The Emperor and Mostaccioli

written by Jon Monastero, 27 May 1992 (uploaded 25 Nov. 2020)

*Dedicated to my Great-Uncles, Tony, Albert and Vince Monestero, “Murph” Cemore, and my grandfathers, Salvatore Tedesco and John Monastero.

“Come on in, boy. Give your Uncle Tony a kiss,” boomed the full, deep voice from behind the screen door.

Michael Angelo Carlentino, named after his grandfathers, entered the small apartment, closed the door behind him to keep the flies out, then stood up on his tip-toes as his bald-headed, bespectacled Uncle bent from the waist to receive the two kisses, one for each grizzled cheek.

This always made Michael, who from now on we shall call, Mikey, like everyone else in his family, except for his Uncle Tony who mainly called him “Boy,” grin and laugh as the silver-grey whiskers tickled his full red lips. This in turn made Uncle Tony chuckle.

“Let me look at ya, boy.” He said, stepping back from his nephew, yet keeping a large, weathered hand on the side of the eleven year old’s face.

“Don’t your ma ever feed ya, boy? Look at ya!”

They both looked down at the pair of boney, brown legs sticking out from beneath baggy, navy-blue shorts. Then they chuckled out loud together and the old man turned and walked towards the kitchen.

“Sit down on the sofa boy. I’m gonna make ya some pasta.” This word was pronounced “basta” in the manner of the Sicilian immigrants who settled in this stagnant, withering, brownstone neighborhood on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. It was a bastardization much like “u bacausu” which was a heavily accented attempt at pronouncing ‘back-house’ but which time had standardized into the immigrant group’s vocabulary.

The boy’s uncle started a pot of water to boil. From the brightly lit kitchen the old man called out to his nephew, “Ya thirsty? Wanna pop, boy? Sure ya do. Come get a pop outta the fridge.”

Mikey wasn’t thirsty. He wasn’t tired either. He stood on the circular Persian rug in the center of the small, white room and stared at the framed pictures on the wall behind the sofa. They were hung in no particular order, just wooden framed photographs of the Carlentino family, most from the old country with that foggy, yellow tint that made everyone look like they suffered from jaundice. Mikey would look at the serious frozen images and wonder why no one smiled. Was it that hard back then? Even the little children, they seemed so sad. Maybe the photographer forgot to say, “Cheese,” mused Mikey.

“Come on in the kitchen, boy. I can’t hear ya”

Mikey turned to face the kitchen. It was so bright that he squinted at first until his eyes adjusted. There was a large, combination light-ceiling fan hanging from the ceiling. They were always on, no matter the temperature outside. There wasn’t much furniture. The sofa, with an intricately woven quilt thrown over the back, a T.V., and a T.V. tray, upon which Uncle Tony would keep an ice-filled glass of pop or tea, the evening paper and a note pad and pen.

There was an entire wall given to a large wooden bookcase, stretching from floor to ceiling. The lower three shelves contained National Geographic magazines dated from 1965 until the present. The yellow bindings on the older issues, like the old man, were frayed and worn, which comforted the boy. The upper three shelves were devoted to Uncle Tony’s history books. Uncle Tony loved history, especially that of the classical period; the Roman Republic and the Roman Empire.

Mikey could not remember ever seeing the T.V. turned on. It just sat there on a dusty old oakwood stand. It was a black and white, and there was no remote control. It had a coat-hanger with black electrical tape fastened to the back. On top were placed, small school photos of all Uncle Tony’s nieces and nephews. They were placed in tiny metal frames, except the one of Mikey. It was placed in the center, in a tiny wooden frame shaped like a heart that the boy had made in wood-shop class.

Upon entering the kitchen Mikey always felt the urge to genuflect and make the sign of the cross.

On the wall above the rectangular kitchen table hung a reproduction of DaVinci’s painting of the last supper. Above the doorless entryway hung a large metal crucifix. And on the opposite wall a painting of La Pietà. It was Uncle Tony’s favorite, a photo actually, of the sculpture by Michelangelo at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

Mikey looked first at the sad face of the Virgin and the limp, lifeless body of the Christ, then over to his right at the somber toned Last Supper, and then finally up above his head at the crucifix. The dying Christ.

Uncle Tony was pouring salt into the boiling pot of water, followed by the mostaccioli. The boiling intensified with the introduction of Mikey’s favorite pasta shape. The old man always kept a box of the favorite shapes of pasta of all his nieces and nephews in the pantry, but there was always at least three or four boxes of mostaccioli.

“Sit down, boy.” His Uncle directed, now emptying the contents of a glass Mason jar filled with last summer’s pureed garden tomatoes into a small pan.

“Boy, will you set the table for your Uncle?” “Sure Uncle Tony.”

He had never sat down. He walked to the cupboards above the sink and removing two plates and cups, glanced out the second story window. It was two in the afternoon. From somewhere nearby he could hear a cardinal singing love songs to anyone that paid attention.

He saw it. It was perched atop the wooden telephone pole at the end of the gravel driveway next to the alley. It was so beautiful, thought Mikey to himself. Like Christ’s face in La Pietà, yet so sad, like all the photos of his dead ancestors hanging on the wall in the front room. He placed the two plates, two forks, and the glasses on the white table cloth, marked with scattered stains from splatters of red wine.

“Don’t forget the colander, boy.”

Mikey took it down from the cupboard and set it in the sink.

“Come here and watch your Uncle Tony. Now, you see, this sauce is real simple. And simple is best when it comes to cooking and eating. I take the jar of tomatoes from the garden, a clove or two of mashed garlic and some fresh basil. Now we add some salt, some pepper and a pepperoncino – which I crumble up like this...But don’t boil it, boy, just simmer it down nice and slow, like this, see.”

“Uh, huh.” Mikey answered.

“Ya want some olives?” Uncle Tony asked. “Get some olives outta the fridge. The good ones from old man Vendotto’s place.”

Mikey took the bowl of salty, shriveled black olives out of the fridge and set them on the table. He also reached on top of the fridge for the loaf of bread from D’Orso’s bakery and set it on the table next to the olives. He set out a hunk of Pecorino Romano cheese and a large metal cheese grater.

“O.K., we drain the mostaccioli, we put it in the pasta bowl with a little bit of water from the pot, we drizzle in some more olio d’oliva, some sauce, we mix it up and we’re in business.”

Mikey wasn’t watching anymore, he had already sat down., and was staring out through the screen door at the singing cardinal.

“Hai fame?”

“Sì.”

“Mangia, boy, Mangia!”

Uncle Tony sat and made the sign of the cross. Mikey watched, staring at all the tiny red dots, tomato sauce splatters on his uncle’s white tank top undershirt.

“Boy, do you hear that cardinal outside?”

“Yeah, Uncle Tony.”

“Do you know that he’ll sit there on that pole and sing like that all day till a female finally answers him.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“If she doesn’t, he’ll come back in the morning and start again.” Answered the old man.

“Now what does that tell ya, boy?”

Before the dark-eyed boy could answer his Uncle responded for him.

“It shows ya that a man can dress up fine and fancy and strut around town like a big shot, but it don’t mean nothing if ya don’t have a woman, boy.”

Mikey stared at his Uncle’s serious face. The thick lensed glasses with black frames, the large features with huge black eyes magnified even bigger through the lenses, the bushy black eyebrows streaked with grey and silver, and the remaining silver grey hair that seemed to follow no particular order below the bald crown of his head. All centered by the long Roman nose and full red lips.

Like the pictures of all those Roman Emperors in the history books, thought Mikey. Except for the glasses, of course.

Mikey thought his Uncle would’ve made a great Roman Emperor, with his deep booming voice, large powerful hands, and that face. The nose, like the beak on an eagle. L’aquila – The Eagle.

“Uncle Tony?”

“Yeah, boy?”

“Do Eagles kill cardinals?”

The old man chuckled out loud.

“Mangia, boy. Mangia.”