The Cittadino

by Paul Tedo & Tom Myers

He exited the plane wearing a heavy wool shirt, puffing a thick stogy, a three-foot salami clamped under his arm, a gallon of Carlo Rossi dangling from his left hand, and the crumpled fedora propped sideways atop his head. Wild strands of white hair escaping every which-way from beneath his hat.

“Thank you for flying TWA,” said the woman standing at the top of the stairs, clad in a blue suit, silver wings affixed to her shoulders, looking prim, proper, and relieved.

“Si,” the old man grumbled.

Spotting his grandpa, Gio’s rush of excitement was uncontainable. Breaking free from his father’s grip, the six year-old ran to greet the old man.

“Gio, wait!” his father yelled.

The boy would have none of it. Like a determined Marine storming the beach, he weaved through the crowds waiting for their loved ones, and threw himself at the old man.

“Nonno!”

“Gio!” the old man gasped. “My Gio!” 

The boy’s father pushed his way through. “Excuse me, that’s my son, my father, excuse me.”

The crowd gave him room. 

Roberto and Pasquale’s eyes met. “Pops, how you doing?”

“Here, take.” The old man handed him the salami. Its pungent aroma was an affront to Roberto’s senses.

“Jesus, on a plane?” Roberto said holding the meat at arm’s length.

“No good food on plane,” his father replied. He removed a hunk of smelly cheese from his shirt pocket handing it to the boy. “For you, Gio.”

He studied the cheese as if it was a puzzle.

“Eat,” the old man said, nudging it towards the little boy’s mouth. “Good for muscoli.” The old man raised his arms like a boxer.

“Pops, don’t start.”

“Start!” The old man’s voice rose. “Start what?”

“What you do. With all the shit. The way you are. Different.”

“What shit? You no like differenti?” 

Pasquale unscrewed Carlo Rossi’s cap, while not relinquishing his stogy, held the jug sideways over his shoulder, and took a long drink. “Bene, multo bene.”

Gio nibbled on the cheese, savoring each bite, intermittently inspecting his muscles to see if they had grown.

“How was your flight?” Roberto asked, trying to say the right thing.

“Up, down.” Pasquale waved his hand. “Agita de stomaco, but good now. Cigar helps.” He took another long slow draw, blew the smoke into the air, and shook his head.

The old man’s gaze turned towards the gate area. “Sit. I need to sit.”

Before Roberto could stop him, the old man shuffled towards the crowded seating area. He scanned the space, shook his head again, and walked towards a man dressed in a suit, seated on the aisle, with his nose deep in a book. “You… move.”

The man looked up, his eyes revealing his surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“No beg, move. I sit here.”

“I never…-“

“Va with your never.” He flipped his hand under his chin.”You,” he pointed again to the startled bookworm. “Move!” Motioning to an empty seat.

The guy slammed his book shut, stood, and walked away, mumbling to himself.

“I sit,” he said to his son. 

Pasquale tapped the seat next to him and turned to Gio. “Viene qui.” 

The little boy smiled, finished his cheese, and nuzzled into the seat next to his nonno.

The old man removed an object from his shirt.

“Pops, no!” Roberto, panic-stricken, looked around as if the old man had just escaped from prison. “Pops, not here!”

The old man waved his hand. “Salami, give to me.”

“What is it with you? You’re not…”

“Not what? In old country?” He flicked his cigar ash on the floor. “I know. I work in this country. Long hard. Blood and the sweat. America is my country.”

“Pops,” Roberto protested.

“Salami!” Pasquale raised his voice. “Give.”

Roberto relented. “Five minutes, that’s it. Then we’re gone.” Roberto handed the snake-like meat to his father.

Pasquale studied the salami carefully, then methodically unfolded the blade of his pearl-handled pocket knife, and with surgeon-like precision peeled the casing from the meat, saving the skin in his pocket, then sliced off a hearty piece for himself, and a smaller one for the boy.

Heads turned as the salami’s stench spread throughout the terminal. 

“Mommy, that smells like stinky feet,” a girl whined to her mother.

The woman’s face made sure she communicated her disgust to all around, whisking her child to safety, away from the garlic, fennel, and pork wafting into the air.

Pasquale shook his head, raised his voice, and pointed to the woman, “You no know what you miss.” He took a long drag off the stogy, let the smoke escape slowly into the air, then slugged down a long gulp of the Carlo Rossi.

“Why do you do this?” Roberto hissed. “Why?”

“You want wine?” Pasquale raised the bottle to his son.

“I don’t want your wine, your salami, or your goddamn cigars!”

“Bene, good,” Pasquale took another long drag. “More for me.”

Roberto moved closer to his father, and lowered his voice. “Pops. I want you to...”

His father wouldn’t let him finish. “Want me? What?” 

“Let’s go,” Roberto said, yanking his father from his seat, while trying to make the entire drama inconspicuous.

“Go?” Pushing his son away, Pasquale took another slug of wine.

“What’s goin’ on here?” A voice cut through the hubbub. Blue hat, baton affixed to his belt, revolver holstered at his hip.

“I’m Americano. Cittadino.” Pasquale stood, challenging the cop.

“ Yeah, Pops, you’re a citizen.” Roberto turned to the policeman, moving between the two. “I’m sorry, Officer. I’m just trying to help my father.”

“You no help. You boss.”

“Is that a knife?” The cop moved closer to the old man, pushing Roberto away.

“Officer, please,” Roberto pleaded.

“For his salami,” the little boy said, pulling on the cop’s billy club.

“Salami!” The cop yelled.

“Look.” Roberto tried to snatch the meat as evidence of the old man’s harmlessness.

Pasquale would not relinquish. “I keep.”

“Cheese, too,” The little boy dug into the old man’s pocket, removing another hunk of the yellow asiago. 

Roberto lowered his voice, “Please, can we talk?”

The cop surveyed the situation. Pasquale, his fedora askew, white hair swirling helter-skelter, knife in one hand, salami at his side, and the Carlo resting on the empty seat next to him.

“My father, he’s from the old country. He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s harmless. He doesn’t know…” Roberto shook his head. “He doesn’t know what…” he choked on his words. “My mother, she died, and now he’s alone. He tries, but,” Roberto glanced back at his father, now sitting stoically on the seat, puffing his cigar. “I’m sorry Officer.”

The cop looked at Roberto, then appraised the old man. 

“I’m very sorry,” Roberto said again.

“When?” the officer asked.

“When?” Roberto responded, confused.

“When did she die?”

Roberto turned away. His memories and the pain flashed before him. “Last year,” he said in a whisper.

The gaping silence sat between the two men as the crowd, the chatter, and the roar of the planes drifted into the background. “I’m sorry,” the officer said.

Pasquale stood, raised his knife in the air, and walked slowly towards the policeman. The officer’s hand moved towards his belt. Pasquale lowered his left hand to his side. He raised the salami, sliced off a chunk, and offered it between the knife-blade and his calloused thumb. “Salami, is good. Eat.”

“I…” The cop stumbled over his thoughts.

“Is good,” the old man said, “multo bene, very good. Eat.”

The little boy’s eyes darted between the two. He pulled on the officer’s sleeve. “He likes you. He shares when he likes you. It’s good.”

A smile spread over the cop’s face. His body relaxed.

“Bene,” the old man said. “Is good. Wine too. Life better when we share.” He reached for the jug.

The cop waved Carlo off. “No wine, but I’ll take the salami.”

An elderly woman stumbled into the chair next to Pasquale. Her thin gray hair covered haphazardly by a tangled babushka. Her breath labored. 

“Excuse,” she mumbled, pulling at her coat as if she were cold.

“You look not so good,” Pasquale said, eyeing her carefully.

“I fine,” she said, straightening the hem of her tattered skirt.

“What wrong? I can tell things.” The old man removed his hat, his wild white hair falling to his neck.

“Planes too big, up, down. I no like.”

“Si, me too,” he replied, “and food is bad.”

A wisp of a smile peeked from her lips.

“Here,” Pasquale said, pulling a piece of cheese from his pocket. “Is good. Not in the plastic.”

The woman considered him, then the cheese.

“Here,” Pasquale gently offered it to her. “Make you fly better.”

The woman cautiously took the cheese and raised it to her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring, as if it was a prize. “Dziękuję,” she said, her smile growing.

“And for you,” she dug into her satchel and removed a tiny pastry. “Kolaczki, with the peach.”

Pasquale, like a timid child, gently took the delicate cookie and popped it into his mouth.

“Bene, bene, cookie good,” Pasquale said. “And my cheese help you. You have good fly.”

Pasquale turned to the police officer. “You.” He raised his voice. “What you say you want?”

“Salami,” the cop said.

“Bene, multo bene,” the old man’s sadness hidden behind his smile. “Good. Is better to share. I’m an Americano.” Pasquale turned to his son, took a drag from the stogy, and a long pull off his wine, looking Roberto in the eye, “A cittadino.”