the mobster Vincent Marrano had finally been arrested and convicted for tax evasion. The prosecutor had been trying for years to charge him with more serious crimes, but had not been able to gather enough evidence. Not long after the trial, don Vince died in jail—allegedly, of a heart attack.
The pizzeria gradually became a favorite spot for the well-to-dos from uptown in search of a touch of folklore. In the mid-sixties it acquired the license to sell wine and greatly increased in popularity. Now it had a jukebox that played the Four Seasons nonstop. Frankie Valli himself occasionally showed up with members of the band, and there was a photo on the wall of Joe toasting them. Joe was in his early thirties and a partner in the business. To learn more about wine, he took a tour organized by the Associazione Viticultori d’Italia, an association of Italian wine producers who wanted to promote their products in the U.S.
For the first time in his life, Joe set foot on an airplane. Rocco drove him to the airport in his station wagon, wondering all the way whether St. Christopher would now modernize and protect transatlantic passengers in the air, as well as on water.
Joe landed safely in Rome and joined the other wine sellers and restaurateurs from all over the States. After touring the Frascati hills and the picturesque wine zones of the south, the group headed north, passing through the Chianti countryside and reaching the fertile vineyards of the Piedmont region. The tour organizers had included visits to large industrial establishments as well as to specialized small producers. One of these was the Villa Flora winery, famous for its ruby-red, floral-flavored, medium-bodied Grignolino. After having tasted the specialties of other wineries—the robust, berry-flavored, full-bodied Barolo, and the sweet, aromatic Moscato—Joe fell for Grignolino. The perfect match for pizza, as he put it. On that occasion Joe met Rosa.
The visitors to the winery were routinely treated to a brief tour of the eighteenth-century villa and its gardens. Signora Amelia had first resisted this intrusion. Her family had always kept a clear demarcation line between their private space and the winery down in the valley. But the manager had convincingly argued that the visits would help to increase the business, and in the end she relented. The world was changing and business was gradually encroaching on everything. However, she would not come out and greet the visitors. She stood firm on that point. And so, she put Rosa in charge of supervising the wine-tasting reception and of seeing to it that the group leave promptly soon after.
It was mid-July and the gardens let off fireworks of blossoms—periwinkles, daisies, forget-me-nots, lilies, peonies, fuchsias and nasturtiums artistically arranged in manicured flower beds, perfectly trimmed hydrangea shrubs around the fountain, jasmine edges along the alleys, and thick clusters of wisteria climbing up the southern wall. The rose garden was not in full view, secluded behind a row of cypresses and surrounded by a delicate colonnade, but the intense fragrance of hundreds of blooms of all possible varieties floated in the air and travelled all the way up to the terrace where the visitors were standing. The terrace extended outside the grand hall in the back of the villa. Stone banisters with neo-classical statues of the four seasons surrounded it. On one side, steps lead to the gardens.
The visitors were in awe of that luxuriant spectacle, and eagerly clicked their cameras left and right, leaning on the banisters because they were not allowed down the steps. A young man in the group, the one who spoke Italian (with a terrible accent), was more interested in Rosa than in the surroundings. He followed her around like her shadow while she was attending to her duties. He was the last one to leave, lingering at the door to talk to her at length. That night they met in town and Joe stayed over for another couple of days. Eventually, he came back a few months later to marry her. Rosa left Villa Flora, and signora Amelia lost her most valued maid.
III
New York 2001
“For sure, the place now has a very sleek look. But I feel a bit nostalgic for the old place with its retro charm. Look at that picture... Aren’t they cute?”
Amy points to a photo on the wall, picturing Rocco and Lucia in ’46 in front of their pizza joint. They are in their Sunday best: Rocco in a dark suit custom-made by the tailor on the corner who knew how to make a man look smart, and Lucia in a light dress with a floral pattern, slingbacks with a high wedge, and a small hat on her shoulder-length black hair—two proud business owners and respected citizens.
“They earned every bit of what they’ve got, the hard way,” Rosa says. “Rocco remained loyal to this country until his very last day. He used to tell us, still in his heavy Southern Italian accent, ‘Look, here money doesn’t grow on trees. But it’s the only country in the world where everyone has the opportunity to plant his own tree.’ We owe them a great deal. Joe had it easy. Having been born here he never experienced the humiliation of being an immigrant and, of course, he is a native speaker. I laugh at him when he speaks Italian with his thick Yankee accent... As for Chris, he doesn’t even try.”
“Yeah, Joe’s funny. But you’re amazing. You learned English so well, you’re almost flawless.”
“It must be a natural gift. I never learned it in school. You know my story, the nuns at the orphanage gave me just a basic education, and at eighteen I went to work at your grandma’s... Then I came here, not as a poor person but as the wife of a solid citizen, a businessman, and this gave me a new confidence, and so I learned the language easily... But, enough talking about me. Tell me about yourself, honey. Haven’t seen you in ages. How’s life?”
“I’m fine. Very busy. Lately, I’ve been working on a manuscript that requires a lot of time and labor. In fact, that’s why I dropped by today. I wanted to ask you if you remember...”
The door to the office flies open, and Joe rushes out, highly distressed:
“Rosa! Rosa, come quickly! Something’s happened... It’s in the news, live. Oh, Amy, hi! Hurry, both of you... You must see this.”
They rush to the office. On the TV screen they see a scene out of a disaster movie. The North Tower of the World Trade Center looks like a factory chimney. A plume of dark, dense smoke is gushing out a huge gap at about the 80th floor, wide and thin like a throat cut. The smoke snakes up to the sky and expands into a massive cloud that tops the tower.
“A plane hit the tower... three minutes ago, at 8:46... we don’t have the facts... it could have been an accident...” The reporter is desperately trying to make sense of the event.
The video runs again from the beginning. A clear blue sky, a plane flying directly into the tower, the impact is horrendous, the plane remains lodged in the building. “Holy shit!” An anonymous voice from someone watching the scene has been recorded on the soundtrack. “Holy shit!... Holy shit!” Three times, in disbelief.
“What’s happening?” Rosa asks, not expecting an answer. They are mesmerized, their eyes glued to the screen, when a second plane is spotted. It approaches with the deliberate trajectory of a kamikaze. It hits the South Tower at about the same height and crashes into the building with a spectacular explosion. It is 9:03. Flames and smoke gush out of the wounded building. By now, it is clear to them that they are not watching an accident.
“We’re under attack... An act of terrorism... Unconfirmed reports talk of an Al-Qaeda operation,” the broken voice of the commentator informs them. “All of Manhattan has been sealed off, bridges and tunnels have been shut down. The airports are closed, the whole airspace has been declared a no-fly zone.”
The two towers are burning. First responders are already at the scene. People from inside the towers call 911. They place frantic calls: “I’m burning up. Help me! Hurry, please!” Firefighters enter the towers’ inferno. They make their way upstairs,
