Sofia's Tune Read Online Free PDF Page A

Even though she could not accept, she was grateful for the offer.
    “Annie, please. I hope to see you there. Sofia, correct?”
    “ Sì . Sofia Falcone.”
    Sofia watched the young woman march away, a market basket swinging from her arm. Incredible that when your world is crumbling around you, hoards of people walk down the street and pass you by without seeing your anguish. What was it about this Annie that made her notice Sofia’s pain, when no one else had?
    When Sofia went back in, she did not see Mamma.
    “Off to her bed, Sofia.” Papà paced the small sitting room. “I have never seen her so bad.”
    “She will be better, Papà.”
    “I do not think so. Her heart is broken.”
    Sofia closed her eyes a moment. “No. Like always, it will last a while and then she will get better. By Christmas, or just after, as always.”
    “No, no. Have you ever known her to leave her soup pot?”
    Sofia turned toward the stove. Orange liquid dripped down the side of the pot while the flame underneath licked up spilled soup with a rhythmic sizzle. No, Mamma had never done that before. Her cooking was her joy, evidence of her delight in nurturing la famiglia .
    “She is not herself, Papà. She will get better.” Sofia hurried to clean up the mess.
    The rest of the evening Mamma did not come out. Frankie and Fredo, Sofia’s twin brothers, returned from their night jobs and Sofia served them slightly scorched soup. Then she washed and scrubbed and set the kitchen in order. No sign of Mamma.
    ***
    Antonio stared at the playbill he’d been handed and tried to focus on his task.  Tony Pastor’s Fourteenth Street Theatre. He glanced to the page after the advertisements. For the week of September 21, 1903.  Antonio had been a mid week fill-in, but a job was a job. He ran his thumb past the acts that had already performed to the end of the show where he came in. A trained monkey act and then he was on.Once he saw the creature and his trainer bounce off the stage through the curtains, he took his place at the piano. He had to improvise, something he despised, but he had a fairly detailed typed script in front of him, so at least he knew where the skit was headed. The act seemed to be going well until the performer veered away from the plan.
    Perspiration gathered at Antonio’s collar as he strained his neck to see around the piano. His tempo lagged behind the act.
    When the piece was finished, the actor with a heavily powdered face stormed up to Antonio, threw down the scarf in his hands, and began shouting at the theater manager who had come to greet him. “This man is a disgrace. Sack him and get someone who knows what the devil he’s doing! I will not be made a fool of, Mac!”
    Not again. Antonio had been the victim of too many talentless performers in the last few weeks. Antonio had not been the one to change the skit. This actor had forgotten his lines or something. Apparently mediocrity was preferred in most theaters.
    “Let’s go, Otis. It’s all over now.” The theater manager, a man known simply as Mac, urged the irate actor back to his makeup table. When the manager returned, Antonio was already packing up his music.  “Look, Tony, vaudeville ain’t good enough for a classical musician like ye.”
    If the man hadn’t called him Tony, Antonio might have been flattered. He liked the manager, a friendly fella of Scottish descent with wide blue eyes. “You are probably right, Mac, but I have to make a living.”
    “Don’t we all.” Mac wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then returned the rag to his vest pocket and checked his timepiece. “I’ll toss in an extra quarten for this next act. Not a bad deal for a couple of minutes of work.”
    “I’m finished. It’s the end.”
    “Oh, no, it’s not. You know we got to run the program again. Say, I’ve got another piano player coming in about thirty minutes. Some acts don’t require accompaniment. Others do. If  you stay just until he gets here,