# Carmella Commands/Chapter 14

nd listen, caro padre!” exclaimed Carmella as they walked home from the theater. “I am your interpreter, is it not so?”
In the picture house she had been smilingly aﬀectionate as she translated the titles into Italian and whispered them to him. In some of the interludes, when there was time to talk, she had laughingly added her own name to the list of ﬁlm credits: “Carmella Coletta, oﬀicial interpreter.”
And Tommaso had smiled in return. He had forgotten, in the hurry and worry of recent days, that his oldest daughter could be so—so—he could not think of the word. Not since the days in Italy when he was making love to Maria had he needed the word. She was—well, even as Maria her mother had been, but with a strange added new world assurance and boldness. Bella Carmella!
Suddenly it occurred to him to wonder if ever before she had been so completely captivating—so much to be proud of. He had taken her day-by-day development as a matter of course, hardly noticing the changes. But now there had been a break between them–slight, ​but tense with the purpose to command. And this slight break had given him new eyes through which to view his child.
“Carmella Coletta, oﬀicial interpreter.”
The phrase rang in his ears. How she had grown since—well, since he had last appraised her at all. Almost as if she were no longer his daughter—a child of Italy. Was it true, perhaps, that here by his side she was interpreting America, instead of ﬂorid screen titles, to him? She seemed to sense the spirit of the new country. Whereas he, Tommaso, sensed only certain opportunities for making money from its people. They were not his people. Were they Carmella’s people?
As they left the theater and waited to cross the traﬀic-ﬁlled street she took his arm with a comforting air of dependence. That was as Maria had done in Italy, even though traﬀic gave small excuse for it there.
“Didn’t you like it better because I was with you to translate the titles?” she asked.
“Of course,” he admitted gruﬀly. “Why don’t they print them in our tongue, anyway?”
“Ah,” said Carmella, “because so many young folks go, who read English better than they read Italian. But always I can interpret to you, padre.”
Tommaso grunted what might have been a “yes” or a “no.”
​“And listen, caro padre, I am your interpreter, is it not so?”
Suddenly, without waiting for an answer, she began to chatter. Chattering of the pictures they had seen, of her vacation play, of the new teacher she was to have in the fall, and of the rumor that he was to be contractor for Mr. Barrington.
“Only for the cellars, to hurry them along,” said Tommaso, anxious not to overestimate his good for- tune, or to try to deceive his daughter in any way. “There is a strike, and I shall take a few men out to do the digging.”
“Aha! Then that makes you a contractor. I told the truth. I told the truth to Mrs. Barrington!” She skipped a few steps ahead, then backstepped to her father’s side and took his arm again. “That makes you a contractor. Tommaso Coletta, contractor!” She laughed joyously.
Tommaso looked keenly at her, as he had in the thea- ter. ‘This again was a new tone. Dependent, approv- ing, dominating—his daughter. His American daugh- ter. He sighed. It was beyond his experience.
“But, dad,” she went on, “a contractor must provide for his men, is it not? And he must take them to their work in the morning and back home at night. And to haul out the earth—there should be a truck for that. No longer are you digging one little cellar. You agree to do a big job, and do it quick. You must have the
“And Listen, caro padre, I Am Your Interpreter. Is it Not So?”
​things—the machinery—as well as the men. And I am your interpreter in these things.”
Tommaso slowed his steps as the vision of new and bigger enterprise built itself up in his mind. To gain time, he answered the last question ﬁrst.
“No need of an interpreter, piccola ragazza, for I shall have countrymen to work with me.”
“Quite true, papa! For the real digging, yes! But for buying tools and trucks.”
“I will hire a truck from Luigi Domao. He has one, and it will do to begin with. The cellars are to be small.”
“But for tools and a truck for going and coming. Mr. Barrington likes quick work and clean. He will be there Monday to watch. You are a big contractor, carissimo padre. But you will be big the quicker if you please Mr. Barrington the very ﬁrst day.”
Tommaso hesitated. But Carmella, her hand on his arm, felt in his muscles that he was yielding. He was remembering his new employer’s insistence on speed. And so they entered the yellow cottage home.
“Good night, dad!” said Carmella, in English.
“Good night!” he replied, in the same language. In bed, she thought over the problem she had faced and the way in which she had met it. Her father had punished her in a new and unexpected way. Once he had used a strap. Today he had merely left her out. It had bewildered her. But she had given no sign, she thought, that she was hurt and penitent.
​She chuckled to think that at no moment of the evening had she been weak enough to mention Mrs. Alibrio’s name. But she fell asleep knowing that she should always, always hate Mrs. Alibrio.
Tommaso, too, thought long before he slept. Carmella had scored when she pointed out factors that he had overlooked. Mr. Barrington wanted action—prompt and fast. He, Tommaso, had thought of it in terms of man-power, and of that he was sure. But the equipment he had overlooked. Tomorrow was Sunday. He could do much before Monday morning, with eight thousand dollars in the bank, and Carmella to help.
But Carmella! Should he call on her? He had resolved to ignore her for a week or two. Yet tonight she had been most devoted. She had been, in fact, fascinating. Perhaps he had wronged her by leaving her out. Maria, her mother, he loved. At least he had loved her in Italy. Since coming to this new country he had been almost too busy to love. But Maria, even in her youth, had never been like that.
What a wife Carmella would be for some nice young Italian boy! He fell asleep.
Through all the Sunday that followed Tommaso was busy, arranging for workers and equipment and for Luigi’s truck, with Luigi to drive. He dealt with his own people, and Carmella languished for interpreting to do.
Nicolo called from across the street, and asked her to ​go to the afternoon movies. Her abrupt refusal left him in new doubt as to his position in her favor.
“Dad may need me,” she explained.
“Santo Dio!” he sneered. But it was his only attempt at repartee.
As she prepared for bed that night Carmella held back the tears by the simple process of growing angry. There was no weeping in her program of wrath. Tommaso had not called on her all the long day.
“I wonder if all fathers are as hard to train,” was her ﬁnal thought. And she dreamed that she was standing on the top beam of a steel skyscraper frame, commanding her father and her brother Joe to bring bricks to her, quickly, so that she might throw them from twenty stories high at Mrs. Alibrio, who was passing on the sidewalk below.
Tommaso had gone to work when she appeared for breakfast the next morning.
“Did father ask for me?” she inquired.
“No. Why should he?” asked Maria.
“No reason. I just thought he might.”
With heavy steps she started downstreet on an errand, after ﬁnishing the dishes. Nicolo hailed her from Mike Laudini’s yard, but she barely answered.
“High hat as hell!” commented the boy to himself. “I think I get me another girl.” But in his heart he knew he would not.
Tommaso, meanwhile, had been early on the job in Greendale, transporting his workers and their tools in ​Luigi’s truck, which was also to haul away the earth from their shovels. The men had demurred a little at riding in a truck used for hauling earth, but Tommaso’s quick wrath had overawed them.
Like a general he disposed of his forces—just enough men in each of three cellars to keep the truck eﬀiciently busy. To each group he explained that there was a bonus for speed. He explained that down the road was a gang of countrymen from Clayville, working on a rival project. Clayville was a suburban Italian colony, between which and the Doty Street region there was a deep and brooding hatred.
By eight o’clock the Barrington project was a scene of wholesome industry. At nine-thirty Mr. Barrington himself, accompanied by his sixteen-year-old son John, appeared. The latter should have been in the private summer school where he was enrolled in a maternal hope that he could make up the studies in which he had failed the past year. He preferred, however, to be with his father. And the latter, himself unschooled, had an idea that practical aﬀairs were better training than the study of books.
“Going well, Tommaso?” asked Mr. Barrington.
“Go ﬁne!” said the new contractor.
Just then a stranger approached Tommaso and asked:
“You got a license to set them wops on this job?”
“What the hell?” asked Tommaso, in English.
“You know you gotta ﬁle a bond with the building ​inspector of this town before you can set a gang to work on contract stuﬀ. We gotcha if you don’t. You can’t come out here and steal a job from a bunch of honest working men, and I’ll land you in jail damn quick if you don’t live up to speciﬁcations.”
“No spika Eenglish,” said Tommaso. “Parlate Italiano?”
“Not by a damn sight! And I wouldn’t if I could. You’re in America now, Tony. Get wise or get out. See?”
“Who are you?” demanded Mr. Barrington.
“No matter who I am. This fellow knows. He’s the contractor here, and it’s him I talk to.”
“But⸺” began Mr. Barrington, ﬂushing with anger.
Dixon strolled to the scene.
“Better walk over to some other part of the works, sir,” he said. “It’ll only make matters worse if you butt in on it. I know his breed.”
With an oath Mr. Barrington walked slowly away, although his son stood fascinated and listened.
Tommaso, unused to the ways of business agents, reﬂected. Either he must pay graft to somebody—he had learned enough of America to know that—or he must know exactly where he stood. He had not comprehended the words, but he knew their general import to be a hold-up of some sort. He turned to Dixon:
“For interpret. You can do?”
​“Sure!” said Dixon. “I’ll get one. Who you want?”
Tommaso looked blank.
Who—who—who? Carmella? Alibrio? Who?
Tommaso thought rapidly—more rapidly than he liked. Mrs. Alibrio? Carmella? Both could translate. Only one cared. And she had clung to his arm last evening.
“Carmella.”
“She’ll be here in thirty minutes,” said Dixon, “or several traﬀic cops will be dead.”
Turning to the business agent, he said:
“This man don’t get your brand of talk. I’m going to get his interpreter. Back in thirty minutes. You wait. And the work goes on, see?”
The stranger demurred, and Dixon stepped toward him.
“I said the work goes on, and you stay here. If you start anything, remember, these huskies here follow the leader. See?”
He waved his hands toward the workmen, now leaning on their shovels and watching.
He dashed to the Barrington machine, without waiting to consult his employer, and drove oﬀ with all the acceleration a costly collection of eight cylinders can have. Carmella had returned to the cottage as Dixon drove up and came to a stop so sudden that it plowed up the macadam. She was just entering the door as Dixon called.
​“Quick!” he cried. “Jump in.”
The door of the machine had hardly closed when the car was bounding around the corner, heading back to Greendale.
“What’s the rumpus?” she asked, after they had traveled a few blocks at a sinful rate of speed.
“Don’t ask me. All I agreed to do was to get you there. All you have to do is to take it easy, work your head, translate, and bluﬀ the guy.”
A traﬀic oﬀicer signaled. Dixon swerved expertly to one side, and without slackening speed leaned out and shouted:
“Life or death! I’ll be back.”
Luckily Carmella was leaning forward, tense in thought. The oﬀicer saw her face, and forgot to take the machine’s number. In slow reﬂection he decided that the chauﬀeur must have been right.
For some time they drove in silence. Then Carmella turned and gazed squarely at the driver.
“Tell me one thing!” she commanded. “Did dad try to get Mrs. Alibrio?”
“Not that I heard of. He got into a jam with this walking delegate. Some kind of a hold-up. But neither could understand the other. So your dad asked me to get you.”
Carmella sighed happily, and sank back into the heavily cushioned seat.
Fifteen minutes brought them to the Greendale plat. Carmella jumped out and ran to her father.