Advice for Italian Boys (13 page)

“What did you do?” Nicolo wished that Enzo would look him in the eye, but Enzo’s gaze was fixed on the rim of his coffee cup.

“I asked around about what the others were planning to do, but no one would commit one way or the other. I had got okay marks on the practice exams, better than most—an A, two Bs and the rest were C-pluses—not as good as some of the others got, but not bad either, pretty good in fact. I had already decided that I should apply for summer jobs at some of the medium-sized firms and maybe one or two larger ones just to see what happened. The jobs that pay the best, the ones that pay well, are the ones that want to see the grades. So, what I decided was, I decided that it would be wrong to give myself straight As or anything like that. Even if others did it, I couldn’t; it would be too misleading. But I couldn’t
see how it would do any harm to anyone to make a very small adjustment, to change the C-pluses and put B-minuses instead. It’s a very small difference, a matter of a percentage point or two or three, well within the margin for error for the people who do the marking. I worked it out carefully, ran all the numbers. I didn’t want to do anything wrong, I just wanted to give myself the same chance as anyone else.”

Overhead, a formation of clouds had made a slow passage across the sky and was gathering across the contracted orb of the dim sun. A sharp wind found its way around the corner of the building and crept across Nicolo’s scalp under his hair. Another fugitive breeze found a path under his jacket and along his back. He sipped his coffee again, for something to do, and then set his cup down and slid it to the side of the table. He leaned back, folded his arms across his chest and frowned.

“I know. I know. You don’t need to say it. It was wrong. But it’s done.”

Nicolo jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You mean you did it? You sent the marks out?”

“Yes. The next day. To six firms.”

“Have any of them got back to you? Your letters might not have been delivered yet. They could still be in the mail somewhere or in a pile on someone’s desk. We just need to figure out how to get them back.”

“No, it’s too late now. I’ve already had one or two calls to set up interview times. One of the students did the same thing apparently, or something similar, and then he told a few people, one or two too many anyway, and someone ratted him out to the dean’s office. Then, all of a sudden there
were memos posted around the law school on all the bulletin boards to say that anyone caught misrepresenting their grades could be expelled. They’re starting some kind of an investigation. Maybe it’s like Nonna says, you know, ‘
Chi va ai al mulino s’infarina.
’ When you go to a mill, you get covered in flour. Only this feels more like shit than flour. This system, it’s sick, all of it, rotten. It makes you rotten too, only it’s hard to see that when you are in the middle of it. When you’re inside something like that—it’s hard to explain—it feels almost like just another problem that has been set and that has to be solved, like in the exams, and it feels like the smart students are the ones who catch on quickly, play the system, and the dumb ones, the losers, are the ones who don’t figure it out or think that they’re too good, too pure, to make the system work for them.”

For the first time in his life, Nicolo wished that Enzo wasn’t so smart. Some systems, he thought, might not be worth figuring out if the result would be a temptation to beat them.

“Pull the applications. You can get a summer job somewhere else, or keep working at the factory. I can always give you a loan if you need it. I have lots of money saved up. I’ll
give
you whatever you need. I know you’re a good investment. I totally believe in you. There are lots of ways to get through this. Loans, grants, the bank of Nicolo, and you still have your scholarships.”

Enzo made a sound, a groan that seemed to rise up from deep inside his body, from the centre of his belly. “It isn’t that simple. These jobs aren’t only for the money, although the pay is a big part of it. It’s the fact that they’re the right
kind
of job. They take you places. Being a summer student at one of the better firms is the closest thing you can get to a guarantee. It’s like you’ve been approved, anointed. After that, assuming you don’t completely screw up, you’re on the inside.”

“I’m not saying that doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’re right about all of it. But you still need to ask for your applications back if they aren’t one-hundred-percent accurate.” Nicolo grasped his cup for warmth, but his coffee had gone cold. Then he reached across and wrapped his hand around Enzo’s fist.

Enzo shook his brother’s hand away and crossed his arms across his chest. His expression was closed and obdurate.

“And even if I did withdraw my applications, that wouldn’t be the end of it. This thing is going to get bigger. There’re going to be questions asked, a few at least, maybe more. I feel like I’m caught in one of those leg-hold traps and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along to finish me off.”

“I know. But it’s a start. It’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do. We can get started, and work out the rest later.”

“I don’t even know how to withdraw them now that they’ve been sent. It’s as if I suddenly can’t even think straight. I was sitting there, up in the library, staring at the electronic copies of letters I sent out. Thinking, imagining, wishing that if I just deleted the copies from my laptop then they would disappear, that this would never have happened, as if it could all be undone by pushing a button. Do you know, I even started to pray, right there in my chair. Like at confession. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ and all the rest
of it. I almost got down on my knees right there, as if I were back in grade one, remember how they used to make us do, in the aisles beside our desks? As if there were some kind of almighty, powerful God who would give even the remotest shit about this kind of stupid screw-up.”

“We’ll call the firms and say there’s been a mistake.”

“I can’t do it.”

“You don’t have any choice.”

“They’ll want an explanation.”

“If you have to tell them anything, you can say the truth, that your transcripts have a mistake in them.”

“Three ‘mistakes.’”

“Okay, three, then. It doesn’t matter. There’s no way around it. You don’t necessarily have to give them chapter and verse.”

Enzo lowered his head to the table. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

“Okay, so you’ve done something stupid. You’ve been to the mill and you’re covered in flour. But we can’t just do nothing. It’s bad, I know, I’m not trying to kid you, but the other way is worse.”

Enzo wasn’t listening. “We can’t make any calls until Monday anyway. And I don’t think I can last until then without it killing me. I feel sick. Maybe I
am
sick. Everything hurts. All my muscles. Even my bones hurt. My brain hurts.”

“We’ll send e-mails, then. Right now. Let’s go home and get it done.”

“And then what?”

“One thing at a time.” Nicolo infused his voice with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll work out the next thing later.”

He rose and tugged at Enzo’s shoulder. Enzo stood up and followed him, clasping his bag to his chest, radiating misery.

They drove to the house in their separate cars, Enzo following behind Nicolo. Nicolo kept checking in the mirrors to ensure that Enzo was still there, almost as if he expected him to bolt—but where could he possibly go? In the house, on their way past the kitchen to the stairs, they could hear Nonna half-speaking, half-singing under her breath as she spread fresh, damp pasta strands to dry over linen towels draped on the back of kitchen chairs. She gently patted each row of the waxy white pasta, as if they were the hairs on the head of a small, attentive child.

“
Un morire ciucciareddu meo c’a vena maio e t’ingrasso.
” Don’t die, my little donkey, because May will come and I will fatten you up.

“
C
ome with me. Please? Would you?”

“Sorry? Come with you where?”

“Come with me to my husband’s wedding. My
ex
husband’s. You know, Gordon? I’ve been meaning to ask if you wouldn’t, if you couldn’t, if you would please agree to at least think about coming along with me. It’s at the end of May. I think I’ve told you that. I’ve thought a lot about it and I’m really going to need to have someone there. It would mean everything to me, having a friend along for moral support and all that. Don’t worry. I don’t have any designs on you or ulterior motives or anything like that; I’m a married woman. Well, I’m not, but you know what I mean. I might just as well be. I have no interest in that kind of thing any
more; that part of my life is a closed book, done,
finito,
you know how it is? It might even be fun. It will be overdone and tasteless and sometimes that’s kind of a hoot. Probably not, but maybe. You don’t have to decide right now. You can think about it for a while, okay? You’ll think about it? It would mean a lot to me. I know it’s a big favour to ask. But promise me that you’ll at least consider the possibility?”

“Alden and I can’t use our tickets to this play next month. I get tickets all the time at the station, for movies and plays and launches and shows, and we usually try to use them, but Alden has a work dinner that night and he can’t get out of it, someone’s retirement. So we were thinking that maybe you might like to go. You could take someone with you, we have two tickets. The play’s called
Wit
and it’s about cancer and I think she dies at the end, which I know sounds grim, but I’ve heard it is absolutely amazing. It’s by a grade-school teacher, I think, her first play, and it won a Pulitzer, which I find completely inspiring because if she can do it maybe I could too if I ever get around to writing a novel or screenplay, which I’ve always wanted to try to do. Anyway, we both thought that you might like to go. I’ve been meaning to tell you as well that Alden is so, so pleased at the six pounds he’s lost. And don’t you think he looks better? Happier even. I think he’s happier. He has this new spring in his step when he gets up in the mornings. This is so good for him, this new routine you’ve created for us to do together. It’s been good
for both of us. You make it easy. We’re both surprised, but we actually look forward to the days we’re going to meet with you.”

“Timothy finally said he’d come to Las Vegas with me. Did I tell you I have to go out to Las Vegas? I’ll be gone for a few days in the second week of April. Frankie’s people called me especially at four in the morning, can you believe it? They got the time change backward or a day early or late or something like that. I had just got to sleep after a night out with Timothy and I could barely even find the phone, let alone talk. I was like ‘Who
is
this?’ I think I dropped the receiver about ten times. It’s a complete mystery why they didn’t hang up on their end. Anyway, they were calling to ask if I could fly down ASAP to try to fix whatever it is that’s gone terribly, dreadfully, horribly wrong with the show. I’m sure you’ve read about it. In
People?
It’s in all the magazines. Frankie Donato? The singer? A disaster, and not the kind that’s supposed to build character. It’s the other kind, the wrong kind, the kind that can absolutely slay a career, like an enormous, giant wooden stake straight through the heart. The songs aren’t right. Or the dance routines. Or the pacing, or the costumes, or the decor or something. They’re already into it for millions now, the money people behind it all, and they’re getting skittish, so someone came up with the idea that maybe I might have some thoughts how to fix it. If it even
can
be fixed. I’ve done a few things like this before, worked miracles
even, you know? But this one might be beyond even me. I mean, Frankie Donato. Anyway Timothy finally, finally agreed to come with me. I didn’t want to go without him. I had to beg on my knees practically. So, anyway, remember you told me that you’ve never gone anywhere? Well, that’s just not right? Okay? You’ve got to go somewhere before you settle down and have the big wedding and your eight little kids or however many you’re going to have. So I got them to put you into the budget as the Personal Trainer to the Creative Consultant—neat title, huh?—airfare, hotel, meals, gym, spa, the works. Second week in April, Friday to Monday. You would be able to make sure I stay on track and maybe keep half an eye on Timothy and also have a vacation. A junket. Think about it, okay? Can you promise me you’ll think about it?”

“I ssaw the fax. It’s a sure thing, I tell you.”

“You can’t know for certain.”

“I told you. I
ssaw
the fax. It described the whole deal, who’s in, the bids, the price, the deadlines, everything. Even the financing’s been finalized. The money’s been committed.”

“Where did you see it?”

“On Brad’s fax. He’s ssuch an idiot. He didn’t check the machine before he went home and there it was.
And
a copy of the confidentiality agreement they made him sign, as if it was even worth the paper it was written on when he leaves
it lying around like that. As if Brad isn’t going around and telling people anyway. I can’t help it if I see something that ssomeone leaves lying around. There’s no law against that, is there?”

“The shares will, what, double? Triple?”

“Higher, through the roof. I bought us some calls. A
lot
of calls.”

“Will they keep the name Vit@lity? I heard that the value is all in the brand.”

“Who knows? Who cares? We’ve got a few thousand calls. When the news hits the market, the shares will ssoar and we’ll be rich. That’s all that matters.”

“Where did you get that kind of money?”

“Like I said. I borrowed it. From the bank. Leverage. That’s what it’s all about these days. Leverage. Only ssuckers put their own money at risk.”

“Not so loud. Someone will hear us.”

“Don’t worry. You worry too much. No one here understands this kind of stuff.”

“Welcome back, all of you. I am glad to see you back again tonight, and hopefully ready to tackle some new and challenging recipes. You all did wonderfully last time, even the group that burned your muffins, which was a good reminder to all of us to check stove settings carefully. Even when you get the temperature right, broil is
not
the same thing as bake. I’ve added a recipe that calls for broiling tonight, so that will
give us all a chance to get the hang of it. Most of you were doing just fine and in fact I think I may have spotted more than one budding chef. This evening we are going to push the envelope just a little bit more and work with some fresh and healthful ingredients that you might not be all that familiar with. I know you will all try to keep an open mind. What we’re going to do is try out recipes that use bean curd, swiss chard, toasted wheat germ and grated unsweetened chocolate. Not all in the same dish—don’t worry, I’m not that cruel. Please, as I said, just try to keep an open mind. None of these recipes are too far off the beaten path. As I said earlier, I think you’re all going to be very pleasantly surprised.”

“I have here a sturdy pair of fail-safe, moisture-resistant paper overalls for everyone, and if you will please have a look over there along the far wall, you should be able to find a pair of safety boots that will fit you. The sizes are clearly labelled and they buckle at the sides—like so—so you’ll be able to fasten them tightly. Just roll up the legs and sleeves of the overalls if they’re too long—like this. As you see, they have elastic at the waist and cuffs so one size fits all, although I think it is safe to say that no one, including yours truly, is going to win any fashion competitions with these babies on. Today’s visit will involve just a little bit of walking, and some climbing too if you happen to be so inclined.

“I also have a box of sanitized paper masks here if you want one, but I can assure you that you won’t have to worry
very much at all about unpleasant odours. While it is true that odour could be one of the formerly less desirable side impacts of the older, outdated, less-scientific style of landfill, it has all but been banished these days through the many miracles of modern-day innovations in waste management. In fact, some people describe the scent of a modern landfill as musky or sweet or honey-like. One gentleman visitor went so far as to compare it to mead, which is a kind of flavourful wine made from honey that was formerly consumed in England in medieval times. I think, as I say, that you’re likely to find yourself pleasantly surprised.”

“Hey, Nicco. Come to the wedding shower, okay? A few of us will be getting together in the kitchen over at the hall, just the guys. Come round to the back door and you’ll find us. The girls will be out in the front doing whatever it is they do at showers, you know, the gifts and stuff. They won’t even know we’re around. Come hungry.”

“If you open your textbooks to chapter four, you’ll see two classic studies on how people can be induced through suasion and pressure to carry out an action that may be entirely against their natural character, such as inflicting torture. We’ll be discussing these studies in detail and you will be
required to write a short paper—it’s due in two weeks; please make a note of the date—about an incident in your lives that has some or all of the hallmarks of the five factors of peer persuasion, or as it is often called, peer pressure, that we will be reviewing next. This will count for fifteen percent of your final mark. You can find more information about the grading structure on the sheet I handed out at the first class. Please stop by to talk to me after class if you need another copy.”

“Wait a minute. Let me think. We have to be sure this is the right approach. We can only do this once.”

“You’re the one who was so sure. And it sounds okay. It says what we need to say. I’m withdrawing my applications; that’s the gist of it. Anyway, I think you’re right. It’s best to get this over with as quickly as possible. If I don’t get any offers, then there can’t be any harm to me or anyone else.”

“I’m just thinking. You know,
nel dubbio, astieniti.
”

“That’s what the people in Pompeii said when the volcano began to glow. They decided to wait to see what happened and they ended up baked to ashes in their own homes clutching their gold and silver.”

“It’s still only Saturday. Whether we send these out today or tomorrow won’t make any difference. It’s not very likely that anyone will be reading them until Monday morning. Why don’t you go to work? I’ll try to make my game. We can look at this again in the morning and see how this reads after we’ve slept on it.”