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heexpressbuswasa miracle.People
thoughttherewasromancetotheferry be-
causethey’d heard that CarlySimonsong.
That movie,that song,theboat, were for
thosewhobelievedinofficelife—obsolete
faxmachines,cupsofLipton,perfumed
bodiesinairlessrooms.Shedidn’t needro-
mance,justanalmost hourofquiet.
Shealwaystooka windowseat. Passengersfiledon,andshe
willednoonetositbesideher.Sevendollarswassolittletopay for
silence;she’d get off downtown,andthat wouldbelost. Thetangle
of tunnelsat FultonStreetalwaysmadeherthinkof antshurrying
offontheirantbusiness.
She’s livedinthiscity herwholelife(peopleforgotStatenIsland
waspartofthecity)andknewhowtoplanaccordingly.Hergig
wasseasonal—helpinga designershelovedsellscarvesandhats
ata pop-upmarket—andit wasearlyenoughintheseasonthat
shedidn’t havetothinkaboutwhat wouldcomenext.Something
alwayswould.She’dworkedasa shopgirl,salesassociate,cus-
tomerservice,whatever.She’s learnedthat dealingwithpeople
madeworkfeelnotlikesometh didformoney butlike life
itself.Sheknewallthespecia tage clothes;rarecoins,
manuscripts, and documents; jewelry; magazines and printed
ephemera), and their clients remembered her, loved her, asked for
her. They talked, and she listened.
Amanpausedintheaisle,eyebrowsasking,Is thisseat
taken?Shesmiledenoughtobepolite.Oh,well.Sheturned
towardthewindow. Anyway,shelikedtheview:theharbor
huggingtheAtlantic.
Hekepthissilenceuntilthebridge. “Beautifulday.”He saidit
likehewassomehowresponsibleforit.
“I t is.”Shelookedat theblurwheretheseatouchedthesky,
ca tching—sometrickof light—herownref lection.Peopletook
therhinestones,theturban,theveil,as an invitation.Young
gi rlsaskedif shewasboundfor a costumeparty.Shereminded
ol d womenof theirmothers.Strangerssometimesstrokedher
ar mas if sheweresomethingfor sale.Wasit betterthanthe
ta untsfromwhenshe’dbeena teenandhadwhitenedherface
withpowderandwornonlyblack?Wasit betterthanthetime
anoldmanon thetrainaskedif shedidinternetporn?When
sh e lookedat herref lection,shesawonlyherself.
“Headedtowork?”
Sheoffereda vague“Yes.”
“Metoo.I workdowntown.BrookfieldPlace.You’vegottobe
anactress,amI right?”
Shethoughtof somethingshe’d readinBalzac:But,boyas I was,
couldI haveacquiredthemagnanimitywhichleadsustoscorn
the scorn of others? “I’m just going to rest my eyes.” She leaned
against the window and, after a while, stopped hearing his steady
breathing. She made him disappear. rumaan alamFIFTH AVENUE AND 58TH STREET
sometimes he thinks about retiring. He’s 75, and he could
swing it. He gets up at five each weekday morning, feeds the cat,
takes his pills, and makes his coffee. He takes a train to Hoboken
and then the path to 33rd Street; he walks from there to 57th,
unless the temperature dips too low, and then he takes the train.
What would he do, though, if he didn’t come to this place every
day? He walks, and people call out to him, “Man, you’re one ele-
gant man.” “You’re sharp as a needle,” they say.
Sometimes, when he goes back to Italy, people makefun of
Americans and he laughs at them. “I’m American,” he says. He’s
lived here almost 50 years. His family never wanted him to come,
but it was the oldest story in the world. When he was 24, Mimmo
met a girl. They were in Florence, and she came to learn Italian
and he spoke no English. By their third date, communicating only
through gestures, he gave her the ring that meant they’d be mar-
ried and that now, since her death in 2003, he wears on a necklace
he keeps tucked in his shirt.
For a while, Mimmo was a manager at a string of Roy Rogers
in New Jersey. They said he couldn’t keep his mustache because
only the villains at Roy Rogers had a mustache; but the mustache
was a decree from the girl he’d married, so they finally relented.
In 1979, he read in the New York Times that there was a
stylist job at Dunhill for which one needed to be bilingual, so
he called about it. The man took him to the Yale Club and they
ordered drinks and the man told him that the job was his.
Mimmo went on to Bergdorf Goodman in 1993, Saks in 2002.
Clients f lew him to Damascus, the Virgin Islands, all over
Europe. He took a private jet with the president of Saks to
shoot ducks in Arkansas.
Since his wife died, he goes to visit and talk with her. She was
buried in Holy Cross Cemetery in North Arlington, ten miles
from his house. He always brings her flowers. One day, he set two
angels on her gravestone, and every time he went to see her—no
set schedule; when he felt like talking—the angels were still
there. This seemed like magic to him, just like she had. Finally,
after five years of not knowing, he went to the groundskeeper
and asked if he knew how these small angels, not sturdy and not
fastened to the gravestone, had stayed put all those years. A man
told him it was clear they’d been left by someone who loved her,
so he kept them upright, fixed them when needed. Mimmo
kissed this man and hugged him; it felt more magic, not less, now
that he knew. lynn steger strongLORI LEWIN
DOMENICO “MIMMO” SPANO
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