Wait Until Spring Bandini by John Fante Page A

completing it; she noticed the freshly ironed curtains, the shining mirror over the dresser, the rag rug at the bedside so precisely in order, everything so monastically impersonal, and under the chair in the corner – a pair of Arturo’s dirty shorts, kicked there, and sprawled out like the section of a boy’s body sawed in half.
    The old woman raised her hands and wailed.
    ‘No hope,’ she said. ‘Ah, woman! Ah, America!’
    ‘Well, how did that get there?’ Maria said. ‘The boys are always so careful.’
    She picked up the garment and hastily shoved it under her apron, Donna Toscana’s cold eyes upon her for a full minute after the pair of shorts had disappeared.
    ‘Blighted woman. Blighted, defenseless woman.’
    All afternoon it was the same, Donna Toscana’s relentless cynicism wearing her down. The boys had fled with their dimes to the candy store. When they did not return after an hour Donna lamented the weakness of Maria’s authority. When they did return, Federico’s face smeared with chocolate, she wailed again. After they had been back an hour, she complained that they were to noisy, so Maria sent them outside. After they were gone she prophesied that they wouldprobably die of influenza out there in the snow. Maria made her tea. Donna clucked her tongue and concluded that it was too weak. Patiently Maria watched the clock on the stove. In two hours, at seven o’clock, her mother would leave. The time halted and limped and crawled in agony.
    ‘You look bad,’ Donna said. ‘What has happened to the color in your face?’
    With one hand Maria smoothed her hair.
    ‘I feel fine,’ she said. ‘All of us are well.’
    ‘Where is he?’ Donna said. ‘That vagabond.’
    ‘Svevo is working, Mamma mio . He is figuring a new job.’
    ‘On Sunday?’ she sneered. ‘How do you know he is not out with some puttana? ’
    ‘Why do you say such things? Svevo is not that kind of a man.’
    ‘The man you married is a brutal animal. But he married a stupid woman, and so I suppose he will never be exposed. Ah, America! Only in this corrupt land could such things happen.’
    While Maria prepared dinner she sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. The fare was to be spaghetti and meatballs. She made Maria scour the spaghetti kettle with soap and water. She ordered the long box of spaghetti brought to her, and she examined it carefully for evidences of mice. There was no icebox in the house, the meat being kept in a cupboard on the back porch. It was round steak, ground for meatballs.
    ‘Bring it here,’ Donna said.
    Maria placed it before her. She tasted it with the tip of her finger. ‘I thought so,’ she frowned. ‘It is spoiled.’
    ‘But that is impossible!’ Maria said. ‘Only last night I bought it.’
    ‘A butcher will always cheat a fool,’ she said.
    Dinner was delayed a half hour because Donna insisted that Maria wash and dry the already clean plates. The kids came in, ravenously hungry. She ordered them to wash their hands and faces, to put on clean shirts and wear neckties. They growled and Arturo muttered ‘The old bitch,’ as he fastened a hated necktie. By the time all was ready the dinner was cold. The boys ate it anyhow. The old woman ate listlessly, a few strands of spaghetti before her. Even these displeased her, and she pushed her plate away.
    ‘The dinner is badly prepared,’ she said. ‘This spaghetti tastes like dung.’
    Federico laughed.
    ‘It’s good, though.’
    ‘Can I get you something else, Mamma mio? ’
    ‘No!’
    After dinner she sent Arturo to the filling station to phone for a cab. Then she left, arguing with the cab driver, trying to bargain the fare to the depot from twenty-five to twenty cents. After she was gone Arturo stuffed a pillow into his shirt, wound an apron around it, and waddled around the house, sniffing contemptuously. But no one laughed. No one cared.

Chapter Four
    No Bandini, no money, no food. If Bandini were home, he