The Wine of Youth by John Fante

said.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “Thank you, Dino.”
    His name formed by her lips gave him strength. He looked at her bravely, a change coming over his face and body, happiness in his smile. Papa bustled around, nervous and grinning, and we could see that already he was beginning to feel that after all the dinner would be a success.
    He pulled up a chair for Coletta, who peeled off her fur in a strange way that made me think she was naked beneath it. Mike and Tony and I held our breath, watched the tight black satin appear beneath the coat, and as one we rushed to take the coat from her. It ended in a tie, eight fists strangling the black and white fur. Hugo sank his teeth into a dangling sleeve and tuggedtoo, until Papa forced his jaws loose. We carried the fur into Mamma’s room, and spread it lovingly upon the bed. Then Mike grabbed it between his arms and pushed his face into the deep collar.
    â€œHoly Moses! Smell it—gee!”
    â€œPerfume,” Clara said.
    Hugo sneezed.
    Â 
    It was a dinner to remember. Papa insisted that Dino sit next to Coletta, but Dino had already found a place for himself between Mike and me. Mamma came from the kitchen and stared coldly at Coletta.
    â€œI’m not hungry tonight,” Mamma said. “I couldn’t possibly eat a thing.” Since Mamma’s place was always between Papa and Dino that chair was now left vacant.
    â€œGood!” Papa blurted out. “That’s fine. Coletta, you sit in my wife’s place, and, Dino, you come over here and sit beside Coletta.”
    Coletta arose and slid sensuously into Mamma’s chair. Every time she moved it made me think she was naked. Dino was very polite, but he declined to move. He put his arms around Mike and me, his hands resting on our shoulders.
    â€œI am content here,” he said. “Between my two boys.”
    â€œYou’re my guest!” Papa said, banging the table with his fist. “You got to sit where I tell you.”
    Coletta dropped her eyes.
    â€œPerhaps Dino doesn’t wish to sit next to me,” she murmured.
    Dino leaped to his feet. He bowed grandly.
    â€œForgive me,” he said in his polite Italian. “I meant no offense, Signorina Drigo. It would bring me great joy to sit next to you.”
    â€œNow you’re talking!” Papa said. “Now we’re getting some place. Sit down there, Dino, and let’s eat. I’m hungry as hell. Maria!”
    Mamma appeared from the kitchen.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œFood!” Papa yelled, his earlier gallantry gone. “What the hell do you think I want?”
    Without a word Mamma served us. She filled the middle of that wide mahogany table with platters of chicken cacciatore andravioli. She appeared with bowls of salad and vegetables. Her face was gray and stony; her eyes looked straight ahead. Not once did she speak. One word from her, one smile, and the dinner might have been saved. Instead it was a disaster. Her appearance from the kitchen brought a tenseness that forbade eating. The moment she was gone again Papa tried to lighten the silence with frantic stabs at conversation. It only increased the tension. The dinner was ruined and everyone knew it, especially Coletta.
    But not Dino. He was the some old Dino, his ready smile and gentle eyes unmoved by the conflict about him. While the rest of is dabbled with our forks, he took two big helpings of everything, chewing and swallowing with the same slow, idolatrous reverence for Mamma’s cooking.
    Dessert was chocolate cake. Chocolate cake! The magic of Mamma’s chocolate cake! We would have died for chocolate cake, we kids, but that night we just didn’t want any chocolate cake. Nobody wanted any chocolate cake. Coffee, yes. Even Coletta agreed to a cup of black coffee, but no cake.
    Except Dino. Impatiently we watched him eat one piece and then ask for another, his eyes full of adoration for each mouthful.