Dominick d'angelo had arrived in New York at the turn of the century , a frightened immigrant , fourteen years old, wearing the clothes his widowed mother had made for him before he left Sicily . He had the address of an uncle , five American dollars , and promises he had made to a mother he would never see again .
He would be an honorable man , always. He would give his word only when he knew he could keep it . He would work hard , everyday of his life . He would take no charity , for the bread of charity was made of dust . He would pray for his mother and brothers and sisters. He would send home a picture when he found a wife.
He would never dishonor any woman , just as he would not permit anonyme to dishonor his sisters.
He would raise his children to be good catholics and honorable people.
He lived near starvation, working at any job that required a strong back.He was not a large man, but he could lift and carry.He never cheated on his hours.He never claimed one penny he had not earned. For seven years he saved every single dollar he could towards his own business.He was a good shoemaker. Although in this country there were shoe stores filled with shoes of all kinds, they were not made to last.Although his shop was called Dominick D'Angelo,Shoemaker,he was really a shoe repairer.He knew which children were hard on the tips and on the heels,so he reinforced those places with small steel crescents that tapped and clattered and delighted the kids and pleased the parents.Afther all,shoes were expensive and should last longer than from the store to the home.On sundays,afther church , after tidying the small apartment at the back of his shop on 181 st street,he walked in the spring air all the way to Fordham Road and then cut down to Bathgate Avenue. Here were the fresh fruit and vegetable stands, the Kosher live-chicken markets ( the jews were careful to get the cleanest poultry and meat).Although he rarely bought anything but vegetables and fruit,Dom D'Angelo liked to wander about , just looking.There were any number of clothing shops,discount places where you could buy a sligltly off-size coat or pair of pants,an off-color shirt,or socks or underwear that hadn't been cut exactly right.
Mothers dragged cranky children in and out of the shops,holding clothes against their bodies, wrapping a sock around a child's fist for size.
The men waited outside the shops , smoking, talking about jobs , politics, word from home.Dom edged closer to the men who spoke Italian , listened to their accents,until he felt comfortable. Sounds of home.
He rarely spoke to anyone.He was too shy.
But each week he went to the stand in front of the Rucci Family Vegetable and Fruit Company and bought exactly the same thing. Three red apples, two yellow apples, two oranges,three bananas.
The girl who served him ,a plump, bright-eyed girl of fifteen named Angela Rucci,smiled at him,help up her hand,said,"Don't tell me , let me guess".She filled a brown paper bag with his order, and Dom D'Angelo walked home to 181 st Street in a daze. She was aware of him . She remembered him from week to week.She had noticed him.
The Ryer Avenue Story,Dorothy Uhnak,1993
Bon traducteur anglais francais
