As he examined the tiny room, the man thought of the after-event and the comeback of those who had been humbled. To no one, he said, “Eager to blame and thus they will, and it will be those whose culpability best serves their interests. For they know only of opportunity.”
He packed the ink and stamps into a brown paper bag and deposited them in a trash bin a block south of the offices of La Questione Sociale
As he crossed a dim, litter-strewn alley on his return to Essex Street, he repeated what he had said, adding, “But in their heart of hearts, they will know they have been taken down.”
Mauro was studying his parade of ants on the brownstone steps when the man emerged precisely at 8 o’clock.
“Ready for adventure, Mauro?” he asked, and offered the boy his hand.
“Good morning,” Mauro said, as instructed.
“Let us proceed then, shall we?”
The man brought a finger to the brim of his boater when Mauro’s mother came into view.
“Thank you,” she said, her hands anxiously clasping the fleur-de-lis pickets of the wrought-iron gate. “Thank you very much. Thank you.”
“Yes, this will be a day to remember,” said the man. “A day for the ages.”
She didn’t fully understand, but when he looked to the September sky, she did too. It was flawless, the lightest blue with downy clouds.
“Ciao, Mama,” Mauro said, his voice cracking with sudden nerves.
“Be a good boy,” she replied in Italian, and then repeated what she had told him last night and again this morning. “Listen to the man.”
Clasping her hands in front of her breasts, she watched as they walked along Essex Street, her son skipping to match the man’s confident stride.
Mauro opened and closed the stable door, and was engulfed quickly by overwhelming scents and unexpected heat. He stayed close to the entryway, taking sips of cool air as he peered through the vertical space between the red doors.
Though the snorting horses behind him seemed mammoth and mice scurried near his freshly polished shoes, the boy was more baffled than frightened. His mother had told him of streets of gold, towers that kissed the sky, and the world’s smartest men. Now he wondered if he had misunderstood.
As Mauro watched, the man emerged in green overalls from a barn on the other side of the narrow thoroughfare, dragging an old rack wagon, its yellow bed enclosed by poles and rails covered by ragtag canvas. The man grunted as he brought the wagon to a halt, then chucked the wheel against the curb.
The man approached the stable, mopping his brow. Mauro retreated, backing into a weather-beaten barrel, blinking in the sudden wash of light.
“Come,” the man said to the boy as he marched past.
With Mauro lingering behind him, the man deftly harnessed a dark bay mare, affixing blinders the old horse accepted without protest.
Responding to a clicking sound the man made with his mouth, the horse left its station, albeit without enthusiasm, its long tail hanging limply.
“Follow and shut all doors,” the man said, as he tugged on a strap, leading the animal toward fresh air.
As Mauro reached up to close the stable, he tried to make the same clicking sound, but could not. He shrugged his shoulders in resignation.
The horse in place across the shaded lane, the man beckoned Mauro to the rear of the wagon where he pulled back a canvas flap.
Mauro saw a simple wooden crate. It was tied with thick hemp to the wagon’s frame.
“You know what we have there?” the man asked, gesturing with his head.
Mauro looked up at him.
“A gift,” he said. “A gift that you will present. You.”
“Yes,” the boy said.
Without warning, the man lifted Mauro under his arms and hoisted him into the wagon.
Mauro hunched to avoid the rail above his head. Now sawdust covered the tops of his shoes and clung to his knee socks.
“You sit here,” the man said, tapping the tattered rear panel, “and you watch the world go by.”
The boy’s expression was blank.
The man trotted to the barn to remove his overalls.
Mauro’s mother looked at the clock above the stove and permitted herself a little grin: At this moment, her son was becoming a part of America. Her husband would have been proud; a big, gap-toothed smile beneath his walrus mustache, thumbs hooked under his suspenders against his barrel chest.
The aroma of sugar and almonds rose from the oven. The were to serve as an expression of her gratitude for the man who had taken her son to Wall Street. She saw herself handing the pyramid of cookies to him upon their return. Perhaps he would have a story of her son’s—
She realized she did not know his name.
Certain he hadn’t introduced himself, she tried to recall if she had seen an errant piece of mail addressed to him. But he hadn’t received any mail, as far as she knew.
A rush of worry brushed her heart. Wiping her damp hands on her apron, she was suddenly desperate for any source of his identity. His shirts bore the Arrow label, a popular brand among the men whose clothes she laundered, so that was of no—
Then she remembered the slip of paper she had found in his pocket. The Morgan Bank, it read. The Morgan Bank of 23 Wall Street She sighed in relief. The man was known to the people of the great Morgan Bank.
L’ America, she thought as she returned to work, her mind floating toward ease.
At that very moment, the man delivered the old mare and wagon to Wall Street east of Broad, at the center of the Morgan Building.
“Mauro,” said the man, as he crawled beneath the canvas hood, having placed the last of the stamped notes in the postal box at the corner of Cedar Street and Broadway. “Come here, boy. Quickly.”
Mauro watched while the man removed the top and side slats of the wooden crate to reveal a device made of Bessemer steel. It resembled a torpedo. A red wire protruded from a vein in its casing.
“Mauro, sit here,” the man said. “That’s right. On top. That’s it...”
The boy eased himself atop the device, straddling it as if he were riding a horse.
“This is simple, son,” the man said. “In a minute or so, you will hear a church bell. Do you understand? A bell.”
The man looked into the boy’s round eyes.
“Yes,” the boy said. “A bell. A church bell.”
“Good, good,” the man replied, tapping the boy’s bare leg. “When the bell strikes 12, you pull this cable.”
The man made a gesture with his empty hand.
“Twelve bells and you pull the cable. Understand? Twelve, pull.”
Mauro said yes.
“Say it, please.”
“Twelve, pull.” His voice all but squeaked.
As he edged toward the rear of the truck, the man glanced at his father’s pocket watch. Reaching for the canvas flap, he said, “Do your best, Mauro.”
Mauro smiled. Twelve and pull, he thought. Church bells.
The Trinity Church bell struck 1.
Immediately, people began to pour from the Morgan Building, the Assay Office, the Sub-Treasury, the New York Stock Exchange, and scores of other buildings in the vicinity, moving toward restaurants and lunch counters.
On the steps of the Sub-Treasury Building, hidden behind a column adjacent to the base of a bronze statue of George Washington, stood the man with hair lighter than the color of straw, a smirk affixed to his face.