Chapter III

For the longest time, Lorenzo Miguel Juanito was without family in Little Italy. He was without family in New York. His father had been caught and shot in a gang war-crossfire, and his brother was imprisoned and not to be heard of again. Juanito's family in Italy had dissolved forever, and had divided into different parts of the world.

For the longest time, Lorenzo Juanito was alone.

The sun had just begun to rise. It signaled the twilight of yet another day and the birth of a silent night. Men and women begun taking out their trash or preparing dinners for the family. Juanito was preparing to close down his deli. At this time of day, not many were really coming to grace their presence at the deli.

Juanito entered his kitchen, smelled the dreaded foul stench of peeled oranges and sour expired milk, and wondered it had engulfed his entire kitchen in under a week. Juanito walked over to the garbage can next to the back door. Staring inside the waste box, Juanito knew he had to take the trash out now.

The old chef took the garbage bag by the edges and rolled it up into a big bag over his shoulder like how Santa Claus would with his bag of toys. Despite the smell, he managed to keep it over his shoulder as he took the bag out of the kitchen.

Coming out into the alley, he looked to his sides to see if there was anyone there who would be so kind to throw his trash for him. And to his surprise, no one was. He was left all alone in the living dark of the dying day to bring the garbage on his own.

He swallowed his saliva and ventured towards the back of the deli like a soldier marching into the battlefield. He gripped the garbage bag harder as he took a step. The image of Vincent's arm filled his mind and gripped it with fear.

The sound of police sirens began wailing in the air and hid his solemn and secret prayer to the Virgin Mary for protection. It was a prayer he had learned in Italy from his mother. It was the only thing he had to remember her. Other than that was a lullaby that kept her image pure in his memory.

The police sirens began to fade away into the distance, but the wailing did not stop. There was still a sound in the distance. There was still a sound that distracted Juanito in his prayer. This cry was a high but soft cry. This cry was a human cry. It was a baby's cry.

It could be the neighbors, Juanito thought to himself. He continued walking towards the end of the alley; the garbage bag was still slung over his shoulder; his courage still instilled in him.

At the end of the alley, there were once again the piles of garbage bags. Some were ripped or burst open. Pieces of waste and trash had already spilled out to form their own piles of waster. At the side was an open cardboard box; one Juanito had not seen earlier. The cry came from this box.

Juanito tossed the bag into the pile along with the other bags and walked slowly to the box. He curled his hands into fists in case it was something unnatural. He summoned up his strength to help him if anything would happen to him.

The box was moderately damaged. A piece of the box had been roughly torn off. There were tiny holes near the base and bottom of the box, and crumpled newspapers emerging from inside the box.

Juanito peered into the box and saw the dirt-covered body of a live baby boy crying his lungs out. His head was devoid of hair and he was proof that there were truly such things in this world as ignorant parents. Or perhaps they were just poor, Juanito said to himself silently.

He took the baby gently out of the box with two hands and made a cradle out of his arms. He rocked the child from side to side. The baby still would not be silent, so Juanito tried to sing a lullaby. Everyone noted though that he wasn't quite the singer; that he was just one octave off. But still, he tried to sing.

There is a song enjoyed by many Italians called Eh, Cumpari. It's a quick joyous song of sounds and instruments that many Italians still sing to this day.

Juanito tried his hand at this song, since he couldn't remember any lullaby that his mother taught him. It became evidently embarrassing to Juanito as he sang the tune since he had forgotten words in each verse that passed and his imitations of the various instruments were not so convincing.

But to his amazement, Juanito watched the baby suddenly quiet down. The baby cooed, but seemed emotionally fragile. The baby could have cried any moment after Juanito stopped, which was why he had to play again.

In the back of the kitchen, Juanito liked to keep an old trumpet his father gave to him as a gift. He frequently played it when he had the time and seemed better at it than he was at singing.

He gently put the baby boy on the kitchen counter, away from the knives and cutting tools. He laid the baby flat on the smooth table's surface and took out his shiny golden trumpet from one of the kitchen cupboards.

Holding one of the keys, Juanito gently blew into the trumpet and began playing a solemn tune familiar to local Italians. It was a tune of sadness and despair; a song of love and betrayal; a story of family and hope. It was the lullaby Juanito's mother sang to him when he himself was just a mere baby, and although he could not remember the lyrics of this Old Italian song, he did remember the sweet rhythm and tune of the lullaby.

The baby quieted down for the longest time and opened his eyes wide to look at Juanito's. The baby's eyes were pure Italian eyes, just like Juanito's. And because of that, Juanito stopped playing and broke down in song.

"You were blessed with the beauty of art," Juanito said sincerely to the baby. "You are now my child, as I was to my father and mother. You are now my son… Leonardo."

And for the longest time, they peered into each other's eyes wondering of the endless possibilities of their new partnership.

This is where our story truly begins.