Chapter 23: Café Reggio

Ennie and his mother, Mary, moved along with the crowd of donors.

On the eve of Western Europe’s impending total collapse, the American public displayed immense enthusiasm for aiding Britain. After the defeat of their former allies, a growing sense of unease and fear made them unwilling to hold back a single penny from their pockets. Of course, such a statement might seem cynical, as many came to donate with purely altruistic intentions.

For instance, Ennie noticed a gray-haired longshoreman in coarse work clothes. The man wiped his calloused, dark palms on his overalls, pulled a roll of wrinkled banknotes from his pocket, and tucked them into the donation bag. In that moment, a bronze cross medal engraved with the Statue of Liberty was faintly visible—a symbol of his service in the Great War.

"Every nation has its great individuals," Ennie thought to himself. "It is only a pity that such individual greatness and loyalty are often overshadowed by grand political entities."

The looming war made him feel insignificant. This sensation was not particularly obvious in the stability and freedom of later generations, but once thrust into the surging tides of history, the feeling of helplessness—of being forced to drift with the current—became increasingly apparent.

At that moment, Ennie only wished to return to his bedroom, pick up pen and paper, and sit at his desk to vent all these emotions into a story depicting individual fate. The image of the elderly, wrinkled worker in his coarse overalls had suddenly sparked his inspiration. However, John Campbell had also been requesting manuscripts from him lately, so perhaps he would have to work on two stories simultaneously. He decided he would write the opening that very night.

"God, I swear, no matter what happens, I will never let my son become a soldier!"

Mary’s trembling voice pulled Ennie back to reality. She had finally reached the donation bag, and as she deposited her money, the graphic photos of soldiers in the newspapers became even clearer. This touched a mother’s bottom line, leading her to swear aloud to God, as if doing so could truly guarantee her wish.

After the fundraising ended...

Ennie treated George, who had just finished work, and Mishi, who had just finished school, to steaks at a restaurant, followed by a shopping trip at the department store. These cozy family activities did much to soothe the unease in their hearts.

Once they were home, full and satisfied, Ennie exercised for a while. When the rest of the family was fast asleep, he sat alone at his desk, pouring the inspiration he had drawn from the longshoreman onto paper and drafting the opening of his story.

The next morning.

Ennie ate his breakfast as usual, listening to the news on the radio with George.

—Guderian’s 19th Panzer Corps had already launched an offensive across the Aisne River and was expected to force a crossing by that night. This meant the French defense lines were in jeopardy at multiple points, and the Weygand Line was on the verge of collapse, beyond saving.

"Sigh!"

George let out a heavy sigh, feeling as though the imported jam Ennie had bought had lost its flavor.

Ennie also sighed deeply. One could only say that the current performance of the French was beyond anyone’s expectations, to say nothing of the subsequent surrender and the establishment of the Vichy regime. While judging from a single dimension might be shallow, the old saying holds true: to dismantle a nation, one only needs to extract the backbone and spirit from its men, and take away the modesty and kindness of its women. Once the social fabric is corrupted, it is difficult for even several generations to repair it.

"Ennie... Ennie!"

"Ennie!"

Suddenly, a faint call came from downstairs. Hearing the familiar voice, Ennie swallowed the bread in his mouth and ran to the balcony to look down, still chewing.

Sure enough, it was Mario Puzo. The morning street was sparsely populated, but Puzo had already pulled his bicycle to the curb, holding an envelope in his hand, with Asimov riding on the back of the bike.

Seeing Ennie lean out, Puzo and Asimov waved in greeting. Puzo’s face was filled with nervousness and anticipation as he shouted up to Ennie, "I’ve received a reply from *Black Mask* magazine!"

Ennie was surprised, though he realized the response cycle for *Black Mask* was likely about this long.

"Wait for me downstairs, we’ll open it together. It’s definitely an acceptance letter," Ennie called back.

"I didn't receive any mail sent to you. Perhaps the review times are different," Asimov said, pushing up his glasses, which kept sliding down when he looked up.

Ennie shrugged. He wasn't overly concerned about whether it was accepted or not. If there was no reply, or if the review was delayed, his strategy was simply not to internalize the stress; if there was no word in a few days, he would simply submit it to another journal.

"Oh, this child, what should I do..." Mary watched quietly from the window. Seeing her son making a new Italian friend made her feel a bit melancholic. The influence of local sentiment left her with the same sense of racial division felt by many Americans.

Ennie noticed this, too. However, he had no intention of correcting her mindset. Mary was not an extremist; once America entered the war, all the "idle thoughts" born of this anxious period would vanish like smoke.

...

119 MacDougal Street, Caffe Reggio.

Located in Greenwich Village on the West Side of New York, this café had been a favorite haunt for writers and artists since its opening in 1927. The interior was filled with 17th-century art and antiques; bronze ornaments glowed with a primitive elegance under the lights, and the air was thick with the rich, mellow aroma of coffee.

As a gathering place for intellectuals, the atmosphere here was much better than in other conservative parts of New York, with a higher tolerance for racial differences. Therefore, Fanny Ellison pushed open the café door at the appointed time, found a table by the window, and beckoned the waiter to order two coffees.

Being about to meet a veteran of the magazine industry made Fanny nervous. She clutched the envelope containing *A Bronx Tale* and looked around. Edward Weeks was a very busy man, and she wasn't sure if he would actually come to meet a minor editor like her. To avoid offending him, she had even arrived ten minutes early.

As it turned out, Edward Weeks was a punctual man.

Ten minutes later, a middle-aged man walked through the door. He wore a gray suit with a dark green silk tie, a pocket watch chain dangling from his vest, thick-rimmed glasses, a briar pipe clenched in his teeth, and a Montblanc 149 fountain pen tucked into his breast pocket.

"Hello, you must be Ms. Fanny Ellison, right?" the man said gentlemanly, his gaze refined and wise behind his frames. From his furrowed brow, one could tell he was the type of person who was meticulous and critical about both his own attire and the manuscripts of others.

"Hello... Mr. Weeks!"

Finally meeting Edward Weeks in person at such close range, Fanny was so excited that she stood up immediately to shake his hand.