Free The Saint of Lost Things by Christopher Castellani

case, down the block to Union Street. He makes it to the door of the restaurant, then turns around, comes home, and sits on the edge of his bed. The accordion stares at him from the other side of the room.
By the time he finally steps into Mrs. Stella’s, it is the dead hour of the afternoon between lunch and dinner, and the restaurant is dark. He asks for Gino, and a boy in a white apron greets him and tells him in Italian that Mario Grasso will be with him instead. “Sit,” says the boy, pointing to the bar, and offers a glass of wine that Julian accepts.
He sets the accordion on the floor. He thumbs the waist of his pants and breathes more deeply. He has been inside Mrs. Stella’s only once, for a small gathering after the funeral of his great-aunt. Since then, he has pictured himself many times among the crowds who gather here for dinner. In his mind, he sits elbow to elbow for hours in the bar area with patrons waiting for a table; the waiters in tuxedos rush past him carrying plates covered with stainless steel lids. Julian has heard a rumor that some people eat at home and come to Mrs. Stella’s just to drink cocktails. They spend their Saturday nights on these stools talking to strangers, making friends.
Mario walks through one of the swinging kitchen doors, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. Julian has met him once or twice at Renato’s, before he grew the thin mustache just above his upper lip. He looks young, thirty at most, and carries himself like he has something to prove: shoulders square, arms stiff, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Or maybe Julian just imagines this. When Mario noticesthe accordion, then offers his hand, he does it with a pleasant—almost eager—smile.
“Julian Fabbri,” he says, rising, with a smile equally broad.
“Of course,” Mario says. “Giulio. Your father worked with my father at Bancroft Mill.” He bows slightly. “ Condoglianze.”
“Grazie.”
“What can I do for you?” He walks behind the bar and pours himself a glass of red wine. “If you’ll forgive me, I don’t have a tremendous amount of time. Friday night, you know. Busy busy.” He sits beside him on one of the stools.
“I understand,” Julian says. He asks about his family, his two little girls in particular, and tells him to please send his regards to his father. Then he runs out of small talk, and Mario glances at his watch. “What I want to bring up with you is—I have heard so many wonderful stories about your restaurant. All the life here and the food and the happy customers.” He waves his arm around. “I came here only once, I’m sorry to say, but I have wanted to come back, and then my father—I play the accordion sometimes, at home; I practice Italian songs, the ones you hear on the radio and ones from the Old Country too—‘Santa Lucia,’ ‘O Sole Mio,’ songs like that—and I sing a little, not great but not terrible—this is what they tell me, at least, and so I was thinking—” His throat catches; he swallows, breathes; Mario squints at him. “I was thinking Mrs. Stella’s might like someone to play—not sing if you don’t want me to, just play a little, very soft, in the background—while the customers wait for their tables—maybe starting in January after the New Year, or on Saturdays, or once a month, or one night in the summer when you’re not too busy—” He reaches down and touches the handle of the accordion case, as if it might run off. The wine makes red streaks in Mario’s empty glass. “Or maybe it’s not best for the restaurant for a musician to take up space.”
Mario looks around, twirling his wedding ring around his finger.He walks to the narrow corner by the back of the bar. He stretches out his arms, then pretends to play an accordion. “Is this a big enough space?” he asks. “Would you need a stool to sit on? Or could you stand?”
“Stand, sit, whatever you want,” says Julian. “Usually I sit—but whatever you want.”
Mario scratches his