by Peter Watson
For hours they lay there. At times Silvio slept. He was woken once by voices, a second time by a candle being brought in. A man who was presumably the doctor peered at them but didn’t touch them. Then, in the middle of the night, when it was inky dark, he woke up and knew the worst was over. He had stopped shivering and was no longer exhausted. For the rest of the hours of darkness he lay thinking of Annunziata. He imagined her mouth closing over his penis the way Anna-Maria’s had done two nights before. The sight of it, disappearing into her mouth as she cradled his testicles in her fingers, had fixed itself in his memory, as had the feeling of her tongue flickering around the edge of his foreskin. It was not only the pleasure, but the feeling that he was getting more out of the act than Anna-Maria was. She was giving him a gift, to mark his arrival in America, but she was also offering him a lure; she had saved this for their last night on the Syracusa to tempt him back for more, to ensure she saw him again.
He became aroused all over again as he thought about it. Despite the pleasure, he had been aware of a certain danger. The act brought back a memory that, years ago, someone in the bivio had killed himself by putting a gun in his mouth and—
Anna-Maria must have known what he was thinking, for she had broken off what she was doing and murmured, “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”
Annunziata had a more beautiful mouth than Anna-Maria. Her lips turned out more, the color of almond shells rather than almonds proper. Her jawline was more marked.
He tried imagining what her mouth would be like wide open, how it would change their relationship once she had done it. Anna-Maria had spewed his semen into the palm of her hand and massaged his testicles. “Now lick me,” she had said.
She was right. He was growing to like her coarseness in the bedroom. Would Annunziata ever be the same?
If they made it safely into New Orleans, how soon could he send for her?
The next day was the beginning of the dangerous phase. Both Silvio and Nino were back to normal but they had to pretend they were still seriously ill. Lying on his bed, day after day, when he wasn’t tired, was harder than Silvio had expected. Sounds came from outside the hospital, sounds of activity from the river, sounds in the corridor outside their room. Voices in that strange tongue that he knew must be English.
Whenever they were visited by the doctor or a nurse, Silvio, who practiced his shivering during the interminable hours when they were alone, would put on what he hoped was a convincing display. Nino would resume his groaning.
One day they were visited by someone else, a dark-haired, sallow-skinned man, who accompanied one of the nurses. Silvio, like Nino, lay on his bed trying to understand the English until this new man said, in Italian, “Lorenzo, it’s me, Onofri, don’t you recognize me? You look terrible. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”
Nino groaned, then muttered, in case anyone else spoke Italian, “Onofri, thank you for coming. Water.”
Water was brought and the man calling himself Onofri said, “I’m sorry you’re still so poorly, Renzo. Maybe you’ll be over the worst soon. I’ll come again tomorrow. Bye, Livio.”
That night Silvio and Nino decided it was time they should appear to have reached the crisis point in their fever. The next morning they started to show some improvement. When they received visits from the nurses, they felt it was safe to ask for proper food. That had been a problem: both of them had felt ravenously hungry, but because they were not supposed to have an appetite, they had been given only sips of liquid nourishment. Consequently both were genuinely weak.
“Onofri” visited them every other day. When they had been in quarantine for nine days, he translated something the nurse had said in English. “The immigration people are coming tomorrow. If you’re cleared I can collect you the day after.” He didn’t say anything else. As Tolmezzo had pointed out, it was possible that one or more of the nurses understood Italian.
That night they lay quietly on their beds, going through the details of their lives as “brothers.” They had decided to invent as little as possible. Given their age difference, they had to be half brothers, but with the same father, so they had the same name. They went over birthdays, the way their father had been widowed, their local church, where they bought their guns, the illnesses they’d had as children, why one of Nino’s teeth was missing, when they had stopped sharing a bedroom at home, and much, much else. They had fallen asleep rehearsing their performances.
When the immigration officers arrived, Silvio was surprised to find that their first act was to move him out of the room he shared with Nino. One officer led him to another room down the corridor that was similar to the room he had just left, except that it contained chairs rather than beds.
The immigration officer had another man with him, who suddenly said, in Italian, “Leave your documents just inside the door. Then go and sit at the far end of the room.” This man was clearly the interpreter.
Silvio did as he was told. He was then left for about half an hour, alone. He guessed they were asking Nino questions and would then come and ask him the same questions, to see whether the answers of the “brothers” matched. This was the crunch.
After a while he heard footsteps approaching. Then the two figures reappeared. The immigration officer, wearing gloves, held the immigration documents. He sat down and read what was written. For a few moments he scanned the details, every so often looking up at Silvio to check what was written. It was unnerving.
At length he said something. The translator spoke. “The document says you are fair-skinned. You are not fair.”
Silvio had anticipated this question and had his answer ready. “Have you ever suffered typhus fever? That document also says I weigh two hundred pounds. I don’t expect I weigh that now.”
The interpreter spoke to the immigration officer.
A short silence.
Then: “What is the name of your father?”
Silvio began to sweat. The fact that they were asking these questions meant they were suspicious. Had they been tipped off? If he and Nino failed today, they would be put back on the Syracusa and be in Palermo by the end of the month.
At least he could answer this question. It was part of the routine he had worked out with Nino.
“Ignazio.”
“When is your brother’s birthday?”
That was easy, too. “March the second, 1852.”
“Does he have a nickname?”
“Not really. I think my parents called him ‘Zozo’ as a baby, but now it’s just Renzo.”
Another short silence.
“What work did you do in Sicily?”
They had thought about this, too. “I spent some time in the orchards near Bagheria, picking oranges and almonds. But there was not enough work to employ everyone. That is why I—we—came to America.”
Then: “You have a bad scar on your right arm. It is not mentioned in the documentation and is clearly new. What caused the injury?”
Christ! This was something they hadn’t thought about. And such an obvious question, too! What was he to answer? He couldn’t say he was wounded in a fight on the ship. His brain reeled. He couldn’t take too long about his answer either. What would Nino say if they asked him? Had Nino already been asked? Silvio had to think quickly, but he had to think systematically also. Nino would not tell the real story, of course, or anything like it. He would say that the injury had occurred before they boarded the Syracusa. They were supposed to be brothers and they were supposed to be orchard workers—yes, that was it! The orchard. There was an orange orchard near Bivio Indisi. But how would he have injured his arm? The oranges were picked by hand and the greatest danger lay in falling off the ladders.
The immigration officer was looking at him. Silvio must answer. He’d have to risk it.
“I fell off a ladder picking oranges. I caught my arm on the ladder as I fell. No one was there to help me at the time.”
There was an exchange between the officer and the interpreter. Then t
he interpreter looked back at Silvio. “Your brother said it was an almond tree you fell from.”
Silvio had the sense not to get flustered by this slight discrepancy but to make light of it. “My brother wasn’t there. I told you, I was on my own. We have orange orchards and almond orchards everywhere in Sicily. Obviously Renzo thought it was almonds, but he’s wrong, it was oranges.”
Another exchange between the interpreter and the officer. Silvio tried to appear unconcerned but his heart was thumping away inside his rib cage, like a bird flapping its wings. He brushed his good hand through his hair as a way of covering his face.
A moment later the immigration officer stood up and placed Silvio’s pink document on the chair where he had been sitting. The interpreter stood also. “As soon as the doctors say you can be discharged medically, you are free to go. Wait here a moment.”
Silvio nodded, not daring to speak. Thank God they hadn’t noticed the scar on his head! They hadn’t come close enough. He remained seated as they went out. He listened as their footsteps retreated down the corridor. He was in America!
8
Harriet Livesey put down her teacup and pointed to the Lawrence portrait on the wall. “I wanted to pay the ransom. It would have meant losing that picture. But the solicitors wouldn’t hear of it. Once the matter had been raised in the Commons—well, my hands were tied.”
It was Henry Livesey’s first morning back in England and he and his sister were enjoying breakfast together in Cadogan Gardens, as she had always promised herself they would.
Livesey had a bandage around his head, and there was a slight bloodstain seeping through. For the first time in months he was eating his favorite breakfast, kidneys and bacon.
Harriet helped herself to the toast. “I had a letter from the Queen, you know. Offering her condolences. Most kind.”
Henry nodded. “The prime minister told me.”
Livesey had reached London the day before, when he had received a summons from Disraeli, who wished to see him at Downing Street. After that, Livesey had dined at his club, so this was the first real conversation he had had with his sister.
“What else did Disraeli say?”
“I think he mainly wanted to see how I had coped with the kidnap. He was anxious to let me know that the Italian government had acted only after he had goaded them into it. What he did say, though, was that he had heard from the Italians that Greco—the Quarryman—has left Sicily. After the ambush, when all those soldiers were killed, and Greco rescued, the regiment of the Lazio Brigade was reinforced. The government in Rome was livid that their forces had been belittled by a bunch of bandits and sent a second regiment to support the first. It would have been only a matter of time before Greco was caught again. According to Disraeli, the Italians think he has gone to America.”
Harriet pushed the toast rack toward her brother. “When are you seeing the doctor?”
“Noon.”
“And afterward … would you like a holiday, Henry? It’s been such an ordeal. I thought maybe Scotland. Glenesk, perhaps—”
“No!” Livesey was vehement, and for a moment Harriet was taken aback.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to shout. But no, no holiday.” He set down his knife and fork. “You don’t …” He started again. “You don’t realize how this … ordeal, as you put it, has affected me. I can’t relax now, or not yet anyway. There would be no point in going to Scotland, given the way I feel. I’d be on edge, and that would make me foul company. I can’t just forget what’s happened to me. No amount of pretty scenery can erase the past weeks and months. Parts of Sicily are very beautiful, but that sort of beauty is marred for me, perhaps forever.”
“Henry, no!”
“Unless, unless …” He raised his voice. “Unless I can do something about Greco.” He picked up his fork and stabbed at the remainder of his bacon. “I intend to see the Italian ambassador in London. I’ve a few ideas about how I might go about finding Signor Greco.” He waved his fork at his sister. “He may have forgotten this whole episode, but I haven’t.”
Never in a million years would Silvio have imagined his first proper vision of America. He had anticipated seeing a low coastline, some exotic trees perhaps, strange animals, or some unusual buildings indicative of the new world. Much to his surprise, on the day after their interview with the immigration official, he and Nino were led by ‘Onofri Orestano’ north, away from the quarantine hospital along a mound of earth topped with oyster shells. This was called a levee, and it took them toward the New Orleans docks. “When it rains,” said ‘Onofri,’ “the top of the levee never gets muddy. When we reach the city, you’ll see that the same can’t be said for the streets.”
All the rivers in Sicily were in deep gorges, and dry for much of the year. The Mississippi could not have been more different. Here it must have been more than a quarter mile wide. It was deep and fast-running, gushing millions of gallons of brown water down to the sea every minute. The levee itself stood way above not only the river but the flat countryside. As he looked Silvio grasped the central fact about New Orleans: the city was below river level! That’s what the levee was there for—to keep the river in its place. Amazing.
“Stop here a moment,” said ‘Onofri,’ reaching a bench on the levee. “I’ll point out the main areas of town in a second, but first a few home truths.” The man held out his hand. “I am no more Onofri Orestano than I am the Pope, as you both know. My real name is Francisco Faldetta. I specialize in welcoming the more … unusual immigrants to America.”
They all shook hands. Then Francisco turned and gestured toward the city. “That’s New Orleans. Straight ahead are the docks—see the wharves and warehouses, and the masts and smokestacks of the steamers? Beyond that, with the red roof, is the French Market—fruit, clothes, coffee, meat, oysters. Behind the market is the French Quarter. That’s where everything happens. I’ll be taking you there, soon as we reach the docks. And that,” he said, sweeping his arm even farther left, “is the Garden District, where the rich people live.”
An hour later they were in the middle of the docks watching the bales of cotton and barrels of oranges being unloaded. The docks were built into the levee hereabouts, and on leaving the wharves, Francisco, Silvio, and Nino were forced to climb up the levee. When they reached the top they could look down on the other side, where the city was spread out below them.
Immediately in front, as straight as a ruler, was a wide road, with rails down the middle and horses pulling carts.
“Canal Street,” said Francisco. “There used to be a canal there but they filled it in. New Orleans is wedged between the Mississippi and a big lake, Lake Pontchartrain. Lots of canals link the two waterways so the fruit can be moved quickly. Fruit and cotton transportation are the main businesses here. Fruit comes in. Cotton goes out. Fruit goes rotten quickly, so it has to be shifted fast. The labor gangs on the wharves are well organized.”
He led the way down the levee. The crowds were as bad as in Palermo.
“What are these rails for?” Silvio asked.
“For the streetcars. You want to go from one part of the city to another, and you don’t want to walk or get wet, you pay a penny and take the streetcar. When it rains, or the river floods, the roads get very muddy. But not the rails. The horses can pull them even when the mud is ankle-deep.” He laughed. “As it often is.”
They walked up Canal Street, away from the river. Silvio was struck by the mass of wires everywhere.
“Telephones,” said Francisco. “The coming thing. You talk into a tube, your voice goes along a wire and comes out the other end, maybe miles away. Eerie.”
Most of the buildings were three or four stories high, Silvio noticed, and built of wood or brick. He had imagined New Orleans would be more like Palermo, with stone-and-marble palaces. The pavements were covered with balconies in many cases, making the shops and bars they were passing dingy and dark. But there was an astonishing variety of shops. Werlein piano
fortes, Eadows wallpapers, Gay and Le Fanu’s furniture, Stevens firearms: Francisco read them out, and translated.
“Okay, we turn right here,” he added. “Basin Street. You’ll see that at the end of this street there’s a huge basin, a sort of inland harbor where the Girondelet Canal ends and the barges are moored. This canal goes to Lake Pontchartrain.”
“Is this the center of town?” asked Silvio. “Is there no church?”
“Yes, it’s the center, and there is a cathedral, closer to the river, on Chartres and St. Peter’s Street. It’s called St. Louis’s.”
“Why is it called the French Quarter?”
“Shut up, Silvio,” hissed Nino. “Fucking questions.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Francisco. “New Orleans is a strange place. We go down here, Bienville Street.” He turned back to Silvio. “First it was conquered by the French. Then the Spanish took it but the French snatched it back. The Americans bought it from the French in 1803. Something known as the Louisiana Purchase. Anyway, this part of town still seems French. French names for streets, the French Market, people speaking French, French buildings—look.” He pointed forward to where a house with a wrought-iron balcony, painted in green, stood out over the pavement. Silvio could see other, similar balconies repeated farther down the street.
Just then they heard a piano playing. They stopped to listen.
“Welcome to the vieux carré,” said Francisco. “That’s French for the ‘old quarter.’ This is why the streets are crowded. This is why New Orleans is the second biggest city in America, after New York. The river brings the fruit and cotton, the fruit and cotton bring in a lot of money. The French Quarter helps people spend what they earn. You can’t count the bars and brothels, the restaurants and gambling joints, the fortune-tellers and cornet bands. It’s a wild town.”
“What are they, cornet bands?” Silvio liked the sound, loud, and the rhythms, very fast.
“There’s a new kind of music here. Small brass bands, sometimes with piano or drums. Negro bands, white bands, quadroon bands.”