by Maria Riva
Nearly the whole village came to see them off. Sister Bertine and Sister Marie-Agnesia smiled benignly, slightly nervous as they always were when face-to-face with acts of coupling in the outer world. Father Innocente beamed. He loved the very thought that by nightfall of this very day these two young people would be one. Camilla, forgiven by everyone but her mamma, brought a pretty basket of fruit for the long train journey. The sisters wept, joy mingled with fear. When, if ever, would they see their favorite brother again? And what if, through their good intentions, they and they alone had condemned this bridal pair to death in the ominous depths of the Atlantic Ocean? Antonia wished Giovanna well, offered her a gift of a vial containing her father’s special concoction for the treatment of severe seasickness, cautioning her that as it contained laudanum, it could kill. Teresa pressed a small St. Benedict medallion into Giovanna’s reluctant hand, whispered as she held her close one last time, “May the Lord keep you, make His eyes shine upon you, guide you till the end of your days.”
The loud hiss of steam! Giovanna curtsied to her father-in-law, Giovanni embraced his mother, the sisters hugged their brother. The stationmaster, father to the Rossini twins, checked his large pocket watch, blew his special trumpet. Giovanna, following her husband, boarded the train.
“Bonna Fortuna! Bonna Fortuna!” Everyone waved.
Clutching her precious hat, Giovanna leaned out of the window to catch a last look of her childhood friends. She hung there, searching for their faces, long after coal smoke had enveloped them in ghostly shrouds.
Her great adventure had begun. The fledgling dream she had given her pride for was about to become her reality. Now, suddenly this frightened her. Marriage vows parroted, not felt, a barrier of mutual embarrassment, they sat facing each other like strangers waiting to alight at separate stations.
“Close the window, Giovanna.”
She did, giving its broad leather strap an extra tug to make certain it would hold. Her knees shook; sitting, she pressed her palms against them hoping he wouldn’t notice. Ashamed at her loss of courage, hiding her eyes, she focused on the tops of descending pines as they slowly passed by the window. She wished she could unbutton the high collar of her shirtwaist, but that would be an unladylike thing to do. She hoped the sweat beginning to form on her face would not be considered equally unladylike. It startled her, this sudden concern for propriety. It was not like her at all. Could a few sanctimonious incantations have such a radical effect? And so quickly? Better not to dwell on it. The deed was done. No turning back—besides, nothing to turn back to.
“Your face is covered in soot. Here …” Giovanni offered his handkerchief.
Shaking her head, Giovanna took from her jacket pocket one of the ones she had made for herself. Using the dim reflection of herself in the window to wipe her face, she acknowledged, as she often did, that she was truly plain. A reality accepted long ago—then learned to live with. Turning to him, her eyes questioned if her face was now clean.
“Yes, Giovanna. You must be more careful. You cannot lean out when a train is in motion. You could have gotten cinders in your eyes, and that can be serious. When they examine you, if the doctors find anything wrong with your eyes, you won’t be allowed to enter America. I’ll go on, of course, but you? You will be sent back, alone!”
Giovanni fingered the pockets of his vest, searching for a match to light one of the thin cheroots he seemed to have an endless supply of.
She was going to be examined? By strange men in a strange land—maybe then abandoned? Whatever had possessed her to want to leave Cirié, marry, journey across half the world with a man who, though he didn’t love her, could at least like her enough to not leave her like a sack of weeviled potatoes just because her eyes might be judged unsuitable? And what else would those strange doctors do to her, want to examine? She decided to ask.
“Giovanni, I am very healthy, so what—”
He interrupted her. “I know. I checked with the nuns.”
“You … did?” Giovanna barely contained her outrage.
“Of course. Camilla too! ‘Good family health is most important,’ Mr. Ford says.”
“Oh, your Mr. Ford is interested in health? Not only with the making of motorcars?”
“Mr. Henry Ford takes care of his workers in everything!” bristled Giovanni.
Giovanna remained silent. Giovanni dozed; it had been an exasperating week.
Hesitant, as though afraid to slip, the small train rattled on towards the city below.
Later, whenever Giovanna tried to describe their arrival in Turin’s opulent station, she could never quite manage to convey the enormity of that vast canvas of people in motion engulfed by smoke and turmoil. The indescribable noise, the shouts, clanging bells, trains in motion, hissing steam streaming upwards towards the vaulted glass ceiling, amplifying itself as it ricocheted back down to shatter eardrums and composure. And how it stood, mighty, its own majesty, as though no human effort could have created it. Its visual impact of power so overwhelming that Giovanna, standing rooted below, looking up at it, caught her breath in fearful awe.
Intent on finding a pump to refill their water bottles, Giovanni lost sight of his wife. She, mesmerized by the first true locomotive she had ever seen, didn’t even miss him. His anger when he finally found her didn’t penetrate either. He shouted above the din, “I had to look for you! Don’t you ever make me do that again! Understand? Where I go, you follow!”
Trance broken, Giovanna switched her rapt gaze to him, asking, “This? This will pull our train?”
“Yes, it’s a locomotive. Now take the water and food.” Handing her the laden string bags, he turned and barked, “Come on!” over his shoulder, and hurried along the platform. Bottles and bags bumping against her legs, Giovanna stumbled after him.
Inside the crowded third-class carriage, people slid over, making room for them to sit together. Giovanni got organized. On the roped rack above, he stacked their two suitcases, on top of which he placed their overcoats, neatly folded inside out. As hats needed to be worn for propriety as well as station, they represented no problem of storage. The string bags holding their bottles of water he placed on the floor behind his legs; the one with their provisions, behind Giovanna’s. Removing his jacket carefully, reversing its sleeves, he instructed his wife to observe, follow his example, explaining that in this way, folded twice, a comfortable padding could be arrived at, making the sitting on wooden slats for long periods of time at least bearable. Following his instruction, Giovanna saw some of their fellow travelers, on hearing this advice, doing the same. On entering, she had noticed the way the men looked at her husband. They, in their workman’s clothes and cloth caps, sizing up the stranger in a store-bought suit, sporting a boss’s derby.
Giovanni pulled the tasseled curtain across the open window. It swayed with the undulation of the train, but no breeze made it flutter. Women unknotted their headscarves, wiped their faces before folding the cloths into damp triangles. Their men fanned themselves—those who could read—with their folded newspapers, others using their caps. One, sweat-stained, addressed Giovanni in Piedmontese, the dialect of the region. If he had done so in any of the hundreds of dialects passing for Italian within the country, neither Giovanni nor Giovanna would have understood him. Italians actually became Italians only outside their country’s borders. Within, their language was shaped by the region they came from, their identity by the former kingdoms—the duchies they lived in. So, a Neapolitan introduced himself as such to a Venetian, a Milanese to a Florentine, a Roman to a Genovese. Shakespeare’s Juliet was a Veronesa. If Romeo had called her an Italian, he would probably never have been allowed up that balcony vine.
Their women in attentive silence, the men in multi-dialects—aided by expressive gestures and vehement emotions—set about getting acquainted. By the time they reached their various destinations, they would know each other’s anger
s, if not each other.
As the only one who had actually seen the land of milk and honey, its streets of pure gold, Giovanni was questioned, listened to without interruption except for ahs of disbelief and incredulous “Gesu Marias.”
Knowing what they wanted to hear, he spoke of only good things. Now was not the time to tell them of cities where the Irish immigrants ruled. Of their belief that their Catholicism was the only one sanctioned by the Holy Trinity, whereas Italians were the “Christ Killers,” their religion solely one of superstition, proving their inherent ignorance and worthlessness. That Italian immigrants, those mostly from the South, were considered not fit for employment in higher-ranking jobs and were reduced to seeking out their livelihood as pushcart vendors, ragmen, and organ grinders, their women sweatshop captives, their children street acrobats, bootblacks, and beggars, their social position only slightly above those considered even lower than they—the “conniving Jews,” closely followed by the “uncivilized darkies.”
No, Giovanni did not tell of these sad truths within that wonderful country—that symbol of hope sought by so many of Europe’s hopeless. He had learned not to disturb dreams. Immigrants needed them to survive the realities awaiting them.
Watching her husband, his authority acknowledged, sanctioned by men older than he, Giovanna felt a pride in belonging to him. She who had such aversion to ownership of all kinds found herself as the bride one looked up to, showing off her new wedding band to women who believed her more fortunate than they. Respect, even by association, was a heady experience.
Flipping open the ornate lid of his pocket watch, a Milanese checked the time, carefully winding his precious possession, scrutinizing its face before announcing to the carriage at large, the precise hour, minute, and seconds of the approaching night.
Pain awakened her before she knew why she hurt and then she realized it was just another dead of night on wooden slats. Kneading the ache in her neck, she turned. Next to her the space was empty, Giovanni’s jacket pad gone. He had left her! He had decided marrying her was after all a terrible mistake—gotten off the train, was now far away on his way to America unencumbered by an unwanted wife. So convinced was she of this calamity that she didn’t even check the overhead rack for his bag until the worn corner of it caught her eye. Giovanni might abandon her, but his fine American clothes? Never! Reassured, she sat admonishing herself severely. Really, she was no better than silly Camilla, getting so excited, imagining all sorts of dramas in the slightest of things.
Just because he said “abandoned” once doesn’t mean he really would. Such childish behavior! Really, Giovanna! Wholly involved in the scolding of herself, his sudden voice startled her.
“Here, I found a fruit vendor.” He handed her a small cornucopia of grayish paper.
“On the train?”
Even to Giovanna, her question sounded lame—but the rush of joyous relief on seeing him was so bewildering, a sudden shyness engulfed her.
“No, of course not—outside, on the platform.”
“Oh, has the train stopped? Are we in a station?”
Giovanni looked at his wife.
Thoroughly confused with herself, Giovanna peered intensely through the grimy window, wondering where they were and whatever was the matter with her. Feeling her husband’s speculative gaze, she tried to eliminate the awkward moment by asking, “I can’t see the name of the station—is this Paris?”
Giovanni was torn between the urge to laugh or shake her until her senses returned. But knowing that exhaustion could make one light-headed, he sat down beside her, stretched out his legs, pulled his derby down over his eyes, and murmured, “Eat your cherries, then rest. We have a long way still.” And fell sound asleep.
The train picked up speed, piercing the night with its mournful wail—the loneliest sound Giovanna had ever heard. The cry so mighty—from one so strong that compassion would not be given it, or comfort. It was so with people—the strong, the apparently capable, were left to pull their loads alone, cry unseen, iron casing in place, hiding vulnerability. The soft received spontaneous support, for they advertised so well their need of it. Giovanna wondered if the black iron giant she had so admired ever wailed into the night because of sorrow or only to announce its approach. A cherry spilled from the small cornucopia on her lap, reminding her how thirsty she was. Never, not even those picked from Father Tomasso’s orchard, ever tasted so truly wonderful. Always, Giovanna remembered the taste of their syrupy juice that night, never forgot it.
Glowing ocher, umbers reflecting sunrise and sunsets as though they were made of them, scattered houses terra-cotta shingles askew, everywhere haphazard untidiness made picturesque virtue in a landscape suited to it; followed by high mountain passes holding forever captive seasonless snows; then, suddenly as though a page in a child’s picture book had been turned, lush fields, grazing cows, turrets, curled iron balconies, everything embellished, new, pin neat, nothing left to chance or irresponsible nature.
Giovanna, her nose pressed to the window she yearned to be allowed to open, was overwhelmed by all she saw.
“Oh, look! A castle!” Even as tired as she had to have been by now, her enthusiasm was still intact. Giovanni liked that in his bride.
Smiling, he corrected her. “No, we have left Italy. Now we are in France. That was a château. A small one. The French like to show off their riches.”
“But then the robbers will know where to go!” observed a thoroughly confused Giovanna, whose prosperous countrymen hid their wealth behind inner courtyard walls and unassuming outer doors.
“I suppose so, but outward beauty is very important to the French. They seem to live for it. You should see the automobiles they buy. Speed and sparkle—the more of both, the better they like them.”
“Oh! There—a yellow field! Do you see it? Brighter than sunshine. What was that?”
“Mustard. Another French passion,” said Giovanni and went to sleep.
Giovanna’s eyes and spirit moved with the glorious countryside passing before her. By the time another night blackened her view, she was convinced that French cows gave only cream, those engorged udders they dragged about with them couldn’t contain anything as plain as everyday milk, all French farmers must be princes—dukes at the very least—and Giovanni, who could be fascinating when holding forth on subjects that interested him, could be a rather boring travel companion. Even if he had seen it all before, that was no reason to simply ignore everything. After a while, when her excited questions received only curt replies or snores, she stopped asking them.
Endless days, endless nights. Despite her clothes cushion, the wooden slats seemed to have grown themselves into Giovanna’s backside. Pain radiated up and through her spine, reaching every bone in her exhausted body, but she refused to succumb to it. Any minute she might wake up—find herself back in Cirié—this whole marvelous adventure just another one of her many dreams; so, while this one lasted, she was determined to stay wide awake to revel in it.
“Hurry!” Giovanni lifted their bags down from the overhead rack. “Don’t gawk! We have to change stations.” The screech of iron on iron, the recoil of a stopping train, one last blast of escaping steam and Giovanna Francesca Zanchetta, village girl, was in Paris! And it wasn’t a dream after all!
Weaving, dodging like a prizefighter in the ring, Giovanni made his way through the milling crowds, his wife in hot pursuit.
Once outside, Giovanna just had time to register the startling whiteness of daylight intensifying the blue of workers’ smocks before her waist was clutched and, suitcases dangling from both arms, she was hauled off the sidewalk, plopped onto the small platform of a moving trolley car. Out of breath, making sure her hat hadn’t been lost in the wild maneuver, she clung to the wooden railing as Giovanni squeezed in beside her.
“We made it! Look! Look, over there! A Hispano-Suiza! See? The steering wheel still on the rig
ht? But those lines … Magnificent!”
Had he been exclaiming over a beautiful woman, he couldn’t have sounded more adoring. Clutching the railing to keep from falling against him, Giovanna thought that to become so enthused by a motorcar when the tip of what must be the so wondrous Tower of Eiffel could be seen on the horizon was a huge exaggeration, yet she had to admit those immaculate driving coats, white as the elegant tires and especially the ladies’ chiffon tied hats, had been spectacular. Stopping and starting, clanging its bells, the trolley scooted along until Giovanni shouted, “Move! We’re here! Give me the bags—get off!”
Here too, Giovanna was given no time to marvel at vaulted domes of cut glass, tall columns adorned with acanthus leaves edged in gilt, or the steaming black giants arrayed like horses in their stalls, but was hustled into a catacomb room of darkened oak reached through a massive door sporting a small white porcelain plaque that read salle d’attente 3eme classe. Indicating a free space on one of the long benches lining the room, Giovanni told his wife to sit and wait for him, adding as an afterthought that he would return.
Giovanna sat, waiting, wondering where in this rather ominous enclosure a place to relieve oneself might be hidden and, should Giovanni be gone longer than expected, how she would manage to ask directions to it and what did he think one did but wait in a waiting room, when suddenly, utterly astounded, she realized that not only had she been able to read the sign on the door but, from the moment of their arrival, during all the dashing and confusion, she had understood the babble of voices surrounding her, all the while completely unaware that she could. French, of course! Everyone had been speaking French—a language she knew well! She liked the comforting feeling, the new sense of security, that this discovery gave her. I am not a tongue-tied foreigner in a strange land—I can understand them. And they will understand me, Giovanna marveled, quite impressed with herself. Now all she had to do was learn American. As soon as the proper moment presented itself, she would ask Giovanni to teach her.