You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  Rearranging the heavy folds of her long skirt, Giovanna waited, idly observing her fellow travelers. Some seemed as weary as she. She noticed that being the only woman wearing a lady’s hat, she was scrutinized by those whose head coverings were tied beneath their chins. Across from her, a young mother, her wooden clogs protruding from a voluminous, patterned skirt, kept eyeing the tips of Giovanna’s leather shoes, which were visible beneath the fashionable blue serge of her traveling costume. Seeming not to notice, as if quite by chance, adjusting the angle of her body, Giovanna exposed to full view her prized high-button shoes for inspection, enjoying, quite without shame, the hint of raw envy they inspired.

  Giovanni returned to find his wife most anxious to leave.

  “You have to pay the attendant to get in. Here,” he said, handing her a coin, adding, “and take our soap. You can wash in there.” From the string bag, Giovanna took their precious cake wrapped in its protective sheet of oilskin and, not at all uncertain, turned to leave.

  “Go through the door at the far end, then turn left. Be careful—don’t go into the wrong side. Yours will have a sign marked with the letters D-A-M-E-S.”

  “Oh, really? I wouldn’t have known that!” snapped Giovanna. Realizing how very tired she must be to have resorted to sarcasm, she hurried away before her husband could reprimand her for it.

  Giovanna never forgot the discovery of that inner sanctum marked dames—that awesome palace of tile, its endless gleam of pristine white, the lidless seats that lined a whole wall, each with its own cubicle, giving utmost privacy when its door was secured by a large hook, the tidy bundle of cut-up newsprint that hung by a string so conveniently at arm’s length, the long chain with its porcelain teardrop weight that, when she pulled it out of curiosity, produced such a gush of water, it made her jump up in fear, peer down, watch a mighty swirl as it disappeared into the depth of nowhere. Fascinated at how water seemed to materialize from everything, the small, three-spoked porcelain wheels that, when twisted, produced theirs that then poured into a basin beneath, where she washed her face and hands and, full of excitement, exited the dames.

  Careful not to get lost, remembering each turn in reverse, she returned and was greeted by “What took you so long? I was beginning to wonder if you got yourself lost!”

  That opened up the floodgates of her discovery. By the time she got around to the pull chain that produced such gushing magic of its own, her husband was laughing. A little at her but mostly just laughter without a hint of ridicule, so she didn’t mind at all. When he began to explain in the minutest detail the intricacies of something called “plumbing,” later becoming rhapsodic when describing the engineering marvels of the Paris sewers, Giovanna listened, completely enthralled. The hours flew. He taught—she learned.

  Giovanni was beginning to enjoy her. Once or twice, he had felt it only proper to inquire if she was alright, was their arduous journey beginning to take its toll, and each time she had turned to him, eyes aglow in a tired face, assuring him that no aching bones, no yearning for a bath, a hot meal—absolutely nothing could spoil the wonders she was seeing of a world so unknown to her before. It came to him that maybe he had not made such a bad choice after all, but, ever cautious, knowing what still lay ahead, he reserved his final opinion of her until they had crossed the sea and arrived safely in Detroit. That Giovanna was adaptable, he was beginning to learn. Just how adaptable, he would still wait and see. It did puzzle him that she seemed so completely oblivious of her new state of wifehood, her attitude so devoid of any bridal coyness or feminine sham. Not one flirtatious look, no inviting gesture had been directed his way. What he was so used to from women, he now found completely lacking in the one he had taken to wife. He assured himself this was actually a relief … still, it piqued his vanity that she had not even given him the opportunity to rebuff her. Of course, this could still change once they found themselves in proper lodgings, in a private room with a bed. Still, it irritated him that this lanky girl, with her plain face, seemed so unaware of him as a male. Or was she pretending? Could there be a passionate woman hidden beneath the excellent traveling companion not given to feminine frailties? Somehow, he doubted it. No, a sensible housekeeper he had come for, and a sensible housekeeper he had acquired. A real woman to moan under him he could find anywhere. Giovanni checked his pocket watch against the big wooden clock on the waiting room wall and, putting on his coat and hat, motioned Giovanna to pick up their bags and follow him out the door. Another swaying carriage—this one so long one couldn’t see the faces of one’s fellow passengers sitting at the far end of it, with real linen curtains, their edges stitched, and padded armrests covered in pebbly leather. Everything was so elegant; there was even a private place to relieve oneself, and the slats of the benches were placed so close together, they actually touched. Thoroughly impressed, Giovanna settled into her corner, a little sad she was leaving. Oh, the dames had certainly been a marvel, the tip of Monsieur Eiffel’s Tower too, to say nothing of the trolley car ride—yet there had to be more of such marvels in Paris, and she wished she had been given the chance to see those too.

  The train hurried towards the night’s horizon as though anxious to reach the sea. Giovanna yearned to see what it would look like, yet wondered if by its very vastness it might make her fear to journey upon its ominous surface, and that would never do. When taking her marriage vows, she had silently made one of her own: never to show fear, thereby embarrass, hinder, become a burden to the man who, by making her his wife, was taking her to the land of opportunity and freedom. Though a vow did not carry any religious obligation for Giovanna, her gratitude to Giovanni did, and for him she intended to keep it, no matter what the future might demand of her.

  Too dark now to watch the moving images, she turned from the window, observing her husband as he read the English-language newspaper he had bought for himself from the station kiosk. Of course, she had assumed that he could read. Having such important employment would require it. Still, it was reassuring to actually witness him doing so. Quite unexpectedly she caught herself wondering if this man sitting across from her might be considered by others to be handsome. Antonia had certainly thought so. But then, without meaning to be unkind, Antonia found men in general interesting, so her opinion didn’t really count. Actually, his face was rather nice, maybe his mouth the best part of it, especially when he smiled. He didn’t do that often, but when he did, it felt worth waiting for. There was that contradiction about him that had always intrigued her, even when they were growing up. A difference from all the other boys—subtle, yet obvious. Like his strangely beautiful hands that showed none of the strength she knew they possessed, that belonged more to a sensitive artist or a fine gentleman than to a common man of the people. She had always liked that about him—his lack of coarseness, this unschooled elegance that seemed to be such an unself-conscious part of him. The distant lights of an approaching city attracted her eyes away from him, yet her thoughts held in place. In Torino, when he had helped her down off the train; in Paris, when he’d lifted her off the sidewalk, her body had remembered his touch as though it had had need of it. The confusion this had caused her had been so newly uncomfortable that she had immediately decided to forget it, and now, suddenly, she found that she had not. Whatever was the matter with her? Just tiredness! So stop it! she admonished herself and turned her full attention to the night passing by the window.

  Giovanni folded his paper, placed it with his hat on the rack above, took his coat, and, leaning forward, draped it across Giovanna’s chest. Assuming her slight recoil to be involuntary, he settled himself for the long night. Eyes closed, Giovanna pretended sleep, hopeful that whatever was wrong with her would be cured and gone by morning.

  By the time they finally arrived at their port of embarkation, her body had acquired a tiredness quite beyond its capacity of youth. It swayed regardless of where it stood, as if it now possessed a new rhythm for her to exist by. She was
so afraid she might fall that she closed her eyes, hoping to regain her balance, but only for a second, for losing Giovanni in the surging crowd of travelers was even more frightening. Taking a deep breath, she stumbled after him, eyes riveted on his dodging derby headed towards the docks.

  The echo cry of gulls, the acrid smell of creosote and iodine. The sea! For the first time, Giovanna smelled its distinctive odor, felt its salt sting as wind whipped her face.

  “The Atlantic Ocean!” she gasped, completely overcome.

  “No, the English Channel,” said her husband and hurried on.

  Oh, dear! She always knew she should have paid more attention in Sister Bertine’s geography class. Still, if she knew everything, Giovanni wouldn’t need to correct her as often, so, as he seemed to welcome every opportunity to do so, it could be argued that she was actually doing him a favor. Very satisfied with this solution to her new status of slightly backward wife, she hurried after him. If only he would stop, just for a minute, that’s all she needed to catch her breath. But he didn’t, and suddenly she felt like crying. If she allowed that to happen, tears would blind her, she would really lose sight of him, and he would never forgive her and, lost, all alone, wandering dank, dark alleys, some sinister white slaver would find her, knock her over the head, sell her to a Chinaman in a haze-filled opium den! Slightly dazed by her vision of Oriental lust, Giovanna shook her head to clear it, pinned her hat back from where it had wobbled to, squared her shoulders, mustered up her last remaining strength, and, determined not to sway even if it killed her, keeping his bobbing derby fixed in her sights, followed it through the milling crowds along the quay, catching up just as Giovanni was opening a weathered door to an establishment that looked to have withstood years of lashing storms.

  “Oh, there you are. Good.” Giovanni acknowledged his wife’s presence and, stepping inside, motioned her to follow. The narrow hall smelled of entrenched mildew. In a circle of orange light, burly men in thick wool, light-eyed as though the glare of many seas had bleached their irises, played frayed cards from thickened hands. The smell of their cheap wine and black tobacco mingled with the one of the hall.

  “Madame, I require a room. I am John Ricassoli, and this is my wife,” her husband said in the most atrocious imitation of French Giovanna had ever heard. But the wizened woman behind the desk, her nostrils sprouting nearly as much hair as her bearded customers in the bar, seemed to understand. Nodding, she plucked a large key from its nail and, pointing, indicated that their room was directly over her head. Giovanna followed her husband up the threadbare stairs into a room equally run-down but, thankfully, clean.

  “We are lucky. That crone may look like a witch, but she is one of the very few who don’t rob immigrants—especially Italians, not even Jews.” Hanging his coat and vest over the back of the only chair, he removed his collar and cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, unwrapped their soap and towel, poured water from the cracked pitcher into its chipped bowl, and washed. No need to shave—he would do that in the morning.

  Giovanna hung her jacket on the newel post of the double bed, wondering if she too could wash, perhaps even change into a clean shirtwaist. Giovanni emptied his wash water into the slop pail, informed her that he had left enough in the pitcher for her, not to forget that when she was through, to wipe the soap dry before rewrapping it or it would become gelatinous. Then he slipped down his suspenders, stripped off his shirt, pulled a fresh one from his bag, unbuttoned his trousers, smoothed down its tail, re-dressed, and, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, said that a hot meal could be had downstairs—she needed to hurry before it was all gone and shouldn’t forget to lock their door—then handed her the key before leaving. Giovanna picked up his shirt from where he had flung it, not certain if there was time to launder it or if she needed to wait until they were aboard the ship. Deciding not to take the time to change, she washed, dried the soap as instructed, repinned her hair, and, anxious to escape the lingering picture of Giovanni’s naked torso, hastened from the room, locking the door securely before rushing downstairs.

  Leek and potatoes, thick and hot. Never had anything tasted so truly wonderful. Her exhausted body welcomed that soup as though it was life-giving and, in a way, it was. After two whole bowls, she felt deliciously drowsy. Smiling, Giovanni reached across the low table, lifted her drooping chin. “Giovanna—you’re falling asleep. Go, go up to bed.”

  The seagulls’ cries woke her. To be able to stretch out, sleep in a bed after such a very long time, had been a little like dying pleasantly. Stretching, she sighed at the thought of having to leave such comfort.

  “Giovanna …”

  Startled, she sat up, surprised someone was in the room, then realized it was Giovanni, fully dressed.

  “I am going out to buy provisions. We need vinegar for disinfectant and medicinal purposes and extra tobacco for bribes, always important to have if it becomes necessary. I will also try to find some lemons—although they are very expensive, especially on the docks, but at least one that you can suck on when you become seasick. Get dressed, have your breakfast—I’ve paid for it in advance. Don’t forget to refill the water. Have everything done, be ready to leave when I return. We sail on the afternoon tide.” And he left.

  His manner seemed even more brisk than usual. Giovanna wondered if he might be angry. Trying to think back, she couldn’t find a reason. All she had done was sleep through the night and … here her thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. Oh! Perhaps he had expected … ? This part of her impulsive plea to be taken to America had never actually entered her mind. Being married had meant freedom, leaving, embarking on a great adventure, whatever physical act required endurance necessary for that, automatic. Yet the physical act required by marriage had never been a part of that. Now, she had spent a night in bed with a man who had the right to take what belonged to him, and it shocked her that she had not thought of this before. Last night mutual exhaustion had saved her. From what exactly, she wasn’t completely certain but felt saved from it nevertheless. Still, in all fairness, she had to acknowledge that Giovanni had the just right to be annoyed. He had made her his wife and she had a debt to pay, should be ready, willing to do whatever he might demand of her. A bargain was a bargain. Bags packed and strapped, her hat in place, water bottles filled, she was ready when her husband returned.

  Putting a fat lemon into her hand as though it were a jewel, he said, “Here. Keep it safe. Don’t let others see it or they will steal it. Now, we go!”

  They boarded the ship by twos. Like Noah’s ark, thought Giovanna, surprised she would conjure up an image from the Bible at such a momentous moment. But Teresa would have been pleased she was capable of doing so. Unconsciously fingering the small St. Benedictine medal where she had sewn it into the lining of her jacket pocket, Giovanna entered the cavernous bowels of the great ship that would carry her to the Promised Land.

  3

  A shoebox enclosure, two narrow bunks stacked on either side, the top ones mere inches beneath a stained ceiling glowing murky brown in the pale light of a single bulb. The smell of rancid wax overlaid that of accumulated metal polish. Two young women, one pallid, one flushed, sat opposite each other, their knees touching in the confined space, and looked up as Giovanna stood hesitating in the doorway of the cabin. Tallness seems to generate an immediate response of apprehension in all species—as now did Giovanna’s. Possibly this imposing creature would threaten their possession of the coveted lower berths they had claimed for themselves. Eyes speculative, they looked her over. Friend or foe?

  Entering, Giovanna removed her hat, placed it and her suitcase on one of the top bunks.

  “Hello,” said the one, whose curly hair matched the rosy color of her cheeks. “My name is Megan Flannigan from County Cork and me husband is waiting for me in a place they call Virginia. Have you maybe heard of it? … Oh—I do hope you can understand English!” Her pretty mouth in a petulant pout,
pointing to the girl across from her, she lamented, “This one doesn’t!”

  Loudly enunciating every syllable as though to one hard of hearing, Giovanna introduced herself in Italian—and got nowhere. So she tried it in French. The transformation in the pallid one was cataclysmic. Eyes alight, sparkling with sudden life, she babbled in relieved abandon that she was French and her name was Eugenie—after the beautiful princess of course—although her dearest Maman had wished to name her eldest daughter, which she was … Oh, Mon Dieu! What had she been “en train de” to relate? … oh, yes, of course, her name. Most dearest Maman had wished her to be Josephine but Monsieur Le Papa had been adamant—no offspring of his would ever carry a name associated with that usurper Napoleon Bonaparte, so here she was, Eugenie, on her way to join the loyal husband who had sent for her where they would live in a fine house in an elegant city called Philadelphia of course, she must have heard of it, as it was such a well-known place, where her Etienne, now a most successful salesman of ladies’ shoes, had promised he would give her a maid of her very own. Catching her breath, her violet eyes misting at the very thought of such awaiting luxury, looking up at Giovanna, Eugenie asked, “This Philadelphia … do you know where one finds it?”

  When Giovanna informed her that she would ask her husband, who was on the ship personally accompanying her to their destination, she saw envy in the French girl’s eyes.

  Wondering who would be the fourth to share their tiny cabin, the three girls busied themselves stowing their few belongings into the meager space available to them.

  Ship’s bells began their call announcing departure.

  “Oh, it is time. France … I must wave au revoir to my beautiful France. I may never, ever see her again—oh, what a tragedy that would be! My heart breaks even now at the very thought … you come too, yes?” and out dashed Eugenie, lyric drama in high-button shoes and straw boater. Giovanna, not knowing where the men’s quarters were located, followed as did Megan, still pouting at not having understood a single word of all that talk between her fellow travelers, yet as eager to witness their ship leaving the harbor.