Meet Me in Venice

by Suzanne Ma

  “This is the best way for you to learn Italian quickly,” Fen told Pei.

  “Ah Ma,” Pei said. “Why can’t I find a job in a factory like you did?”

  “Absolutely not,” her mother said firmly. “It’s very hard to improve your Italian in the factory surrounded by Chinese people all day.”

  Pei was determined to take on this new challenge. If she was able to learn Italian well, she could help her parents open their own business. They wouldn’t have to work for others anymore. Everyone back home in China always talked about the importance of being your own lao ban, your own boss. It was as important a rite of passage as marriage and having children. Being a business owner put you in charge of your own fate. Every migrant went abroad with this dream, and Pei felt it was her duty to help her parents achieve it. Filial piety was an old Confucian philosophy, but it remains a key virtue in modern Chinese culture today. For Pei, this meant showing respect for her elders and deference to their opinions and kowtowing in front of ancestral tombs. Now that she was older, it meant supporting her parents and helping to take care of the family. Pei believed she could do it. Even though she was now the lao wai in a foreign country, she had Ayi and her family to guide her and show her the way. She was confident she could learn quickly and grew excited by the prospect that she would be living and working close to Venice. The water city and its great canals still shimmered in her dreams at night.

  Very soon I will leave this home. This word home doesn’t mean much to me anymore. I can so easily leave one place and move to another. Hard to believe, isn’t it?

  For the longest time, Italians owned and operated Bar Girasole. Men lingered on its sizable patio sheltered by a green and white awning. From there, they could see the looming blue spire just a few blocks away. Next door, a small flower shop burst with the colors of spring: shocks of yellow daisies, sprays of citrus tulips, and bold red roses. The sweet fragrance of freshly cut stems lingered in the air for only a moment before it was overpowered by the aroma of roasted coffee beans. Bar Girasole’s outside walls were a sunny yellow, and customers felt warmth and welcome as soon as they stepped inside its blue-painted walls. When a Chinese family purchased the bar a few years back, locals worried the establishment would fall to the wayside. Chinese business owners tended to skimp on a few Italian conventions—freebie appetizers, décor, and lighting—but this family was different. They kept the pretzel bowls full and all of Bar Girasole’s lights on. The Chinese began investing in bars when work at the garment factories started drying up and restaurants saw fewer and fewer customers. The economic crisis may have caused some consumers to hold back on dining out or purchasing new clothing, but the Chinese had a hunch: Italians might still be willing to pay for their daily cappuccino. It cost just 1 euro a cup at most bars—a small price to pay for a time-honored Italian tradition. It’s not clear who was the first person to make this hypothesis and test it out, but the idea spread throughout the migrant network quickly. Soon, buying a bar was the new business opportunity every Chinese migrant had on his or her mind. The owner of Bar Girasole also came from Qingtian County. Ayi had the coarse hands of a worker, and the lines in her face and the ruddiness of her cheeks were that of someone whose skin had been thickened by the country sun. Often, her eyebrows knitted together like she was bothered by something. That was to be expected, for the woman had a lot on her mind. Together with her husband and her two grown children, Ayi managed the bar seven days a week starting at six in the morning and closing well past midnight. The bar was constantly busy, the aroma of roasted coffee beans thick in the air. Old men liked to play card games or try their luck at the digital slot machines. Ayi stood behind the bar next to her daughter, a young woman in her late twenties who wore black-framed glasses and pulled her thick, dark hair back into a ponytail. The two watched over the cash register, the spring of the till jumping open as often as steam shot out of the stainless steel coffee machine.

  “We have a spare bedroom in the apartment. Ye Pei can stay there,” Ayi told Fen and Shen, who had accompanied Pei to Solesino on her first day. Ayi would provide housing and food, and Pei would earn 500 euros, less than $700, a month.

  “Thank you,” Fen said quietly.

  Ayi turned to Pei. “You can start by washing the dishes.”

  Fen and Shen took a seat next to the bar and watched their daughter roll up her sleeves. Pei kept her head down and tried not to look at them. She wanted to be as professional as possible, to show Ayi she was focused on the task at hand. She scrubbed hard to get the stains out of the tiny white cups that never stopped piling up next to the sink. In between cups, she grabbed a towel and wiped the counters. Eventually, she began clearing dirty dishes off tables. After she completed each chore, Ayi always found something else for her to do. Pei moved about the bar with a broom, ignoring the tingling in the soles of her feet. When the hands of the clock joined together at midnight, her legs began to tremble. She had never stood for so long in her life. It was 2:30 a.m. by the time she was let off work. Fen and Shen didn’t like to see their daughter work so hard, but they took solace in the fact that she would be living under the care of someone known to them. They would never allow Pei to live and work with a stranger. Ayi was a friend and she had come from Qingtian, too. Those who came from the same hometown always took care of their own.

  I thought I could do very well on my own, but at the sound of the door slamming shut, I couldn’t control the tears. At that moment, I wanted Mama and Baba to come back, but I knew that was not possible.

  Fen and Shen stayed the night with Pei in her new room and left early the next morning, back to the house by the mushroom farm one hundred miles away. As they left, the door of Ayi’s apartment shut with a hollow thud, and Pei let out a small cry that was pregnant with pain and surprise. When she left China just one month earlier she did not cry, not even when her grandmother gripped her hands and asked when she would return home. It was easier not to cry then, for she was the one doing the leaving. Now she was being left behind. She wanted to dash to the door, cast it open, and call to her parents to take her home with them. But “home” had taken on so many different meanings in the last month. Was China her home or was “home” that house on the hill with the peeling yellow paint? She wanted to know how long she might have to stay with Ayi and her family. How long would she have to work at the bar? Pei swallowed all these questions. The last thing she wanted was for her parents to worry about her. She didn’t want to be a burden. She rubbed her eyes and drew a shaky breath. “Today, I have a choice,” she thought. “I can sulk or I can smile.” Pei decided she would choose the latter.

  In front of them, I must pretend I am very happy. If I feel like I’m about to cry, I have to smile. If I show weakness, they will look down on me. No one is going to care about my sorrow. I will not show anyone my anger.

  Appearances were everything. Pei already knew that, and like a soldier programmed for war, her body responded with unfailing precision: she sucked in her tummy, straightened her back, held her hands one on top of the other, and flashed her eight-tooth smile. She would be at Ayi’s beck and call. She would do everything that was asked of her—even scrub the toilets if that was what Ayi wanted. She would learn how to make the perfect cappuccino. And she vowed to learn Italian by speaking with customers as often as she could and memorizing her Italian-Chinese dictionary at night. In the shower, she held water in her mouth, tilted her head back, and gargled in order to practice rolling her Rs. That first week, Ayi and her daughter gave Pei a new name.

  “How about Alessia?” they suggested.

  “Alessia,” she repeated. “Mi chiamo Alessia.” My name is Alessia.

  4

  Chinatown

  All migrants, not just Chinese migrants, look for a place where they can start new lives, a place to plug into the diaspora. But when migrants cluster together to form these immigrant neighborhoods, it can put native populations on edge. />
  I watched Marc disappear behind a gray, nondescript door. The customs official motioned to us just as were getting off the plane in Pisa. Then he pointed to Marc and led him away. “Don’t worry. Stay calm,” said Carina Chen, the businesswoman we were traveling with. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me forward. “Just keep walking and don’t look back. They do this all the time.” Carina flew from Barcelona to Pisa every weekend and said it was normal for customs officials to target the Chinese for random checks, but I was distraught. Just what was the officer checking for? “They’re just going to ask him a few questions,” Carina told me. “He’ll be out soon.” We sat at a table in front of a McDonald’s a few meters away from the door, but I couldn’t help but turn around every few minutes to see if it would open. I wondered what kinds of questions they were asking Marc, and I worried how effectively they were communicating since Marc didn’t speak Italian and it didn’t seem the customs officer spoke much English. Behind the gray door, only a few words were said in rudimentary English:

  “What are you doing in Italy?” the officer asked.

  “I’m here as a tourist,” Marc said.

  “Let me see your passport.” Marc took out his Dutch passport and watched the officer flip through it. “Your bag.” Marc handed over his backpack. The officer unzipped it and began unloading its contents, laying them out on the table one by one. Marc’s DSLR camera. A toothbrush. A pair of boxers. A set of earphones. Pretzels from the airplane. The officer looked disappointed. “OK,” he said, gesturing toward the door. I waited five minutes before the door finally swung open and Marc came striding out. He made eye contact and gave a slight nod of the head. He was fine.

  We followed Carina outside the terminal to a car rental depot where we climbed into a two-door Fiat. Carina sat in the driver’s seat, set the radio station to play Italian pop music, and kept her eyes trained on the winding road ahead as we sped west on the autostrada toward Prato. Her husband, Pang, usually did the driving when they visited every weekend, but it was a busy time for their wholesale operation in Barcelona where they sold the latest and trendiest “Made in Italy” clothes at bargain prices. This weekend Carina had come to Prato alone, and she was kind enough to allow us to tag along. As soon as we pulled off the autostrada, Carina drove on wide lanes flanked by massive warehouses. We had arrived in an industrial district called Macrolotto. Everywhere, I saw signs in both Italian and Chinese: Perfect Pronto Moda. Lucky Pronto Moda. Pronto Moda Forever. I checked my wristwatch. It was close to 11 p.m.

  “Are any of the warehouses still open at this hour?” I asked.

  “Most of them only open this late in the evening,” Carina answered. “If you try to come during the day, you’ll find many of them are closed.”

  Carina spoke better Italian than she did Chinese—that’s because she was born and raised in Italy. When she was a child, her Chinese family ran a workshop stitching leather handbags near Rimini, a resort town on Italy’s east coast. Her husband, Pang, had spent years helping his mother run a Chinese restaurant in the area. The two met outside a local Chinese school where Carina was a student. Having emigrated from Qingtian to Italy as a teen, Pang’s Chinese was pretty good. He was at the school only to scout out pretty girls. He spotted Carina, who had long black hair, a fair complexion, and a vivacious laugh. By the time they married years later, both their parents’ businesses had folded. The young couple had to figure out a way to take care of their families, but there were few options as Italy’s economy stuttered to a halt. Carina and Pang visited a relative in Barcelona who ran a successful wholesale business selling clothes imported from China. They decided to move to Barcelona in 2006—just in time to catch the tail-end of the economic boom in Spain.

  Carina drove past more warehouses before pulling into a parking lot. “Dinner first,” she grinned. “Prato has the best Chinese food in all of Italy.” We walked into a cloud of gray. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, I saw dozens of Chinese people seated around large round tables. “Mamma Mia, I’m no longer in Italy,” I thought. “This is China.” Everyone was dressed in black winter jackets and I shivered, noting the heat wasn’t turned on. We took a seat and saw southern Zhejiang delicacies—hearty soups, fried razor clams, and steamed duck tongues—rotating on turntables in a steady orbit. “We haven’t just returned to China,” I exclaimed. “This could be Qingtian!” A high-pitch screech followed by a low boom confirmed another suspicion: a late night karaoke party was under way at the back of the restaurant. We ate quickly before climbing back into the Fiat. That night, we visited at least a dozen wholesale outlets with Carina, who haggled hard for her purchases. She ordered 150 beige coats, each one costing her twelve euros. A slinky gold sweater that looked great with a pair of black tights caught her eye. She ordered 80 pieces and paid in cash. Carina strolled up and down one of the cavernous warehouses, leafing through metal racks crammed full of clothes. She eyed a gray tank top that came with a matching faux cashmere sweater. A nice ensemble for the working woman. A salesperson in knee-high boots and a fanny pack around her waist approached and asked for nine euros a set. Eight Euros, Carina countered. The saleswoman said 8.50 was her lowest price. “No deal,” Carina said. She noticed many of the warehouses were selling knitwear ponchos and shawls. But the weather wasn’t very chilly in Barcelona and she wasn’t sure they would sell in Spain. It was now close to 1 a.m. and Carina was calling Pang to update him on her purchases. When they first moved to Barcelona, the young couple worked tirelessly to establish their wholesale business in the garment district not far from the city’s Arc de Triomf. Two years later, more than a million immigrants lost their jobs when the housing bubble burst in 2008, and as both Spanish- and Chinese-owned businesses shuttered all around them, Carina and Pang defied the odds by expanding their business. They opened several more shops across the city and began traveling to Prato every week to keep up with demand. Their work and travel schedule was grueling, but Carina and Pang seemed indefatigable. When she finished giving her update and got off the phone, Carina announced we were finally heading to the hotel for some rest. “We start up again early tomorrow morning,” she said.

  The parking lots outside many Chinese-run pronto moda warehouses are lined with the cars and trucks of wholesalers who have come to load up on inexpensive “Made in Italy” clothing. They buy in relatively small quantities, and most manage to avoid import tariffs thanks to the fluid borders of the European Union. The pronto moda garments are then resold in shops around the world to unwitting consumers who may be shocked to discover the clothes are made by Chinese hands. When I shared this revelation with friends and family, they never looked at “Made in Italy” labels the same way again. Neither did I. “The workmanship in Prato’s Chinese factories is mostly poor but always in vogue,” Carina explained. “Actually, a lot of the stuff made in China is of better quality. The only problem is they are always a little bit behind.” I was dizzy as Carina sped around Macrolotto the next morning, making multiple stops and placing numerous orders. The Chinese own nearly 45 percent of the city’s manufacturing businesses, and all the buildings in Macrolotto looked the same. Carina had a hard time orienting herself, spinning her tires on the same roundabouts before finally pulling up to the right warehouse. She was looking for a particular stylist who did an exceptionally good job of creating high-fashion look-alike garments. Carina and Pang were often browsing fashion websites and walking around Barcelona’s high-end shops for inspiration. Sometimes they bought a particular garment they liked and e-mailed photos to the designer in Prato. By the time they arrived in Prato on the weekend, the prototype was ready for inspection. Not every garment they ordered sold well, but Carina said experience was teaching them to make better choices. Recently, they were having more hits than misses. What makes pronto moda so successful? Some like to credit industrious Chinese immigrants, but there’s another more quantifiable reason: Pronto moda’s location in an industrial district allows entrepreneurs to purcha
se fabric, dye all the garments according to the current fashion trends, and purchase accessories, all in a very short period of time. Carina and Pang could replicate the latest fashions and have those garments designed, produced, and delivered to their stores in Barcelona within a week. The fastest boat from China couldn’t deliver that. Now, whenever I am shopping, I run my hands over clothes made in Italy and inspect labels for hints of where they might have come from. “Did these shoes come from Prato?” I wonder. “Did a Chinese migrant make this sweater?” I stand in my closet and wonder how many migrant stories are woven into the fabrics that hang there.

  The fire started at Teresa Moda in the middle of the night on a Sunday. It most likely began in the corner of the garment factory where there was a camp stove being used to cook meals. Then it swept through the cramped space, quickly creeping up on the workers who were sleeping nearby. There were no emergency exits and the windows were blocked by bars. Rolls of fabric leaning against the wall lit up like giant candlesticks. The flames melted a mountain of plastic coat hangers, devoured bags of newly cut garments, and charred the blackout curtains over the windows. Seven workers—two women and five men—died. One of the dead suffocated as he tried to escape through iron bars on the windows. Police said it took days to identify them all because relatives were too scared to come forward. When they finally did, the community enlarged photos of the victims and affixed them to the door next to a handwritten sign that read: “Sorrow Has No Color.” Dozens of bouquets were left at the entrance to the workshop, and a few days later, hundreds of people, both Chinese and Italian, attended a candlelight vigil in a rare showing of solidarity and sympathy. In the weeks that followed, four Chinese citizens were placed under investigation on charges of multiple manslaughter, failure to uphold workplace safety measures, and exploitation of illegal workers. Then, prosecutors issued arrest warrants for eleven people, Chinese and Italian, including a City Hall employee, on charges of issuing false residence permits to more than three hundred Chinese immigrants who paid $820 to $2,050 each for the papers. Law enforcement officials gave numerous interviews to the press, saying they have struggled for years to rein in illegal and unsafe practices. In the two years leading up to the fire at Teresa Moda, officials performed more than 1,500 checks on garment and textile operations in Prato—more than half of those businesses belonged to Chinese citizens. As a result, more than 1,700 fines were issued, about 400 undocumented immigrants were identified, and more than 350 companies were shut down for various violations. Still, officials said they were severely understaffed when it came to keeping tabs on the more than 8,000 factories in Prato’s textile and garment manufacturing sectors. Officials complained that Chinese workers were reluctant to cooperate with Italian officials, and labor leaders said they had failed to convince the workers to fight for better conditions. “If you want to build consensus, you have to offer them opportunities, residence permits, and new jobs; show them it’s better to be legal,” a labor union representative told the New York Times. “Instead, when factories are raided, the workers are brought to the police station, fingerprinted and given a paper that tells them they have to leave Italy.” During my research, I encountered sporadic cases of Chinese migrant workers going on strike or leaving a garment workshop in protest of poor working conditions. But for the most part, workers were too afraid to defy their bosses for fear of deportation and even retribution against their families in China. Most prefer to pay off their debts, save money, and move on with their lives.