Meet Me in Venice

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Meet Me in Venice Page 15

by Suzanne Ma


  Luigi thought Pei a good worker who was willing to learn new things. He had previously hired a friend’s son to help him, but the boy was lazy. Girls, Luigi said, were more obedient and well-behaved. In Solesino, Pei started off making just 500 euros a month. Uncle Luigi now offered her 800 euros (about $1100) a month for her work at the bar and he arranged and paid for her to live with the Jiangs—another Chinese family in town—since he had no home of his own. The Jiangs lived in an apartment close to the bar. Most of the 150 Chinese people living in Falconara worked in garment workshops—but there were a handful of families who had their own businesses. Uncle Luigi had the bar. A Chinese couple sold women’s dresses down the street from the train station. Around the corner, a Chinese family opened a store that sold everyday housewares—anything from spoons and toilet paper to hair dryers and radios. The Jiangs had the most taxing job of all. They left their home in the early morning and sped along pitch-black highways to neighboring towns where they sold handbags, scarves, and accessories in the open-air markets. Pei shared a room with their sixteen-year-old daughter, Julia, who had high cheekbones and long black hair. She wore dark eyeliner and spoke even faster than Pei did.

  It didn’t take long for Pei to develop something she never had in Solesino: confidence. “I am the boss of me!” she said. “Sometimes, I don’t feel like I am even at work. I feel like I haven’t been working all day.” Uncle Luigi instilled great trust in her. She handled cash, operated the till, and was even in charge of running the bar herself when Uncle Luigi retired to his broom closet for several hours in the early afternoon for his daily riposo. Like the other townspeople, he savored the rhythm of Italian time. After lunch, proprietors flipped their aperto signs to chiuso and went home for an afternoon nap. Just two businesses remained open during the mid-day slumber: Bar Gru Gru and a nearby Internet café run by a Pakistani man named Mukhtar, who had come to Italy nine years before as a migrant worker, leaving his wife and children behind. “The Chinese and the Pakistanis, we are friends, we are neighbors,” he told me. “We work all the time. Too much. The Italians? They are sleeping.”

  In the broom closet behind the bar, Uncle Luigi slept alone. He was married once, having done what many immigrant men did—he went back to China to find a wife. His family searched for and found what they deemed an appropriate match, but the marriage was short-lived and they were divorced within a matter of months. That was three years ago and now at the age of forty-five, Luigi remained a bachelor. He didn’t have many prospects when Pei arrived in Falconara, but he had gone on one date recently. He and a Chinese woman went out for dinner and all was going well until the end, when his date stopped at a street corner about a block or so away from her apartment and asked to say “good night.” It was better, she said, that he didn’t walk her to her doorstep. Luigi was insulted. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” he asked. For weeks, he stayed prideful and angry, and though the woman tried to contact him again, he refused to speak with her. Eventually she stopped calling. He was still furious when he recalled the episode for Pei one night over dinner.

  “Maybe you were being just a little sensitive?” Pei suggested.

  “No,” Luigi snapped. “I know what she was thinking. That I wasn’t good enough for her!” Pei was embarrassed by her uncle’s unexpected disclosure of his failed marriage and disastrous first date. The evening had begun rather cheerfully, with Luigi offering to cook dinner for his niece. He made pork chops, mashed potatoes, and a dish that had recently become Pei’s favorite—a tossed green salad topped with tuna and drizzled in mayonnaise, olive oil, and vinegar. “I no longer have the urge to stir-fry my salad greens,” she said. Uncle Luigi even opened a bottle of red wine he was saving for a special occasion. But the more he drank the gloomier he became. In Falconara, Pei chose a new name for herself—Lya—and at the bar, she listened to many depressing tales usually shared by someone who had had one drink too many.

  By far, Pei’s favorite customer was Paolo. At nearly six feet tall, he tottered into the bar for a drink in his Velcro sandals and blue socks, his pear-shaped belly leading the way. He had worked as an electrician for thirty years before he injured his foot and retired early on disability. Beneath his black baseball cap was a small, bespectacled face.

  “Lya,” he’d say warmly upon entering the bar.

  “Paolo!” Pei would exclaim with a broad smile, showing way more than just eight teeth. “Ciao!”

  Leaning over the bar, the Italian lessons would begin. Paolo pointed to a plastic rose in a dusty vase.

  “Rosa,” he said.

  “Rrrroh-sah,” Pei repeated.

  Paolo pointed to sunflowers printed on the plastic tablecloths in the bar.

  “Girasole,” he said.

  “Gee-ra-sole.”

  “Questa qua lilium.” These are lilies.

  “Lee-lee-um.”

  “Paolo,” Pei said. “I teach you Chinese.” Pointing to the rosa in the vase, she leaned forward and said loudly, “Mei gwei hua.”

  “Mei gwei hua,” Paolo repeated. The two laughed and they carried on like that on a daily basis. They talked about the weather, about their cell phone plans, and most often about Italian pronunciation.

  “Plego,” Paolo would tease. “You ate the ‘r’.”

  “Ate?” Pei asked quizzically.

  “Rrrrrrr,” Paolo said, demonstrating a roll.

  “Rrrrrr.”

  “You say it well,” Paolo finally agreed. “Bene.”

  But aside from the idle chitchat and vocabulary exchange, the men who came to the bar had a habit of sharing deeply personal stories with Pei. “I don’t know if you can understand me at all . . . ” they’d begin. If she understood, Pei would nod and say, “Capito.” If she didn’t, she would blink and say, “Non capisco.” No matter her reply, the men continued to tell their long-winded tales, sometimes revealing very intimate details of their lives. It seemed easier for them to talk to a barista who did not fully realize the weight of their stories, the intensity of their pain. She would not ridicule them or pass judgment as others might. Pei was exactly the kind of listener they needed.

  “Tu lavoro?” Pei asked Paolo one day. You work?

  “I don’t work anymore.”

  “Prima?” Pei asked. Before?

  “I was an elletricista.” An electrician.

  “Elletricista.”

  “Yes, artisan and electrician.”

  “Tu, moglie?” Pei asked. You, wife?

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “They’re all the same,” Paolo said bitterly.

  Pei pressed on with more questions. “You’re not married before?”

  “No,” Paolo replied. “I used to live in Turin. I lived there thirty years.”

  “You born in Turin? Where you born?”

  “I was born here, but I lived in Turin for thirty years. I lived with someone for seven years. One week before we were to marry, we had a fight. One week. Una settimana.”

  “Settimana,” Pei repeated.

  “Una settimana. Sette giorni,” Paolo said. “One week. Seven days. Before we got married we had a fight. I didn’t get married. We had a fight right before. Seven days before our wedding we had a fight.” Paolo stared off in the distance as he spoke and Pei looked down and listened silently and patiently—the way she always did when she did not understand.

  “My suit is still in my dresser,” Paolo continued. “It doesn’t fit me anymore, but I still hold onto it. Hand sewn, and it still hangs in my dresser. I should give it to Luigi; that way he’ll get married.”

  Pei looked toward the broom closet where her uncle was taking his nap.

  “Tre anni,” she said, looking at Paolo sadly. Three years.

  “Tre anni,” Paolo nodded. “Divorced, I know.” He heaved a sigh. “Those that marry for money get divorced. Maybe it’s better not
to get married?” Pei did not answer. She had not understood Paolo’s story about his broken engagement, nor had she understood what he said about his hand-sewn suit that was still hanging in his closet. But she could see that Paolo was sad. Many of the men who came to the bar were that way—but it was the angry customers who were the worst.

  There was one middle-aged man who liked to say “fuck” all the time. He had hazel skin, tawny eyes, and hair that was thick and knotted in curls. Once he picked up a chair and held it above his head, threatening to throw it at another customer. Uncle Luigi rushed out from behind the bar. “Vattene via!” he bellowed, pointing toward the door and ordering the man out. His voice boomed so loudly everyone in the bar had stopped to watch and Pei never imagined such a thunderous sound coming from her uncle. The man put the chair down and left, but he returned the next morning. This time Uncle Luigi was still asleep and Pei was running the bar on her own. The man ordered a cappuccino, then he lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of ash at Pei’s face. She glowered at him but he stared right back. For a few seconds, Pei blinked and seemed to be contemplating her next move. Then she pointed at the door just as her Uncle Luigi had done the day before. “Vattene! Vattene!” she yelled. Out! Out! Surprised the young barista would dare to shout at him, the man reacted with a laugh. “Ha!” he roared, before taking a few steps back. He looked Pei straight in the eye and brought the cigarette up to his lips once again. The bar was still as people’s eyes flitted nervously from Pei, who stood behind the bar, to the man smoking near the doorway. Pei wore a vicious scowl on her face as she glowered at the man for a few seconds more. Then she turned to face the coffee machine, picked up a white little cup, and prepared another cappuccino for her next customer.

  If the men at the bar weren’t aggressive, they were flirtatious. Some liked to ask if Pei was a virgin or if she had a boyfriend. Pei never knew how to answer. “Tell them you have a Chinese boyfriend who lives in a nearby town,” Luigi advised. That seemed to stop most men from asking any further questions. But there was nothing Pei could do to stop them from touching her. There were men who liked to sneak up behind her, usually when she was clearing a table. By the time she felt the pinch, it was already too late: two strong fingers nipped her bottom and squeezed hard. Pei spun around, her face and her cheek burning with shame and anger. She wanted to scream. Instead she pushed her words down her throat and returned to clearing the table. “Before I left China, I had a lot of hopes because I heard everyone say how great Italians were and how cultured and mannered they are,” Pei said. “But now that I am living abroad, I realize you can’t generalize like that. Every country has good and bad people—even the Chinese.”

  During Easter celebrations in April, the townspeople erected a wooden cross in the main square where a priest led a small congregation in prayer. His voice echoed loudly into a microphone but could not compete with the raucous karaoke party raging in a nearby bar. The whooping applause that followed each Italian pop serenade reverberated through the town while the priest droned on in his ever-steady pace, never wavering from his prayers. It was a stormy Easter Sunday, with high winds and belligerent rain—too wet and too cold to be anywhere but in a church or in a bar, and many chose the latter. At Bar Gru Gru, the crowd grew so big the front doors had to stay open. Men clutched sweaty beer bottles in their hands and jostled to attract the young barista’s attention.

  “Lya!” one shouted, slamming down change. “Vino!”

  “Lya,” another bellowed. “Brandy!” Paper bills were pressed into her hands and Pei began to feel feverish.

  “Ni hao!” a posse of young men chorused as they sauntered into the bar in their jackets and baseball caps.

  “Mei nu,” said one, using the Chinese word for “beautiful girl.”

  “Ni hao, chu nu!” chimed another, using the Chinese word for “virgin.”

  “Albanians,” Pei muttered under her breath as she flashed her eight-tooth smile at them. “Buonasera,” she said loudly. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten yet. Earlier in the evening, a drunk customer picked up the kebab she was saving for dinner and dropped it on the ground. Pei’s face showed equal parts exhaustion, humiliation, and fury. At such moments her thoughts drifted back to China, to times when life was much simpler.

  Pei settled into a routine at the bar, but it was in the heat of the summer when one phone call from her mother set in motion another wave of change. Pei’s eighteenth birthday was fast approaching, and she needed to take an Italian-language test to be eligible for a residency permit. In 2013, there were 4.4 million foreigners officially living in Italy, compared to just 1.5 million in 2003. As immigrants continue to flow into the country, the government passed a law requiring all non-European immigrants to take the test. Some say it’s only natural for newcomers to learn the language of their host nation so they can become contributing members of society. But some immigrant advocates worry the test, which was enacted in 2010, has become an instrument for intolerance rather than integration. Italy is just one of many countries demanding language skills in exchange for residency or in some cases citizenship. In Britain, those seeking citizenship or permanent residency must prove their “Britishness” by answering multiple-choice questions in English on British history, culture, and law. And in the United States, those seeking citizenship are asked ten questions about American history, geography, and government. The questions are not easy—What did the Declaration of Independence do? Why does the flag have fifty stars?—and at least six questions must be answered correctly and in English. Most of the Chinese immigrants I spoke to in Italy thought the test was a big pain, but Pei believed every opportunity to learn Italian was a good opportunity. She was grateful to her mother, who was keeping track of all the deadlines and prerequisites, and to her Uncle Luigi, who was kind enough to allow her some time off. Three days a week, she hopped on the train and traveled one hour north, back to the house with the peeling yellow paint. Her mother arranged private language classes with an Italian teacher to help her prepare for the test.

  Lia Panelatti Santoro looked every bit a middle-aged schoolteacher, with her short brown hair and reading glasses that hung from a slender chain around her neck. She had a commanding yet caring voice that came with more than a decade of experience teaching Italian to Chinese immigrants. She spent a total of forty hours coaching Pei. “When she came to me, all she knew was cappuccino, Coca-Cola, and coffee. There weren’t any other words,” Lia said. Pei forced herself to memorize long lists of vocabulary and drilled dozens of new conjugations into her head. She bowed her head to listen as Lia read passages from a book. And her pen, which usually flowed across the page in a luscious Chinese script, now moved slowly as she traced square letters between the blue lines of her notebook. Lia charged Pei 13 euros ($18) a lesson and said she saw much potential in her despite Pei’s limited vocabulary. “She was a promising young girl and instantly I told her that she should quit her job as a barista,” Lia said. “I told her she should come work at the mushroom farm because here she could study Italian, because here she would have more opportunities.”

  In August, Pei arrived at a local school to take the test. Dry-mouthed and jittery, she sat in front of an administrator who played an audio recording of two brief conversations. The words flew past her ears and Pei closed her eyes so she could concentrate better. When she opened them, the administrator asked her a series of questions to make sure she understood the content. Pei answered as best as she could. Next, she was given two texts to read—a letter from a police station and instructions for using a washing machine. Pei lowered her nose close to the paper and quietly read aloud. The administrator waited for her to finish, and then drilled her with more questions to test her comprehension. Again, Pei did her best to answer. Finally, there was a writing test. Pei was asked to pen a letter in Italian to an imaginary friend.

  When she held her newly minted residency card in her hand one week later, Pei felt a surge
of pride. “So this little card is why I have worked so hard these last months,” she said. “Today, I feel I have indeed stepped foot into Italian society for the very first time.” Soon after the test, Pei left the bar in Falconara and moved back in with her mother at the house with the peeling yellow paint. On the advice of her teacher, Lia, she began working at the mushroom farm. A few months after that, she returned to the bar in Falconara for a visit, but none of the customers recognized her. “I was here too short a time,” Pei said as she walked through the front doors she once opened every morning. Uncle Luigi stood behind the bar, in his dark slacks and navy top.

  “Uncle Luigi, where is Paolo?” Pei asked.

  “He’s in the hospital,” he said. “It does not look good. He won’t be coming to the bar anymore.”

  Upon hearing the news, Pei was surprisingly unemotional. “He was just another customer,” she remarked. “He was never my friend anyway.”

  6

  Shifting Tides

  I left home as a youth and as an old man returned

  My accent unchanged but my temples turned gray

  The children see me but don’t know who I am

  Smiling, they ask: “Stranger, where do you come from?”

 

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