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 angers, 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 chateau. 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.