Giovanna sighed, tucked her work pillow under her arm, picked up her chair, and, shoulders drooping, stepped from beneath the comforting shade into the white glare of midday. Teresa watched her friend go, the compassion in her gaze belying her untried youth.
Having asked for Camilla’s hand in marriage and been accepted by a grateful father, Giovanni left for Turin to make the necessary travel arrangements for himself and his bride. Now that everything was finally settled, all hesitation behind him, he could concentrate on getting back to work as quickly as possible. All accomplished, he returned, took a thorough bath in his mother’s kitchen, slicked his hair, brushed his derby, shined his boots, and, clutching a bunch of daisies, pulled the plaited cord that rang the brass bell of the mayor’s house. Camilla’s mamma, in churchgoing finery, flung open the door and embraced her future son-in-law with unbridled delight.
“Welcome! Welcome, my dear Giovanni. Camilla awaits. Ready in the parlor.” An anxious mother’s slight exaggeration, for Camilla, propped amongst tasseled pillows on a very uncomfortable love seat, in a dress of palest yellow, her panic pallor having taken on a hue of curdled cream, was far from ready for anything. Camilla’s mamma bustled about the room, indicating a broad footstool positioned at her daughter’s feet. As with all of her daughters, Mamma believed in orchestrating proposals for their most romantic effectiveness. Giovanni lowered himself into the position of ardent suitor. Although her girlish bosom fluttered, no words of welcome left Camilla’s pale lips. Mamma, in a bit of a quandary whether she needed to remain as chaperone, hesitated, then decided as they were already betrothed, she could leave them together long enough to tend to her soup for the evening meal. At the door, she turned, gave Giovanni a meaningful look, and left the two lovebirds to get on with it.
Gazing up at his bride-to-be, Giovanni began laying his plans for their future before her. Just as his profession demanded utmost attention to detail, precision in its execution, he approached life with the same attitude. Knowing all would be new to her, he proceeded to give her an explicit account of the arduous journey that lay before them, the endless days and nights in third-class carriages on trains, assuring her that sleeping sitting up was not as uncomfortable as she might think, it was simply a matter of getting used to. Once, having arrived in the port of the city of Le Havre, she would have to be extremely careful not to draw attention to herself or him, for, once spotted as possible immigrants, things could be dangerous. Thieves and, worse, ruthless swindlers took one’s money, promised lodgings that then did not exist or were unfit for humans. But he would protect her, knew of a tavern where an affordable room could be found, where she might even be able to indulge in a bath in its kitchen, as such luxury would not be possible again for many weeks until after they had reached America. He wanted her to know that having survived the cattle conditions of steerage on his first crossing, he had sworn then that never would he be a part of such misery again, nor would anyone in his care need to endure it. He was proud that now he was in a position to keep that promise, he had been able to afford second-class accommodations for both of them. Although extremely small, the ship’s cabins were not only safe but afforded precious privacy. He would share his with three other men, she with three other ladies. He hastened to add that communal facilities for private acts would only be a short distance in another part of the ship and certainly better than the open pails used by those in steerage. And when they encountered the usual heavy seas, being seasick with three ladies for company would be a comfort to her. Once safely arrived, the next journey by various trains would probably seem endless, for America was large, its distances farther than anyone from across the sea could ever imagine but she had his solemn promise that they would get to their final destination, eventually.
“We will make our first home in the room I rent. It is not big but sufficient. I work a nine-hour day, so you will have plenty of time to do your housework and learn to speak American. Frau Geiger, my landlady, is a kind woman—she will help you. I bet in no time you two will be boiling your wash together and making your soap in the huge kettle she keeps on the back porch of the house.”
Throughout this travelogue of delights, Camilla’s already enormous eyes had widened even further. Now, with the softest meow, she fainted dead away.
“Signora! Signora!” Giovanni dashed into the pungent kitchen. “Your daughter …”
“Santa Maria! What have you done to my child?” Mamma threw her spoon into the bubbling minestrone, hurried to her daughter spread-eagled on the horsehair love seat.
“Signora—believe me! All I said was we were going to America—I swear!”
“Did you remember to tell her first she would be going as your lawfully wedded wife?” Mamma asked, chafing her daughter’s limp wrist.
“Of course she knew that, Signora!” Giovanni retorted, very put out at even the slightest hint of impropriety on his part.
“Then why should she faint?” pressured Mamma. Receiving only a dumbfounded look as answer, she hastened to reassure him. “Of course Camilla can be at times a little overdramatic. Nothing serious of course. Nothing for you, dear Giovanni, to have to be concerned about. You will see, once she has gotten used to the idea she will be as pleased as we all are with your offer.”
This sensible speech somewhat placated Camilla’s future husband as it was intended to. With a sharp pat on her newly resurrected daughter’s cheek plus a warning look that spoke volumes, Mamma returned to her kitchen, leaving the young lovers to continue their courtship where they had left off.
“Camilla, are you alright?” Giovanni sat next to the trembling girl, anxious to repair whatever damage he might have done. He had no clue as to what it could have been that had put her into such a tizzy, still was more than willing to take the blame if it made her feel any better. To give her time to collect herself, he stroked her little white hand. Admiring its soft delicacy, he spoke again of their future.
“STOP! OH, PLEASE, please stop!” wailed Camilla, tears splashing down her cheeks, little hiccups getting in the way of words that tumbled out of her pretty mouth like cherry pits. “I CAN’T! I just can’t! I don’t want to die in the sea! I don’t want to be seasick! I don’t want to go to a big strange place full of savages I can’t talk to! I don’t want to be married to you! I don’t want to leave my mamma! I don’t want to make SOAP! GO AWAY!”
Giovanni fled.
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