took out his mandolin and was playing softly. This prompted another announcement from “Mayor Luigi.”
“Tomorrow is the night of the New Year. We must have a festa !”
Just then, as if to counter the suggestion, the ship rolled over a huge wave, and people and baggage went sliding and falling to one side of the boat. When the screams stopped, the prayers started. Someone yelled, “God is punishing us for leaving!” Giovanna, exhausted from the hopelessness, went to her bunk looking for solace in scripture.
The next day on deck, Giovanna studied the crew, who were working furiously. Crates of fruits and vegetables were being stacked and candelabras polished in record time. She guessed they were preparing for a party.
Nunzio once described a fabulous party that his professore hosted for the New Year in a villa in Rome. The professore had offered Nunzio a few extra lire to help, and Nunzio was thrilled to be holding the silver trays and sparkling glasses until he realized that his fellow students were also present, only they were guests. But even in his humiliation, he had remembered almost every detail and told Giovanna of inlaid marble floors on which the women’s heels made wonderful clicking sounds, and of an entire orchestra all dressed finer than any southern bridegroom.
Giovanna tried to envision tonight’s party and the ship’s grand staircases and sparkling chandeliers that she would never see, even though they were no more than one hundred feet from where she sat. She imagined the first-class passengers moving among the splendor, the women draped in fine fabrics accented by jewels. The party continued to swirl in her thoughts, and Giovanna decided the guests would laugh with delight if the ship suddenly careened, secure in their knowledge that they were safe, as opposed to the steerage passengers, who would scream and shake with fear. The cold, wet air got to her, and Giovanna climbed down the many metal stairs that brought her back to her reality.
Shortly after the evening meal, the music in steerage began. Within an hour it became a cacophony of sound. The orchestra above deck was drowned out by the rhythms of Sicilian dances, Calabrian folk songs, and Neapolitan love songs emanating from each steerage compartment. People from one town or region tended to travel in the same compartment, so were the setting different, it would have been an impressive revue of southern Italian music.
Giovanna watched the festivities from her bunk. She was becoming accustomed to her role as an observer of life. Successful at blocking out all thoughts of what the new year and new country would bring, she was less successful in stopping the what-ifs. What would it have been like to greet Nunzio on the dock? Would 1903 have been the year they had a child? Giovanna’s fingers went to her temples to stop her thoughts from causing her so much pain. Rolling onto her stomach, she squinted at the revelers, trying to concentrate on the here and now.
A crewman walked into their compartment holding a tray and shouting in bad Italian, “The captain sent this for the kids. Happy New Year.” He set the tray, holding a large cake, on a trunk in the center of the compartment. The “3” of “1903” had been cut out, and a bit of the decoration had slid off, but it remained three glorious layers high and covered in pink frosting. The children squealed with delight and pressed forward, trying to get as close to this marvel as possible.
The authority on l’America, Luigi, took control and shouted for everyone to stand back. Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the cake into squares and placed them into the upraised, cupped hands of the children clamoring around him. When all the children had been served, a small section of the cake remained. The unspoken question became who among the adults would get to enjoy this luxury. After much debate and no consensus, it was somehow decided that everyone would take a crumb, which
“Tomorrow is the night of the New Year. We must have a festa !”
Just then, as if to counter the suggestion, the ship rolled over a huge wave, and people and baggage went sliding and falling to one side of the boat. When the screams stopped, the prayers started. Someone yelled, “God is punishing us for leaving!” Giovanna, exhausted from the hopelessness, went to her bunk looking for solace in scripture.
The next day on deck, Giovanna studied the crew, who were working furiously. Crates of fruits and vegetables were being stacked and candelabras polished in record time. She guessed they were preparing for a party.
Nunzio once described a fabulous party that his professore hosted for the New Year in a villa in Rome. The professore had offered Nunzio a few extra lire to help, and Nunzio was thrilled to be holding the silver trays and sparkling glasses until he realized that his fellow students were also present, only they were guests. But even in his humiliation, he had remembered almost every detail and told Giovanna of inlaid marble floors on which the women’s heels made wonderful clicking sounds, and of an entire orchestra all dressed finer than any southern bridegroom.
Giovanna tried to envision tonight’s party and the ship’s grand staircases and sparkling chandeliers that she would never see, even though they were no more than one hundred feet from where she sat. She imagined the first-class passengers moving among the splendor, the women draped in fine fabrics accented by jewels. The party continued to swirl in her thoughts, and Giovanna decided the guests would laugh with delight if the ship suddenly careened, secure in their knowledge that they were safe, as opposed to the steerage passengers, who would scream and shake with fear. The cold, wet air got to her, and Giovanna climbed down the many metal stairs that brought her back to her reality.
Shortly after the evening meal, the music in steerage began. Within an hour it became a cacophony of sound. The orchestra above deck was drowned out by the rhythms of Sicilian dances, Calabrian folk songs, and Neapolitan love songs emanating from each steerage compartment. People from one town or region tended to travel in the same compartment, so were the setting different, it would have been an impressive revue of southern Italian music.
Giovanna watched the festivities from her bunk. She was becoming accustomed to her role as an observer of life. Successful at blocking out all thoughts of what the new year and new country would bring, she was less successful in stopping the what-ifs. What would it have been like to greet Nunzio on the dock? Would 1903 have been the year they had a child? Giovanna’s fingers went to her temples to stop her thoughts from causing her so much pain. Rolling onto her stomach, she squinted at the revelers, trying to concentrate on the here and now.
A crewman walked into their compartment holding a tray and shouting in bad Italian, “The captain sent this for the kids. Happy New Year.” He set the tray, holding a large cake, on a trunk in the center of the compartment. The “3” of “1903” had been cut out, and a bit of the decoration had slid off, but it remained three glorious layers high and covered in pink frosting. The children squealed with delight and pressed forward, trying to get as close to this marvel as possible.
The authority on l’America, Luigi, took control and shouted for everyone to stand back. Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the cake into squares and placed them into the upraised, cupped hands of the children clamoring around him. When all the children had been served, a small section of the cake remained. The unspoken question became who among the adults would get to enjoy this luxury. After much debate and no consensus, it was somehow decided that everyone would take a crumb, which
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