sunsets, spring flowers and bright blaze of autumn.
His smile was a warm bath. I watched the waves as he described his last trip through the terrible Straits of Magellan, up the spiny coast of South America and past the Spanish mission towns in California: San Diego, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. San Francisco, he said, was born when gold spewed out of the mountains. Fifty years ago there was no city and now new wooden houses crept up every hill. He had been to the Sandwich Islands, flecks in the Pacific where people drank milk from coconuts and flowers draped the trees, but it was San Francisco that amazed me.
“A city made in fifty years? It took longer to build our church.”
“Tell me about your church.” It was so new to me, this telling. Of course we told stories in Opi, but they were all so familiar that we listened only for vagaries of each version. Gustavo asked about my family, our sheep and the seasons on the mountain, how Carlo had left for Cleveland and how I hoped to find him there. He leaned on the rail smoking his pipe as if the whole night rolled out before us. When I stopped, embarrassed that my tales must seem so poor, he shook his head. “You know, Irma, we see cities and strange lands, but week after week our whole world is right here on a ship that’s smaller than your village.”
We spoke of the storm. It was bad, he agreed, but not the worst by far. “She’s a stout one, the Servia.” His hand grazed mine. “I wish I could show her to you.”
My chest tightened. “The captain would be angry.”
Gustavo sighed. “I know. But at least come up again at night, Irma. I’ll send you word and unlock the grate.”
“Gustavo!” someone called. “They need you aft.”
“Please come,” he asked again.
“Captain’s on deck!” said the rough voice.
“Thanks for the sewing,” he said quickly. “I’ll get word to you.” He vaulted the coiled rope and joined a tangle of shadows silhouetted against the foaming wake. I stood at the rail as long as I dared. Dolphins leaped by the sea edge. Close by, a crosswind rippled the waves and a new waltz drifted up from the ballroom.
If I could be here with the waves and stars again. If Gustavo sent word and no one saw us. “ If ,” my mother used to scoff at my dreams: “If we had if for bread.” I opened the grate slowly, careful of squeaking, and slipped downstairs to the hot bath of steerage: women at the wash basin and Greeks playing cards in the stairwell screaming their bets. Marina wailed. An Albanian boy coughed as women forced syrup down his throat. I would not dwell on these things, I would sew leaping dolphins.
But I did no sewing that night, for there was trouble by our berths. A knot of women had clustered around Gordana and Milenka, pressing them back against wet linens. Gabriella wormed toward me, sobbing. “Irma, they’re cursing the Serbian girls. Mamma’s at the washroom.”
I told her to get Teresa and wedged myself into the angry group. Gordana and Milenka’s proud faces had paled. The crowd looked at them now as townspeople looked at twisted beggars or monster children shown around markets for a few centesimi and easy sport. “What happened?” I demanded.
“Unnatural beasts,” hissed Simona, “I saw them under the ladder, talking .” She made a childish mimic of lovers’ murmuring, then worked her jaw and spat a foamy glob on Gordana’s breast. Milenka wiped it off.
“So what?” I demanded. “They weren’t talking to you.”
“Serbian pigs. They’ll disgrace us all.”
“How? You’ll never see them in America.”
“Irma, is not your problem,” said Gordana quietly.
“They’ve done nothing to you,” I persisted. “And they helped us all in the storm.”
“Irma’s right,” said a new voice, Teresa shouldering into the crowd.
Simona’s face darkened. She pointed to our four berths. “You’re all cozy here, eh? Do you all talk together?” And then she spun to me. “Ha,
His smile was a warm bath. I watched the waves as he described his last trip through the terrible Straits of Magellan, up the spiny coast of South America and past the Spanish mission towns in California: San Diego, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. San Francisco, he said, was born when gold spewed out of the mountains. Fifty years ago there was no city and now new wooden houses crept up every hill. He had been to the Sandwich Islands, flecks in the Pacific where people drank milk from coconuts and flowers draped the trees, but it was San Francisco that amazed me.
“A city made in fifty years? It took longer to build our church.”
“Tell me about your church.” It was so new to me, this telling. Of course we told stories in Opi, but they were all so familiar that we listened only for vagaries of each version. Gustavo asked about my family, our sheep and the seasons on the mountain, how Carlo had left for Cleveland and how I hoped to find him there. He leaned on the rail smoking his pipe as if the whole night rolled out before us. When I stopped, embarrassed that my tales must seem so poor, he shook his head. “You know, Irma, we see cities and strange lands, but week after week our whole world is right here on a ship that’s smaller than your village.”
We spoke of the storm. It was bad, he agreed, but not the worst by far. “She’s a stout one, the Servia.” His hand grazed mine. “I wish I could show her to you.”
My chest tightened. “The captain would be angry.”
Gustavo sighed. “I know. But at least come up again at night, Irma. I’ll send you word and unlock the grate.”
“Gustavo!” someone called. “They need you aft.”
“Please come,” he asked again.
“Captain’s on deck!” said the rough voice.
“Thanks for the sewing,” he said quickly. “I’ll get word to you.” He vaulted the coiled rope and joined a tangle of shadows silhouetted against the foaming wake. I stood at the rail as long as I dared. Dolphins leaped by the sea edge. Close by, a crosswind rippled the waves and a new waltz drifted up from the ballroom.
If I could be here with the waves and stars again. If Gustavo sent word and no one saw us. “ If ,” my mother used to scoff at my dreams: “If we had if for bread.” I opened the grate slowly, careful of squeaking, and slipped downstairs to the hot bath of steerage: women at the wash basin and Greeks playing cards in the stairwell screaming their bets. Marina wailed. An Albanian boy coughed as women forced syrup down his throat. I would not dwell on these things, I would sew leaping dolphins.
But I did no sewing that night, for there was trouble by our berths. A knot of women had clustered around Gordana and Milenka, pressing them back against wet linens. Gabriella wormed toward me, sobbing. “Irma, they’re cursing the Serbian girls. Mamma’s at the washroom.”
I told her to get Teresa and wedged myself into the angry group. Gordana and Milenka’s proud faces had paled. The crowd looked at them now as townspeople looked at twisted beggars or monster children shown around markets for a few centesimi and easy sport. “What happened?” I demanded.
“Unnatural beasts,” hissed Simona, “I saw them under the ladder, talking .” She made a childish mimic of lovers’ murmuring, then worked her jaw and spat a foamy glob on Gordana’s breast. Milenka wiped it off.
“So what?” I demanded. “They weren’t talking to you.”
“Serbian pigs. They’ll disgrace us all.”
“How? You’ll never see them in America.”
“Irma, is not your problem,” said Gordana quietly.
“They’ve done nothing to you,” I persisted. “And they helped us all in the storm.”
“Irma’s right,” said a new voice, Teresa shouldering into the crowd.
Simona’s face darkened. She pointed to our four berths. “You’re all cozy here, eh? Do you all talk together?” And then she spun to me. “Ha,
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