“I want my papers.” Her voice sounded strong and steady in spite of the fear that rushed up her spine.
He replied, but she couldn’t understand him, so when she didn’t respond in kind, he slipped his arm lightly about her shoulders and guided her toward a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened the cabinet and pulled out her papers. As he laid them on top of the cabinet, he said something else. Frustrated, she frowned and reached for them.
He caught her fingers in his.
She pulled away and averted her eyes, not wanting to remember the inspector’s smooth skin and perfectly trimmed beard, his dark eyes. She wanted to erase the details of his face from her mind and forget the smell of witch hazel lingering on his skin from his aftershave.
“I take those.” She pulled her hand from his and reached for the papers.
“Not so fast. I haven’t decided if I should let you go.” He slid his arm around her middle, ran his free hand across her cheek, and trailed his fingers down her neck and across her bosom.
She shifted her face to a careful blank expression. This was his price, and she’d all but offered it to him. It was a small sacrifice for gaining what she wanted, and she wanted it too badly to refuse. But she would not give without securing what she needed. “First”—she shoved the paper in his face—“you sign paper.”
He grinned at her canniness, showing a row of perfect teeth, then reached for a pen and, with a flourish, signed the document and a certificate that allowed her admittance. After, he pulled her close and crushed his mouth against hers. His hands found the curve of her breasts and wandered lower until he’d lifted her skirts.
When his hands touched her bared skin, she focused on the ceiling and replayed the mantra in her head she knew to be true: her freedom was everything and she would have it. Her life would begin again, become all she wanted it to be, and this would be nothing but a distant memory, like those of her father. A dirty little stepping-stone to a better life. She had always done what she must, without looking back, and she would do it again. This moment didn’t matter; it was a tiny dot on the long, moving timeline of her life.
She burrowed inside herself, evoking the fortress she’d created, born of pain so many years ago. She’d been good at hiding there, in a place of otherness where the world around her faded until it didn’t exist and she was safe. Her body wasn’t her own but a mere vessel of the earth, and she hovered somewhere above it, weightless.
As the inspector moved, he whispered something in her ear, and for once, she was glad she didn’t know more English. He couldn’t break her; he wouldn’t live in her mind after the deed was finished. After he was finished, he could go to hell.
Some minutes later, she righted herself, smoothed her hair, and choked out a string of slurs she knew he wouldn’t understand. Anger was better than grief—or fear—and she allowed herself to fill to the brim with it, to burn with the heat of a thousand Italian suns. This worm of a man was pathetic and now held nothing over her. She had the signature she needed.
“I go now.” It wasn’t a question.
As she turned toward the door, he grabbed her arm. “If I hear about you whoring in our fine country, I’ll have you arrested. Is that clear? It’s illegal, and deportation would be next.”
She bit back the urge to spit in his face.
“Do you understand!”
“Sì.”
“Well then”—he smiled—“welcome to America.”
19
Shoving away the image of the inspector’s brown eyes, the curl of his lip as he leered at her, Francesca descended the staircase leading to freedom. Freedom. After the months of planning and the long weeks of travel and being marooned on this godforsaken island, she could at last move on to a life of her own.
The baggage room on the bottom floor was nearly as crowded as the registry room. People milled about, bought train tickets for the next leg of their journey, exchanged their foreign currency into American dollars. Between two large pillars, a crowd of American citizens waited for their loved ones to arrive, hope and excitement etched on their faces. Some held up signs with names scrawled across them. Paul Nowak. Isabella Ferrini. Edgar Stravinski. A woman rushed past Francesca squealing and fell into another woman’s arms. They embraced and laughed and cried. A gentleman greeted a woman and children stoically with only a nod to welcome them to their new country. Near them, two lovers kissed as if the world might end at any moment. They were all a rainbow of emotions, colors, and sizes, and she found herself sorting through the crowd to find the faces that looked most like hers.
As another young Sicilian woman leapt into her brother’s arms, Francesca felt a rush of regret. She would never have this sort of reunion. Her thoughts turned to Maria’s shriveled body, and then again to the smell of the inspector’s breath that lingered in her memory. She squeezed her eyes closed. It had been worth it. Even with the inspector’s greedy pawing and the mockery in his eyes, she’d never regret the deed, just as she would never regret what she’d given up to be here, no matter how precious. Dear Sister Alberta and her gentle ways, the craggy hills of home that smelled of limestone, the golden stretches of sand, and the well-worn path through the orange grove. It was all in the past now. She felt for the medallion at her neck and kissed it, giving thanks to the Madonna for her strength. She knew the Virgin Mother would forgive all Francesca had given away—and what she’d taken to survive—even if Sister Alberta’s God wouldn’t.
In spite of the cold, she headed outdoors to wait for Alma on a bench by the dock. She thought of Alma’s and Mr. Lancaster’s concern for her welfare, perfect strangers who were kind when they didn’t have to be. It was a reminder of the good in the world, and one for which she was grateful in that moment. She might have sacrificed a lot, but she’d also gained a new friend—and an employer—without even setting foot in the city. That was more than she could have hoped for. She felt her mood lighten and began to daydream about what the Lancasters’ house would be like. Marble fountains and rich draperies, fine music in the evenings, and a kitchen bigger than anything she’d ever seen.
As the sun slid toward the horizon, the air turned cold as a blade. Her breath formed a cloud that hovered a moment until a breeze carried it away. Shivering, she peered at the imposing building she’d grown to despise. Good riddance. If she never had to lay eyes on it again, it would be too soon.
When her hands felt like blocks of ice, Alma—at last—joined her at the dock.
“You’re here!” Francesca leapt to her feet.
“Let’s get out of here, shall we!” Alma said.