“No, the English Channel,” said her husband and hurried on.
Oh, dear! She always knew she should have paid more attention in Sister Bertine’s geography class. Still, if she knew everything, Giovanni wouldn’t need to correct her as often, so, as he seemed to welcome every opportunity to do so, it could be argued that she was actually doing him a favor. Very satisfied with this solution to her new status of slightly backward wife, she hurried after him. If only he would stop, just for a minute, that’s all she needed to catch her breath. But he didn’t, and suddenly she felt like crying. If she allowed that to happen, tears would blind her, she would really lose sight of him, and he would never forgive her and, lost, all alone, wandering dank, dark alleys, some sinister white slaver would find her, knock her over the head, sell her to a Chinaman in a haze-filled opium den! Slightly dazed by her vision of Oriental lust, Giovanna shook her head to clear it, pinned her hat back from where it had wobbled to, squared her shoulders, mustered up her last remaining strength, and, determined not to sway even if it killed her, keeping his bobbing derby fixed in her sights, followed it through the milling crowds along the quay, catching up just as Giovanni was opening a weathered door to an establishment that looked to have withstood years of lashing storms.
“Oh, there you are. Good.” Giovanni acknowledged his wife’s presence and, stepping inside, motioned her to follow. The narrow hall smelled of entrenched mildew. In a circle of orange light, burly men in thick wool, light-eyed as though the glare of many seas had bleached their irises, played frayed cards from thickened hands. The smell of their cheap wine and black tobacco mingled with the one of the hall.
“Madame, I require a room. I am John Ricassoli, and this is my wife,” her husband said in the most atrocious imitation of French Giovanna had ever heard. But the wizened woman behind the desk, her nostrils sprouting nearly as much hair as her bearded customers in the bar, seemed to understand. Nodding, she plucked a large key from its nail and, pointing, indicated that their room was directly over her head. Giovanna followed her husband up the threadbare stairs into a room equally run-down but, thankfully, clean.
“We are lucky. That crone may look like a witch, but she is one of the very few who don’t rob immigrants—especially Italians, not even Jews.” Hanging his coat and vest over the back of the only chair, he removed his collar and cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, unwrapped their soap and towel, poured water from the cracked pitcher into its chipped bowl, and washed. No need to shave—he would do that in the morning.
Giovanna hung her jacket on the newel post of the double bed, wondering if she too could wash, perhaps even change into a clean shirtwaist. Giovanni emptied his wash water into the slop pail, informed her that he had left enough in the pitcher for her, not to forget that when she was through, to wipe the soap dry before rewrapping it or it would become gelatinous. Then he slipped down his suspenders, stripped off his shirt, pulled a fresh one from his bag, unbuttoned his trousers, smoothed down its tail, re-dressed, and, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, said that a hot meal could be had downstairs—she needed to hurry before it was all gone and shouldn’t forget to lock their door—then handed her the key before leaving. Giovanna picked up his shirt from where he had flung it, not certain if there was time to launder it or if she needed to wait until they were aboard the ship. Deciding not to take the time to change, she washed, dried the soap as instructed, repinned her hair, and, anxious to escape the lingering picture of Giovanni’s naked torso, hastened from the room, locking the door securely before rushing downstairs.
Leek and potatoes, thick and hot. Never had anything tasted so truly wonderful. Her exhausted body welcomed that soup as though it was life-giving and, in a way, it was. After two whole bowls, she felt deliciously drowsy. Smiling, Giovanni reached across the low table, lifted her drooping chin. “Giovanna—you’re falling asleep. Go, go up to bed.”
The seagulls’ cries woke her. To be able to stretch out, sleep in a bed after such a very long time, had been a little like dying pleasantly. Stretching, she sighed at the thought of having to leave such comfort.
“Giovanna …”
Startled, she sat up, surprised someone was in the room, then realized it was Giovanni, fully dressed.
“I am going out to buy provisions. We need vinegar for disinfectant and medicinal purposes and extra tobacco for bribes, always important to have if it becomes necessary. I will also try to find some lemons—although they are very expensive, especially on the docks, but at least one that you can suck on when you become seasick. Get dressed, have your breakfast—I’ve paid for it in advance. Don’t forget to refill the water. Have everything done, be ready to leave when I return. We sail on the afternoon tide.” And he left.
His manner seemed even more brisk than usual. Giovanna wondered if he might be angry. Trying to think back, she couldn’t find a reason. All she had done was sleep through the night and … here her thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. Oh! Perhaps he had expected … ? This part of her impulsive plea to be taken to America had never actually entered her mind. Being married had meant freedom, leaving, embarking on a great adventure, whatever physical act required endurance necessary for that, automatic. Yet the physical act required by marriage had never been a part of that. Now, she had spent a night in bed with a man who had the right to take what belonged to him, and it shocked her that she had not thought of this before. Last night mutual exhaustion had saved her. From what exactly, she wasn’t completely certain but felt saved from it nevertheless. Still, in all fairness, she had to acknowledge that Giovanni had the just right to be annoyed. He had made her his wife and she had a debt to pay, should be ready, willing to do whatever he might demand of her. A bargain was a bargain. Bags packed and strapped, her hat in place, water bottles filled, she was ready when her husband returned.
Putting a fat lemon into her hand as though it were a jewel, he said, “Here. Keep it safe. Don’t let others see it or they will steal it. Now, we go!”
They boarded the ship by twos. Like Noah’s ark, thought Giovanna, surprised she would conjure up an image from the Bible at such a momentous moment. But Teresa would have been pleased she was capable of doing so. Unconsciously fingering the small St. Benedictine medal where she had sewn it into the lining of her jacket pocket, Giovanna entered the cavernous bowels of the great ship that would carry her to the Promised Land.
3