Running, they caught it. As the trolley began to move, a welcome breeze entered through its open sides, bringing a little relief. We’re packed together like barreled olives, thought Giovanna and suddenly realized that from the very moment of setting foot on land, there had been nothing but people; masses and masses of them everywhere she looked.
Incessantly clanging its bell, the trolley rattled along broad streets, scattering speeding motorcars and courageous pedestrians alike. Everywhere, bustle, constant motion, hither and yon, as though without it meant some expected disaster, with it a form of salvation. Fascinated by so much frenzy exposed, Giovanna remembered what Giovanni had said when he first told her of America beneath the chestnut tree. Now she understood what he had meant, admired so about this new world. No time to dawdle! Here life was a race, its goal expected prosperity. The ones who ran the fastest would have their reward of success—those who lagged behind justified their failure. This very day, the first in her new homeland, she too would give it her contribution, start off correctly. Looking up at Giovanni swaying by a leather strap beside her, Giovanna shouted above the din, “Giovanni—from today, please call me Jane and I will call you John.” Clutching at her hat as the trolley swayed precariously, she gasped, “This is very exciting!”
Her husband’s answering laughter had a boyish ring. Ever since their arrival, she had noticed a youthfulness about him, as though he were happy. Although she had never experienced it herself, she knew that very often happiness accompanied a sense of homecoming and this could be the reason for her husband’s sudden lightness of spirit.
“Jane! Look! There! Our Model T! See it? And there …” Craning to see, nearly falling off the skittish trolley, Jane saw her first Ford and thought, What a funny-looking thing. Hopping about on its big thin wheels so high off the ground it looked like a black baby stork, shuddering as though in the throes of unstoppable hiccups. This was his so famous motorcar? Certainly there were a lot of them bouncing along, chasing others of exact likeness as though they were all friends playing tag.
“All of those? All are ‘Lizzies’?” Jane shouted.
“Yes! ‘Watch the Fords go by,’” shouted John in English, enjoying himself enormously.
“What?”
“That’s our slogan. Never mind, I’ll explain later … get ready, we’re nearly there.” Pushing his way rapidly through the crowd, he called over his shoulder, “We’re here—follow me!” and jumped off, pulling Jane down after him.
“We have to cross the street—watch where you step! They still use horses here!”
He needn’t have worried, for the intense heat had already dried the mounds of manure into a fine powder that swirled in the hot breeze creating its own haze, before settling wherever it wished. Jane, still clutching their jackets, her suitcases, trying to catch her breath, lifted her eyes to follow him and remained rooted where she stood. Nothing could have prepared her for what lay before her.
The kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, the sights, the sheer pageantry of it all. Everywhere pushcarts, peddlers announcing their wares, shouts of “Frutta Fresca,” scissor grinder, wheel and treadle strapped to his back, ringing his bell, the toot of a ragman’s horn, livery horses snorting stomping flies off scabbed legs, the cackle of soup chickens, their flag red cockscombs waving from out of flimsy crates, Puccini cranked from a hurdy-gurdy, its leering monkey chattering angrily plucking at the high collar of its garish costume, a marching lady in navy, adorned with red, hitting a small tambourine with the heel of a black gloved hand, girls in dark pinafores over white dresses their long braids bouncing, singsonging patter playing hopscotch, scruffy boys in knee britches and narrow suspenders clinking variegated marbles within chalked circles, others kicking a can with booted gusto, old men in buttoned under vests and brimmed hats on kitchen chairs brought outside for watching, errant children searching for the ice wagon, and women of all ages in voluminous aprons and tight head cloths gossiping. Suddenly at the sound of a policeman’s whistle, they stopped, peered down, and watched as a burly man in a woolen uniform shaking his truncheon, his official dome-shaped hat wobbling, chased a clutch of jeering boys, waving stolen licorice laces like lariats egging him on.
John, seeing his wife still standing across the street, mesmerized, called to her. “Giovanna—wake up! Come over here!” in his impatience resorting to her Italian name. Still in a daze, circumventing a pushcart heaped high with dented pans and scrap iron, Jane made her way across the teeming cobblestone street. Motioning his wife to follow him, John strode along the busy sidewalk, stopping as he reached a house whose glass transom above its front door displayed a large number nine. Gingerly stepping between the bodies lounging on the stoop, he mounted the steps and, pulling a polished brass ball, rang the bell, and waited for the door to open.
“Johnny! My Johnny! Back so soon! Come here! …” chortled an immense woman as broad as the double doorway she stood in. Reaching out, she pressed him to her as though she were a hungry grizzly, he a brimming honeycomb. They kissed. Finally finished, pushing away from him, her beringed fingers retaining their hold, she examined the woman standing beside him and inquired, “And this? This is the wife?” Receiving an affirmative nod, she observed in a tone of practiced appraisal, “Aha! … Well … a little thin … but strong and good hips for breeding—she’ll do for you!” and she ushered them into her house.
That night, Jane was given a spare bed in the attic room occupied by two pretty women who appeared very cross because they had the sniffles and were therefore not allowed downstairs. They eyed her with suspicion when first introduced, then quickly became friendly when Jane undressed and they saw her sensible underthings. Although the bed seemed to sway as though it too had a sea beneath it, Jane slept. Even the night noises of this strange new place didn’t penetrate enough to wake her completely.
Jane didn’t quite understand that place. The muffled footsteps, the comings and goings, up then down stairs that creaked no matter how cautiously they were crept upon. Nor why Mamma Cantonocci allowed so many of her young nieces not only to live with her, but sit around the big kitchen in the mornings in flimsy kimonos doing absolutely nothing to help. When she questioned John where he had been given a bed and what about all those many nieces, he answered very curtly, “Mamma ‘Nocci’ is a generous relative—she always finds a spare bed for an old friend like me!” By his tone, Jane knew the subject was firmly closed and so turning her curiosity to more pressing things, went in search of her companions of the attic to ask if they thought the wonder of a bath was at all possible in such a busy establishment.