Lives of the Saints (22 page)

‘
Scusi
, do you know where we board?’ My mother had come up behind a pale-khakied
carabiniere
who was leaning against a steel post, one thumb cocked under the strap of his rifle. Without looking over at us he made a vague gesture with his chin.

‘
Di là, signó
’.’

But now his eye had caught my mother’s swollen belly. He turned slowly, then leaned forward finally to pick up my mother’s suitcase.

‘
Venite con me.
’

He led us down the pier, along the length of the great blue hulk parked there. Yard-high white letters spelled out a name along the ship’s flank:
SATURNIA
. But the paint around it was cracked and peeling, splotched here and there with lesions of rust.

‘What class?’ the soldier said.

‘Third.’

We stopped finally near the ship’s stern, at the foot of a gangplank crowded with boarding passengers.

‘So
la signora
is going to America,’ the soldier said.

‘
Sí.
’

The soldier looked my mother up and down a moment, nodding slightly, then shifted the strap of his rifle with a broad slow swing of his elbow.

‘
Beh,
’ he said finally. ‘
Buona fortuna
.’

‘What a precious one he was,’ my mother said, when he had gone. ‘He might at least have offered to carry our luggage up to the deck.’

But it was a long time before we had made our way up the gangplank, the line ahead of us, five or six feet abreast and tangled with bags and hampers and suitcases, moving at a snail’s pace. When we’d finally reached the deck my mother moved to the side of the line, the other passengers making way for her to pass, and collapsed exhausted onto her suitcase. We could see now what was causing the delay: the boarding area had been cordoned into a funnel, at the head of it two tired-eyed young officers in blue uniforms and stiff caps checking documents as passengers filed through a narrow gap in the ropes.

As my mother and I watched, a squabble broke out. While one of the officers inspected the papers of a grizzled old man in a coarse black suit, a muffled cackle arose from the large covered hamper the old man carried under one arm. When the officer removed the hamper’s lid, a chicken popped out its scrawny head.

‘
Scusate, signore
,’ the officer said, in polished Italian, ‘but you’re not allowed to bring live animals aboard without a special permit.’

But the old man did not seem to understand, and hugged the
hamper obstinately to his breast. The officer explained the regulation again, and placing a hand on one of the hamper’s handles he gestured out towards the pier, suggesting the man try to sell the chicken to one of the traders there. But the old man seemed to grow suddenly frightened, as if he’d understood that he would not be allowed to board, and grasping at his hamper he tried to make a dash through the narrow gap in the ropes. The officer tugged sharply on the handle he still held in an effort to restrain him, and the hamper tore free from the old man’s arms. In a moment its contents were flying across the deck—grain, clothes, a loaf of bread, a
provolone
, and the scrawny-headed chicken, which flapped its wings wildly in a vain effort to remain airborne, sending up a flurry of downy feathers, before it crashed finally with a squawk to the deck and began scrambling between the legs of the oncoming passengers, its claws slipping and scraping against the deck’s metal floor. In a moment the deck was in an uproar, the officer and the old man pushing their way furiously through the crowd, women and children shrieking and shrinking back from the chicken’s mad flapping.

But beside me my mother was laughing, a full-bellied laugh that brought tears to her eyes.

‘Look at you,’ she said to me when the chicken had been caught and the commotion was over, ‘always so serious!’ She made a face of exaggerated seriousness, eyes squinty, lips pouting, then burst into laughter again and hugged me towards her, pressing her cheek against mine.

‘
E’ scimunita tua mamma
,’ she said, drawing away and wiping at her tears. ‘Come on, we’d better do our business and find our room, before they throw me off the boat for a madwoman.’

My mother heaved herself up from her suitcase. But as she stooped to pick it up a man in a blue uniform and cap suddenly
towered up like a phantom beyond the cordon behind us and leaned swiftly forward to close a thick hand around the suitcase’s handle.

‘Allow me,’ he said, lifting the suitcase easily over the cordon. For a moment I was afraid my mother’s joke had come true, and we were being thrown off the boat: the man standing over us seemed grim and severe, despite his smile, his hard jaw jutting forward like a threat. But in an instant he had scooped off his cap and seemed suddenly transformed, his severity softened by the flecks of grey in his hair, by the wrinkles which brimmed the corners of his eyes like laughter.

‘My name is Darcangelo,’ he said. ‘Antonio Darcangelo. I’m the third mate. May I carry
la signora’s
luggage to her cabin?’

‘
Grazie
,’ my mother said, hesitant. ‘
Tanto gentile
. But you don’t show the same kindness to all the passengers.’

‘Not all the passengers have quite as heavy a load as you do.’

‘
Beh
, you have a point.’

And a few minutes later, on a nod from Darcangelo, we had passed unhindered through the gap in the ropes. On the other side, Darcangelo checked quickly through my mother’s papers.

‘
Molisana
,’ he said, looking up from her passport. ‘I thought so, when I heard you talking to your son. Though you speak very well for someone from those parts.’

‘You mean for a peasant?’ my mother said.

Darcangelo blushed.

‘
Scusi
, I only meant—you see I know very well the Italian they speak there. I come from Termoli.’

‘Ah, Termoli,’ my mother said smiling. ‘You have some nice beaches there, I hear.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Darcangelo said quickly, but then added, recovering his calm, ‘that is, if you like beaches. Actually, when I left home I was so sick of the sea that I wanted to get as far away
from it as possible. So I travelled all the way across the country, and before I knew it, there was the sea again. I couldn’t get away from it. It was my fate, I decided.’

Darcangelo glanced at my mother’s ticket.

‘Room 409?’ he said, surprised. ‘But that’s third class.’

‘We were told this was the proper boarding place for third class,’ my mother said.

‘Well, yes—but in your condition. Third class is worse than a hospital. You’ll be with half a dozen strangers and their screaming children. And you’ll have to share a bathroom with half the ship.’

‘That’s better than just sticking your backside over the rails,’ my mother said.

For a second time Darcangelo blushed; but finally he let out a short laugh, as if he were suddenly amused by his own embarrassment.

‘
Beh
, we can’t stand here holding up traffic all day,’ he said, switching into dialect. ‘I’ll show you your room.’ But halfway down a stairwell that led into the ship, Darcangelo stopped.

‘You know, I’ve just had an idea. We might have an extra cabin in second class. Two beds, one for each of you. And a private bathroom.’

‘It’s kind of you to be concerned,’ my mother said, ‘but I really can’t afford that kind of luxury—’

‘Oh, there’s no question of cost. You see, the captain usually keeps a room open in second class for—well, let’s say a friend. But I don’t think his friend will be coming aboard this trip. Come, follow me.’

Back on deck Darcangelo led us down a wide aisle flanked with grey doors and small curtained windows, then up a rusty stairwell which led to an upper deck. The aisle here, lined with a long row of dirty white boats that hung in the air like gulls,
was bustling with uniformed crew members. Darcangelo led us towards the bow, and knocked at a door on which ‘
Capitano
’ was stencilled in black.

‘
Avanti.
’

The room we stepped into was windowless and small and dim, the walls covered in dark wood panelling and the floor in thick brown carpeting. Here and there the panelling had warped away from the walls in long, undulating waves, giving the room a dizzying feeling of motion. On one wall, above a shelf of books and a wooden model of an old sailing ship, hung three large clocks, each showing a different hour.

Behind a huge wooden desk sat a balding, greying man with wind-burnt skin and heavy jowls, a large chart spread out before him. He squinted as we came in, as if the sudden light had caused him discomfort, then brought a hand up to rub the back of his neck. He wore the same blue uniform as Darcangelo; but a double row of gold buttons ran down the front of his jacket, and four gold stripes circled his cuffs to Darcangelo’s two.

‘What is it?’ He surveyed my mother and me with narrowed eyes, as if we might be stowaways Darcangelo had found in the hold, among the olives and
provolone
.

‘Captain,’ Darcangelo said, looking not at the captain but at a point somewhere above his head, ‘this good woman has tickets for third class. I thought, however, that in her condition she might do with a little privacy. I’ve suggested we put her in 213.’

‘Eh? 213? But my wife—’ But some thought made him suddenly pensive. He leaned back in his chair and brought a hand up to rub his grizzled chin. ‘Hmm. Yes, Darcangelo, I see your point. What room are you in now, Mrs.—?’

‘Innocente. Room 409. I appreciate all this trouble, captain, but I’m sure I could manage—’

‘409? That’s below the water line. It’s an inferno down there. Too close to the boilers.
La signora
is travelling alone?’

‘As you can see I’m travelling with my son.’

‘Yes, yes, I was referring of course to your husband.’

‘My husband is waiting for me on the other side. He’s been in Canada a few years now.’

‘Oh?’ The captain’s eyes shifted to my mother’s belly. ‘But you’ve seen him recently?’

‘He comes and goes.’

‘Yes. I see. And he knows, I take it, about the little surprise you’re bringing with you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ my mother said, smiling. ‘But I’m sure it was a surprise.’

The captain cleared his throat.

‘How long, ah, Mrs. Innocente, before the baby is due?’

‘Five weeks, six—it’s hard to say. With Vittorio I was three weeks late. Maybe this time I’ll be three weeks early. I hope you have a midwife on board. Or a good doctor.’

‘Eh? Oh yes, we have a doctor all right. Yes.’ The captain stroked his chin, distracted; but then he leaned forward again, suddenly peremptory.

‘All right, Darcangelo, give them 213, the key is with the steward.’ He turned back to his chart with an air of dismissal. ‘Good day, Mrs. Innocente, and a pleasant trip. Officer Darcangelo will be glad to help you with anything you need.’

Room 213 was small and tidy, a strong perfume smell overlaying a faint whiff of mould and rot. The furnishings—a two-tiered bunk up against the inside wall, two slender-framed armchairs with flowered cushions, a round coffee table with an old brown map veneered over its top, the countries and continents all distorted from the shapes
la maestra
had taught us—were bolted to the floor, the bolts and clamps plainly visible above the floor’s grey carpet, as if they had been added as an afterthought. On one wall hung a heavy-framed painting of St. Christopher crossing the river, the baby Jesus sitting placidly on his shoulder, a gold sceptre in one hand and a small globe of bright blue and green in the other.

In the bathroom, bright porcelain and chrome gleamed under the white clarity of an electric light. A chain above the
toilet sent a rush of water swirling into the toilet’s bowl, and silver taps over the sink and tub brought hot and cold water gurgling down from the faucets at a turn.

‘Don’t worry,’ my mother said, ‘for the next two weeks you’ll get your fill of water.
Acqua, acqua, dappertutto
. When you get to America you won’t want to see another drop of water for a hundred years.’

My mother closed herself into the bathroom to wash and change.

‘When I’m through we’ll go upstairs to watch when the ship leaves.’

On the far wall of the cabin two curtained portholes looked over the sea. By standing on one of the armchairs and leaning over its back I was able to peer out one of them into the bay. From here the sea, about a dozen feet below me, looked not blue but murky green. Out on the bay a large black ship was just heaving into port, a crowd of small dinghies bobbing precariously in its wake.

But someone pounded on our door now, hard and frantic.

‘
Apri! Senti
! Open the door, I know you’re in there!’

It was a woman’s voice, angry and shrill. My mother came out of the bathroom in her slip, wiping her face on a towel.

‘
Ma chi è questa
? There must be some mistake.’ More pounding.

‘Open up, I know who you are! Open so I can see your face! So I can see the face of a whore!’

‘This woman is mad,’ my mother said, paling; but she went to the door and drew it open.

In the doorway, blocking it like a mountain face, stood a short older woman of generous proportions whose too-tight dress seemed ready to burst with the pressure of its owner’s trembling, red-faced anger. But as my mother drew the door
fully open, the blood seemed to drain away suddenly from the woman’s cheeks.

‘
Madonna
!’ she cried, clapping her hands together like a penitent. ‘She’s pregnant! My God, it’s come to this!’ Then, catching sight of me hovering near my mother’s side, her eyelids drooped as if she were about to collapse.

‘Another one! God help me!’ And pushing past my mother and me she lunged across the room and fell heavily into an armchair, her chest heaving.

‘Two children, I never imagined, not in my worst dreams. And four at home who never see his face!’

‘
Scusi
,’ my mother said slowly. She shifted the strap of her slip and crossed her arms over her chest, hugging her shoulders protectively. ‘
Ma chi è Lei
?’