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Dream of the Immigrant By 1929 many people
of Francesco’s village of Linguaglossa, in Sicily, had emigrated to find
work, abandoning all hope of ever again seeing the land of their birth.
Francesco was more fortunate than his paesani.
The village had awarded him a job as forestale
of the sacred pine forest covering Etna’s upper slopes. He loved the volcano
for its majesty and power; it was his soul, his spirit. Had he not seen its
smoky crater every day he would not have felt alive. As a forestale Francesco put out fires,
cleared dead wood, built firewalls, and protected the game. Francesco became
famous for his vigor and courage and ability to withstand extremes of heat
and cold. Short, but with broad shoulders and thick arms, he commanded
respect. Although he had a quick temper, his eyes revealed the gentilezza of a noble spirit. A man of
few words, he loved the solitude of the mountain and hunting with his cirneco, a lean and agile dog of
ancient lineage that he called “Mongibello,” the beautiful mountain, in honor
of Etna. One day he was
pruning vines on his plot of land outside the village when his cousin Beppe
arrived. A dapper young man with thick pomaded hair, Beppe shunned rustic
clothes for fashionable ones. Avoiding physical labor at all costs, he spent
much of his time in idleness at the cafe. When Beppe boasted
that he was emigrating to America, Francesco said he was sorry to see him go.
Despite their differences, Francesco felt a true kinship with Beppe.
Sometimes Francesco felt over-shadowed at the way Beppe could manipulate
words and gain people’s attention, but he admired his cousin’s quick
intelligence. “Come with me,” Beppe
added, smiling. “But I have work. I
am a forestale. He tapped his chest
with the handle of the knife he was using to prune the vines. “And if you lose your
job?” “The people of the
village bought the pineta with
their sweat and blood. They will never sell it, and they will always need a forestale.” “Ah, but one day the
mountain could erupt and destroy everything, including the forest.” Beppe
arched his eyebrow. “Then you will have nothing but ashes and soot and the
lava that will serve as your tomb.” Although Francesco
liked to think that Etna would never betray him, he knew that such an eruption
was possible. Six years before, in 1923, the lava arrived at the edge of the
village. Only the intercession of Saint Egidio stopped it. And just one year
ago a lava flow completely buried the village of Mascali. After Beppe left,
Francesco sat on one of the terrace steps to eat his lunch. Brooding, he
sipped the wine made from his own vineyards. Ordinarily, the wine, strong as
the fire of Etna, pleased him, but today the distinctive mineral taste
offended his tongue and he spit it out. Smoking a cigar, he studied Etna.
Instead of offering him wisdom, the mountain seemed remote and unfathomable.
Throwing down the butt of his cigar where the wine had moistened the earth,
he crushed it with his heel. For a few days he
worked hard to forget Beppe’s troublesome words. He would have liked to talk
to his wife Mariuzza about it but was ashamed of the uncertainty he now felt.
Usually, the sight of his sons, Ninu and Turi, ages four and six, revived him
after a long day on the slopes, but since his conversation with Beppe their
chatter annoyed him. He wondered if Beppe was right, but he regarded changing
his mind as a sign of weakness, unmanly. After a few days he
ventured to the cafe he had avoided so as not to see Beppe. Relieved to
discover that Beppe wasn’t there, he quietly ate a lemon ice while listening
to his friends and chided himself for being ill-at-ease. Just as he was
leaving the cafe, Beppe called out to him, hooked his arm through his and
asked if he had reconsidered his offer. “I have decided to stay.” Beppe scoffed: “If
you don’t want a better life, you should at least want one for your sons.” “What is good enough
for me is good enough for them,” Francesco grumbled. “You know the proverb,
‘who leaves the old road for the new, the troubles you don’t go seeking,
that’s where they find you’.” The proverb his father had often told him
strengthened his resolve. “Why tempt fate?” “To hell with fate.”
Beppe spit in the gutter. “Fate is what you make it. A true man doesn’t
accept what is handed down to him. He shapes it. Fate is like a woman. You
either subdue it, or it controls you.” Unable to think of a
retort, Francesco felt thick headed and defense-less so he remained silent. Beppe ran his thumb
along his thin mustache. “If you stay, you’ll
be left with the women and children. People will wonder if you are a man.” Francesco sank his
fingers into Beppe’s shoulder. “On the Madonna’s
name and my honor, if you weren’t my friend I would make you regret those
words.” “And if you weren’t
my friend and blood relative, I would not tell you the truth.” Beppe stared
into Francesco’s eyes, wetting his dry lips with his tongue. As Beppe walked away,
Francesco heard laughter. His compari
were already laughing at him. Wheeling around, he glared at the men, but they
were rising, preparing to leave, seemingly unaware of him. When he arrived home
Mariuzza was already asleep. Before getting into bed, he looked at Ninu and
Turi, their dark faces glistening in Etna’s glow. Maybe Beppe was right.
Though being a forestale was
honorable work, he should want more for his sons. Snuggling next to
him, Mariuzza sought his hand, clasped it and drew it to her breast as she
slept. He remained rigid, staring at Etna. The volcano had been active for
several weeks. Sparks shot into the night, and he could smell a trace of
sulfur. “What is wrong?”
Mariuzza asked. “It’s nothing. Go to
sleep,” he said, carressing her hair. In that instant he loved her more
intensely than ever. That night he drew Mariuzza to him, molded his body to
her hip that was beginning to thicken in a way that pleased him, and kept his
hand between the warmth of her thighs. As the days passed
Francesco’s resolve to remain in Sicily began to erode and he fantasized of a
new life. Mariuzza would not have to work in the fields, and always there
would be food, in winter as well as summer. Once he had made his fortune he
would return to the village, buy a large tract of land where he would plant
vineyards and orchards and build a fine house, with a bedroom for each of his
children. The more he thought of the venture, the more it appealed to him.
People would respect him not only for his strength and courage, but also for
his cunning and success. But sometimes, in the midst of these reveries, a
sharp stab of fear of leaving his beloved Etna and family pierced him. One evening while
Mariuzza crocheted he paced about the kitchen. The black lava walls of his
home that had once given him comfort now seemed as narrow as a coffin, as
black as death. He waited until Ninu and Turi were playing outside, then,
summoning his courage, he pronounced that he was leaving for America. “So that is it.”
Mariuzza caught her breath. Her needles stopped clicking, then resumed. “I am as good as any
other man. Why should we live like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand,
“when we could become rich.” “This is not you
speaking, but Beppe. He is not to be trusted.” Once Beppe had
courted Mariuzza, but she had rejected him and her family would never allow
her to marry an idler. She had always shown a dislike for Beppe. All that was
in the past and it was better not to dwell on such matters. “I speak for myself.”
“ ‘Where there are riches there is pain,’ ” Mariuzza quoted the proverb. Setting
her needles on the table, she clasped his hands. “Normally I would never stop
you but this time I am afraid. I beg you to stay.” Fearing he would lose his
resolve, he refused to discuss his decision. “Then at least go to
Syracuse,” she said, referring to the town in upstate New York where
relatives and other people from their village had settled. “At least there
you know people who will help you.” “Mariuzza, what do
you take me for, a fool or a child?” “Promise me, or I
will not sleep another night as long as you are gone.” “All right, then. I
promise. But enough talk.” He spoke gruffly, but the promise made him feel
cared for and safe. That night he fell
asleep staring at the red glow of the crater. He was climbing the slopes of
Etna in murky light. From the pine forest he heard eerie wails from souls who
had been imprisoned in the trees and were seeking release. The sulfurous air
grew colder and seared his lungs. He passed along a desert of black lava
sand. A figure dressed in a black robe walked towards him, kicking up swirls
of dust. Closing his eyes, he
said a prayer to the black Madonna. The figure disappeared. Francesco kept
walking towards the breaking dawn. Closer to the mountain’s summit he could
see to the distant valleys, all the way to the ocean that would carry him far
away from his native land. His breathing labored, Francesco inhaled deeply,
but his lungs wheezed. His feet burned on the lava rocks that had not cooled
since the times of ancient eruptions. At the lip of the crater, he looked
down and felt himself being drawn towards the churning liquid fire. The force
grew stronger, beyond his control. He leaped into the cone, plummeting
towards the magma which exploded and hurled him high above the crater into
black and pitiless space. The voyage was
brutal. People were packed in steerage. Suffocated by the stench and the
bodies jammed together, Francesco refused to sleep below. He forced himself
to stay awake, except for an hour or two when exhaustion overcame him and he
slept profoundly on a deck chair. Already he longed for Etna, its smoky crater,
and for Mariuzza and the boys. He could barely eat. “You will feel better
once we are on land, away from the rest of these people,” Beppe said. He looked the same as
he did before the voyage. His hair was still slick and his clothes unrumpled. “It is not their
fault. The ship’s owners take their money and allow them to be treated worse
than animals.” “They have the
mentality of beasts and will never be more than what they are. Forget about
them. Listen,” Beppe said, conspiratorially, glancing about and then leaning
over the railing so the wind would muffle his words. His voice rising and
falling with the waves like the rhythm of an incantation, Beppe explained he
heard that in Peru the Spanish conquistadores had defeated the Indians, took
their gold, and hid it. The gold had never been found and the people said the
mountains were rich with it. “Our destiny is there,” Beppe said, his eyes
sparkling. “I promised Mariuzza
I would go where we have paisani.” “Ah, a promise to a
woman,” Beppe said, his voice mocking. “Not any woman.
Mariuzza. My wife.” “A woman is a woman.
Wife or not. A man is a man.” “Don’t push me too
far, Beppe. I promised Mariuzza, on my honor.” “What is more
honorable, to keep a promise, or a man’s right to be the man he could be?” “Why by the blood of
Christ come all this way and then leave again for another land even farther
away?” He had little money left, and the cost of another voyage would leave
him penniless. “Sometimes to get
ahead you have to be open to the whims of fortune.” His voice low and
melodious, Beppe described Peru as a land of sun and warmth, with mountains
like his beloved Etna. “Is that true?”
Francesco brightened. A vision of the mountain flashed before him. “Trust me,” Beppe
said. “They say Lima is the City of Kings.” The second stage of
the voyage passed like a dream. Francesco lost track of time, but his heart
grew resolute. He began to envision the gold he would find, the wealth he
would send home to Mariuzza and the boys. When they finally landed in port of
Callao the grey clouds hung low, casting a pall over the arid valley of sand
interspersed with green islands. They walked to Lima
where they discovered an ancient dusty city filled with the chaos of
carriages and burros. In the distance, through the mist, they could see the
jagged mountains piercing the sky. The sight invigorated Francesco, renewed
his spirit. The old section was splendid, with its mansions of carved wooden
balconies and grilled windows, the central plaza with the colonial buildings,
cathedral, and the Palace of the Viceroy. Francesco and Beppe walked about
the plaza, looking into the elegant shops selling flowers and chocolate,
clothing, and jewelry made of gold and silver. Surely there must be large
deposits of precious metals. Beppe was right. With patience and good fortune
a man could become rich. Beppe immediately
found a bar to celebrate their arrival. Francesco didn’t want to squander his
money, but Beppe insisted. They sat at an outdoor table and ordered wine.
Spanish was close enough to Sicilian so they could make themselves
understood. The streets were thronged with well dressed people wearing the
latest European fashions and Indians carrying loads on their backs or leading
burros. “We must find work.”
Francesco felt desperate. “All in good time.”
Beppe gazed at the elegant women. Francesco slammed his
glass on the table, spilling some wine. “I’ve left my home and family. I have
hardly a soldo left, and you want
to sit and enjoy yourself in the cafe.” Beppe shrugged,
smiled, and sipped his wine. They found a small
airless room crammed with other immigrants. Some of them were Italians, and
he heard one man say that there was more poverty here than in Italy. That
night he slept with the acrid smell of a man’s feet close to his nostrils.
When he awoke, feeling weak and nauseated, he swore never again to spend
another night confined. The next morning
Beppe headed for the Plaza where he could meet people who knew the situation
in Lima. Francesco thought about asking for work in one of the shops, but he
felt awkward and didn’t know what he could do in such places so he left the
center of the city towards the outskirts to find work. Beyond the grandeur of
the main square and boulevards, Francesco found the city squalid and
depressing. The streets of one storey adobe houses were narrow and sinister.
The dark faces of the Indians and Mestizos seemed sullen, their eyes, dull
with centuries of defeat, hostile to yet another invader. Already he missed
his village, the people chatting on their stoops as the children played, the
sight of the church steeple at the end of the lane, and always, towering
Etna. Along the way he
stopped to ask people, “lavoro, lavoro,”
but they shook their heads or shrugged. Some pointed in one direction or
another. Anxiously following their lead, he found more streets and no
businesses and realized that they were merely dismissing him. When he
returned to his room, he discovered that Beppe had not tried to find work. “Why not?” Francesco
dug his hands in his pockets to control his anger. “Because I don’t plan
to take the first job that comes along like every other morto di fame and work like a beast of burden.” “And if I don’t find
work soon I’ll be dead from hunger,” Francesco said. “Don’t worry yourself
about it.” Flicking his hand to dismiss Francesco’s fear, Beppe casually
asked if Francesco wanted to go for a drink. “No. And tonight I
don’t go back to the room.” “Do whatever suits
you best.” Beppe shrugged and left. Francesco was happy
to be rid of Beppe. He found a bench in a nearby park and slept fitfully,
thinking of Mariuzza and his broken promise to her. Already he regretted not
having gone to the place where other Linguaglossesi
had settled. He would have preferred being regarded as a peasant by his
countrymen instead of wandering the streets like a vagrant. For several days he
awakened early and set out towards the outskirts of town. The strong sweet
smell of tobacco led him to a cigarette factory. When he asked for work, the
foreman shook his head and closed the door. He tried a tannery where he
secretly hoped he would not find work because of the stench, a candle factory,
a shoe factory, but everywhere men were being let go. Wandering about the
city, he found a curb market where Indians wearing shawls and round hats sold
their wares—beans two feet long, bread, red peppers, clay pots and vases.
With his dwindling money he bought some bread and grapes and alligator pears
and ate them at a small plaza with a fountain beneath a tree. His lips were
coated with dust and the bread stuck to the roof of his mouth so he drank
from a spigot. The water tasted foul, like sulphur. Tired and dispirited,
Francesco trudged back to the center of the city. Perhaps he shouldn’t have
acted so hastily with Beppe, who was resourceful and sure to find a way to
make money. Sitting on a bench in the Plaza de Armas, facing the cathedral
and the ornate palace of the Archbishop, he waited for Beppe, who did not
appear. To pass the time and perhaps say a prayer, he decided to enter the
cathedral. The edifice was immense, but what struck Francesco most was the
glass casket containing the mummified remains of Captain General Don
Francisco Pizarro, who, as the inscription on the plaque noted, was conqueror
of Peru and founder of the City of Lima. Seeing the small dessicated body,
Francesco thought, ‘so came the conqueror with my name who died here.’ Making
the sign of the cross, he asked the Virgin Mary to protect him from danger. Francesco again slept
on a park bench. The cold damp air felt oppressive. Throughout the night he
coughed and found it hard to breathe. The next day he wandered about the
city. He had lost his appetite and his legs felt as heavy as tree stumps. His
breathing became more labored and his lungs wheezed. After walking a short distance
he was forced to sit down and rest. Chilly and feverish, he wandered in a
delirium through narrow streets and along roads bordering lush irrigated
fields. Mule carts laden with hay, grain and fruit passed him by, showering
him with dust and filling his lungs, provoking spasms of coughing. Towards evening,
heading back to the center of Lima, he stopped to look in a bakery window. An
image startled him—a stooped man in ragged clothes grey with dust, with
hollow eyes that had lost their luster and hope. The image was a reflection
of himself. Dogs barked at him in
the twilight. He saw a dun colored blur running towards him. “Mongibello,”
he called out, elated. The dog, a mongrel with a black spot over one eye,
stopped near him. Barking and charging towards him, the pariah dog stopped as
Francesco was about to kick it, lifted its leg, wet Francesco’s battered
shoes, then trotted off. He collapsed beneath
a tree located next to a sidewalk in a square where he sat impassively like
the Indians who waited for someone to buy their meagre wares. His head burned
and swirled. Shivering, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. When he awoke, he
found a coin in his lap. ‘This is what I have
come to, a beggar, un disgraziato,’
he thought. In Sicily he would have died before allowing this to happen to
him. His anger gave him
renewed vigor. At the Plaza he saw Beppe talking to another man with an air
of conspiracy. When Beppe noticed him he left the other fellow. “What’s wrong with
you?” Beppe asked. “Forget about that.
Have you found any work for us.” “I have found that
this is not the place for me. This land is cursed.” Beppe smoothed down his
mustache. “What about the
gold?” Francesco said, his teeth chattering. “Not here, maybe in
the mountains, too far away. Besides, no one knows if it really exists.” “Now what in God’s
name are we to do?” “Return to the port
and find a ship. Perhaps go to Australia.” “If I follow you to
one more God-forsaken place, it will kill me. And before that happens, I will
kill you.” A spasm clutched his stomach. “I still have a dream
of becoming rich, and I will follow it, with or without you.” “Your dream is made
of mud and shit,” Francesco answered, trembling now more from rage than
fever. Beppe glared at him.
“You are a peasant like all the others, just as I always knew. I could never
understand why Mariuzza chose you,” he said, his voice full of disdain. “So it’s Mariuzza you
always wanted.” “I have little
respect for a woman who prefers a man without ambition to one of vision. I
knew that on your own you would become the pitiful creature you are. If
Mariuzza could see you now she would know that she and her family were fools
to reject me for you.” “Bastardo. I should kill you.” Francesco grabbed Beppe’s collar.
Overcome with a fit of coughing he let go of Beppe and held his side. “And to think, I took
pity on you.” “Pity,” Francesco
yelled, enraged. “This is what I think of your pity.” He spat on the
sidewalk and noticed his spittle tinged with red. Glaring at him, Beppe
dug his hands into his trouser pockets and walked away without looking back.
As Beppe disappeared into the twilight, Francesco heard a high-pitched voice
shout three times, “ahi, ahi, ahi,” and he remembered the proverb, “three
times I tell you, who falls into poverty loses his friend.” Humiliated and
wounded by Beppe’s betrayal he felt ancient and broken. Now he knew why
Mariuzza did not trust Beppe. If he had only known he would not have been so
stupid. His own pride and Beppe’s cunning had reduced him to this state. He
was a fool to have been beguiled by Beppe and follow him to this God-forsaken
country. In his envy Beppe had brought him here to ruin him, to separate him
from Mariuzza and destroy the harmony of their life. His body ached, his
bones were ready to snap. Sweating and trembling, he stumbled to the
fountain and drank so much water he feared his stomach would burst. A short
time later he rushed behind a bush and vomited, the liquid dark with bile,
but he felt better. Passing a warehouse he saw some Indians loading large
bags of goods onto mules. One of the beasts kept balking. Francesco grabbed
the halter and petted the animal, whose warmth and smell and breath comforted
him. The animal quieted down. Gesticulating, Francesco made it known to the
foreman, a stern looking Spaniard who watched every movement of the loaders,
that he wanted work. The foreman nodded, and Francesco helped to load the
bundles. When they were
finished, the foreman pointed towards the sierras. Maybe if he could travel
to the mountains he could find where the Indians had hidden the treasure or
mine gold himself. He would show Beppe that he could be a man without him,
that Mariuzza had chosen wisely. Then he could return to Sicily, where he
would never again leave the peace of his village, the love of his family, and
his job as forestale. And never
again would he abandon his beloved mountain that had given him strength. Concentrating on
putting one foot after the other, he walked in a daze, out of Lima, towards
the mountains. Hours later, after the trail had narrowed, they stopped to
eat. His stomach gurgled and again he suffered a terrible thirst. The Indians
broke off pieces of bread and potatoes and handed him small bites. He forced
down the food and gulped water from a stream. When they finished their meal
one of the Indians smiled, put a leaf into his mouth, began chewing, and
offered Francesco one in his open palm. Francesco declined, but the Indian
smiled benignly, chewed in an exaggerated fashion and patted his belly. The
other Indians were also chewing so he took the leaf and did the same. The
juice was bitter but it quelled the nausea. When it came time to
set out again he could not summon the strength to rise. One of the Indians
helped him up and placed him next to a mule. As they climbed higher,
Francesco grew weaker. They passed deep gorges with turbulent streams where
llamas nimbly scampering among the rocks stopped to eye them. For support he
held onto the animal’s hind quarters or grabbed a rope tieing the bundles.
The paths became steeper and more treacherous until the land flattened. By
nightfall they entered a small village. With the last of his strength he
helped to unload the animals then stumbled into a hut where he was again
offered food and a leaf to chew. He refused the food but chewed the leaf and
fell into delirious sleep. When he awoke, he
found himself on the back of a donkey cart. The foreman and other animals
were gone. The Indian who had first offered him the food and leaf sat next to
him, a few others walked in front of the cart. Francesco shivered. The Indian
took off his shawl and wrapped it about his shoulders. He accepted it humbly,
gratefully. He wondered why they had befriended him. Perhaps they were taking
him to the mountains where he would find the source of gold. Ah yes, perhaps
this was his destiny. He would be rich after all. Beppe could die of envy and
rot in hell. The narrow path was
barely passable with the cart. The mountains, as ancient and sacred as Etna,
rose above the earth and pierced the clouds. The Indian offered him a pipe.
He accepted gladly. The acrid smoke made him sleep without fear or pain, the
rocking motion of the cart lulling him as though on a sea with gently rolling
waves. As he slept, he
dreamed of Mariuzza, Ninu and Turi. They were standing in front of their
small home, framed by the stone doorway, looking towards Etna, waiting for
him to return. He called out to them. With a shout they ran towards him, but
as he was about to embrace them they disappeared. The peaks of the Andes
rose faint in the mist. His chest crushing his lungs, he struggled to
breathe, awoke and vomited a thick black liquid smelling of blood and death.
The range of mountains blurred and merged into one volcanic cone. Instead of the
rocking cart he found himself on the deck of a ship sailing through the
Straits of Messina. The brilliant Sicilian sun warmed him. Gradually, his
trembling stopped. He inhaled deeply. The salt air revived him. Through the
mist he saw Etna, its smoke spiraling peacefully into the sky. The crater’s
tip began to glow. An explosion loud enough to be heard in the next world
made the earth tremble. Waves, white and turbulent, swelled and crashed
against the ship. The cone shot forth sparks and flames. Rivers of lava
spewed from the crater, flowing to the sea. Huge red-hot rocks fell upon the
ship, splintering it. Hurled from the ship, Francesco plummeted down, past
the waves that opened like a cavernous mouth, into the blackness, towards the
fiery magma of Etna awaiting him since his dream. Francesco Vecchio Left Linguaglossa, Sicily in February, 1929 Died 19 days later in Peru THE END |