Field of Stone by Tony Ardizzone Rosa Dolci Once there was a poor
but honest man, un’omu d’onuri, a
man of honor, who worked the whole day—day after day—in the unrelenting heat
of the blazing sun, scratching the pitiful dirt at his feet with a wooden hoe,
coaxing the useless dust first this way and then that way, like a mother
combing her feverish child’s thin, dulled hair, urging the earth to release
something he and his children and wife might eat, so that they might live to
work beneath the scorching sun another day, and not starve. Thank God, figghiu miu, that even in these hard
times you’re a stranger to real hunger. Do my arms squeeze you too tight? Ha!
Imagine the slow and suffocating stranglehold of true starvation, like a
snake slowly coiling itself around your belly and ribs, squeezing all breath
and vitality from you. Each passing day you grow more weak. In the shadow of
your hut you squat and chew straw. The man’s name was
Papa Santuzzu. He was your nonnu,
father of your father. This is his story and the story of his children. It’s
also the story of people like me, whose destiny it was to marry into the
Girgenti family. God willing, one day you’ll pick up the thread and tell
these stories to children of your own. May you be blessed, figghiu miu, with a fair wife and many
children! May you have a clear gaze and a strong back! Papa Santuzzu’s story
starts back in Sicilia, in another world, the land that time forgot, where
those who stayed behind sometimes gathered against the long night around a
blazing fire talking about themselves and all those who’d left. Everyone was
expected to bring some wood. As we squatted around the fire someone would
beat out a tune or hum until a second would sing or take up some instrument
and play, and as the moon slid higher in the sky toward the promise of the
coming day a third would start a and end her story
with a rhyme, and so the next soul
with a tale would begin and all would pass
the time bringing
fresh wood to the fire, telling one story after the next, until we’d gone
full circle and everyone who had wanted to had given breath to a song or
story. Then the one who started the first tale would tell another so as to
knot the thread, as the moon grew pale and thin and the fire low, and the
village cocks stretched their wings and scratched the rust of sleep from deep
inside their throats, and from the waiting fields you could hear the
songbirds’ sweet singing. What did Papa
Santuzzu look like? Well, his skin was as dark as an olive soaked in brine.
His nose was long and sharp, like the beak of a great bird. He had a big
black moustache that drooped down nearly to his chin. He wore a gray cap to
protect his head from the sun. You could see at once in his brown eyes that
he was gentle. When he laughed, your mouth had no choice but to laugh too. For a poor man, Papa
Santuzzu was no stranger to laughter. During a game of tresette one lazy
evening in the village, Papa Santuzzu was dealt a perfect hand. He couldn’t
keep a straight face and so infuriated his opponent that the man wagered an
old donkey, which Papa Santuzzu’s subsequent run of absolutely perfect cards
won. When asked by the man why he had laughed in the face of such fortune,
Papa Santuzzu replied that luck is like a person’s shadow, it chases best
those who flee from it. Lu muttu di l’anticu mai mintiu. The proverbs of the ancients never lie. The old donkey was
known as Gabriella because her bray was like the loud trumpet call of Angel
Gabriel’s horn. This was a donkey whose song was stronger than her pull. As
they say, cani c’abbaia assai muzzica
picca. A dog that barks too loud does not bite much. Papa Santuzzu had
secret names for Gabriella, names he’d whisper into her long ears while the
pair labored together for long hours each day in the fields. She too wore a
hat to protect her head from the sun, though her hat was floppy and
wide-brimmed and made of straw. One day Gabriella
flat out refused to work. Papa Santuzzu took a deep breath, then tried to
reason with her. No good. Gabriella wouldn’t move. Papa Santuzzu tried
rubbing her legs, hoping that by massaging her strength he might rouse it.
The stubborn donkey remained motionless. He tickled the sweet spot behind her
ears. Gabriella refused to budge. He whispered promises in a tongue believed
to be irresistible to donkeys. Gabriella whickered and shook her head. Papa Santuzzu then
gave up and called her the name of every lazy no-good-for-nothing thing in
existence. It was midday, sweltering hot, so Papa Santuzzu sat down in the
shade of an almond tree. Gabriella lay down beside him, and while the pair
snoozed a drunken soldier from the mainland ambled by and took a sudden
liking to Gabriella’s straw hat, exchanging it for his own. When Papa
Santuzzu woke up, he looked at the donkey and saw that she now wore the cap
of an Italian soldier. “Gabriella,
Gabriella,” Papa Santuzzu shouted in great distress. Tears sprang from his
eyes. “I know I yelled at you and hurt your feelings, but you didn’t have to
go and join the army!” Every day Papa
Santuzzu broke his back in the fields. He who does not work, dies. The land
was parched and ancient—in places it was as dry and useless as bone—and
sprinkled over with a powdery coat of dust so tired that the particles just
wanted to blow away someplace where they could sleep for a century and not be
bothered. Now, a piece of land
is like any living thing. For it to prosper, it has to be both fed and loved.
This was land that was starving, owned by a wealthy baron and ruled by a
cruel gabbillotu, or overseer.
Both wanted to take as much from the land as they could. The pair allowed
Papa Santuzzu to tend it in exchange for the bulk of his harvest, so great a
share that Papa Santuzzu knew that he worked for himself in name only and was
in truth another man’s slave. Gabriella was the only thing Papa Santuzzu
truly owned. The baron owned even the house Papa Santuzzu lived in with Mamma
Adriana, their seven children, a scrawny pair of goats, an occasional hen, and
far too many flies and fleas to count. Gabriella lived in
the house too. The house was just a simple hut. One room, a dirt floor, a
wooden chair or two, a ladder sprinkled with chicken droppings leading up to
the loft where at night the people and their fleas and flies slept. The poor land, I
believe, was trying to sleep too. For thousands of years, since the beginning
of time, Sicilia had been forced to feed a thousand and one mouths, her own
true children as well as all of the invaders from the east and south, the
north and west. Every nation mighty enough to stretch canvas across a beam
set sail for Sicilia and landed on her shores. She was once the breadbasket
for the known world. Back when we all were
the great-grandchildren of Adam and Eve, Sicilia was a young, ripe fig. Her
fields burst with corn, wheat, rice, sugar, every kind of fruit. It’s said
that the most delicious sausages hung from her trees. Anchovies leapt from
the sea right onto your plate. Herbs furred the forest floor. In the forests loped
antelopes whose antlers were so strong they could saw the hardest wood.
Elephants with little houses on their backs sauntered freely throughout the
countryside. Each tree in the forest dripped with syrup and honey. In the
branches above, silkworms wove the finest cloth. Partridges laid so many eggs
that you couldn’t take two steps without stumbling upon a nest. Goats were so
full that each morning they pleaded to be milked. Sicilia was a garden
paradise, and her grateful people ate of her and replenished her in return.
Even today someone drinking a glass of wine will toss the last mouthful back
onto the earth out of respect and gratitude. But over time the
mouths multiplied, and the first flotilla of invading sails landed upon
shore. These pirates recognized no law. They took whatever they desired. Soon
the native people built their villages in twisting mazes, known only to those
born there, as means of protection against the thieves. The cristiani shut their eyes and ears to
everyone strange. They made a maze of their language too. Only a fool gives
clear directions to his house or his daughters’ whereabouts. The land was also
misused. Sicilia’s mighty forests were cut down. Her richest fields were
gutted and left empty. The earth wasn’t given back a tenth as much as was
taken from her, and over time too many new hands reached out for her, too
many new mouths ate of her, too many hungry stomachs were born bawling out
their complaints, until the island erupted and belched smoke and fire, crying
out that she needed to rest, and the genti
di campagna shouted no, not yet, we’re starving, feed us, you can’t go
to sleep yet. Every day Papa
Santuzzu and Gabriella worked to keep the tired earth awake. The ground was
tough and stingy, like the meat of an old goat, like the petrified heart of
someone ignored, mean and hard and sad enough to shatter Papa Santuzzu’s hoe
into splinters. Worse, the earth was choked with so many rocks that there
wasn’t sufficient space on which to pile them all. Some rocks were so big
that even with Gabriella’s help Papa Santuzzu couldn’t roll them from the
fields. The soil was so poor that even weeds snubbed it. The dandelion likes
to set down his long claw just about anywhere, but he’d scamper past this
inferior dirt. We’d eat dandelion, cicoria,
borage, thistle—nearly every green thing—whenever we could find them. Greens
swell the belly, though after too many days of eating them the culu cracks and the mouth desperately
craves something else. Once, the only thing
to grow in Papa Santuzzu’s plot of earth was a nasty bush of thorns. These
were vicious and stubborn thorns, as is the nature of things that are thorny.
Whenever Papa Santuzzu tried to cut them back or pull them out they leapt at
his eyes and sliced his legs and hands and arms, eager for the blood that
would nourish them. The thorns spread so far and wide across the ground that
the insects crawling the dry earth imagined that the sun had been swallowed
up entirely. Even Gabriella became lost in the snarl of thorns! Only her
long ears and the crown of her army hat could be seen. Papa Santuzzu stood
in the field, listening to Gabriella’s plaintive trumpet. He too became lost
in the vicious maze of thorns, which pierced his skin and eagerly drank his
blood. Now instead of feeling
sorry for himself, as some would, Papa Santuzzu thought of how he really was
quite fortunate. That took some imagination, for the thorns had grown so
thick around him that he could hardly move. The thorns haven’t
pierced my hands and feet, Papa Santuzzu told the sky. I am thankful to the
Lord for that. They haven’t pierced my side. They haven’t crowned my head, as
they did the Saviour, Jesù Cristu. For these blessings I am thankful. Just then Papa
Santuzzu noticed a melon trapped in the tangle of thorns. It was a small and
modest melon, hardly worth eating. Still, Papa Santuzzu worked a hand free,
tore the melon from its vine, then managed with his knife to slit the fruit
open. Inside the slit crouched a tiny spirit. The spirit tried to escape, but
Papa Santuzzu caught it and held it fast in his hand. “Let me go!” the
spirit cried. “Let me go!” “Not until you’ve
helped me,” Papa Santuzzu said. So the spirit stopped
squirming and told Papa Santuzzu he could have three wishes. First Papa Santuzzu
wished that Gabriella would be free. “Done!” the spirit
said. And the donkey stood free of the thorns. “Now clear this field
entirely,” Papa Santuzzu said. “Done!” And the field
was clear. With his last wish
Papa Santuzzu was tempted to ask that the field be filled with grain. But
instead, maybe for the first time in his life, your father’s father stopped
thinking like a wretched laborer whose sole purpose was to put coins into
another man’s pocket. Papa Santuzzu took a gulp and wished for a house as big
as the baron’s. “Hey,” the spirit
cried, “do you think that if I had a house as big as the baruni’s I’d be living in this scrawny melon?” With that the spirit
scampered away. Papa Santuzzu stood alone with Gabriella in the middle of the
barren field. But at that moment an exciting new idea dawned inside Papa
Santuzzu’s brain. Just like when he’d won Gabriella in the game of tresette,
Papa Santuzzu had a glimmer of thought. He imagined that someday he, rather
than the gods that ruled, might be able to alter his destiny. Up until then he
worked long, unimaginably hard hours without question or protest. At the end
of each day, when the sun blazed like a red coal in the sky, he had only the
hardened callouses on his hands and a thousand and one aches in his back to
show for all his labors. Each day he’d stand, glance at the uncaring sun,
mumble a prayer to a mostly silent God, and mop the sweat from his face with
his big kerchief. While the baruni
in his mansion grew fat on meat, Papa Santuzzu and his family ate slugs, babbaluci, and boiled weeds. One night after the
air grew quiet and cool, Papa Santuzzu stared through the gap in his roof. As
was his habit he pondered the stars. He was just like the stars, he told
himself. He and the slowly shifting flecks of light had no choice but to hang
in the sky in their fixed, ancient, preordained positions. Gabriella had limped
all that afternoon, he considered as he gazed at the sky. His daughter and
three sons again had mewed with hunger after they’d licked the supper bowl
clean. Again Adriana had gone without so that the children might have more to
eat. There were new taxes to pay to the thief of a government. Papa Santuzzu
considered that the government in Roma was just another absentee landlord,
only bigger and more greedy! It even had a tax on Gabriella! Worse was the
conscription law that required of young men seven years of armed service.
Seven years might as well be seventy since the boys almost never returned.
Every autumn soldiers from the mainland marched through the province and took
away its sons. These cruelties were, are, and always would be, Papa Santuzzu
considered. He stared at the bits of light dotting the deep and endless sky,
and just then a shooting star arced westward across the heavens. He dreamed then of possibilities
even more fantastic than the perfect run of cards that had brought him
Gabriella, or the spirit that had nearly granted him the baruni’s house. Papa Santuzzu dreamed of something he’d heard men
discussing in the village. This dream was about a wonderful, faraway land. The marvelous new
land was called La Merica. This
place was said to have such vast, fertile fields that all you had to do was
to push a seed into the ground and it would grow! You had to step back fast,
claimed the men, or the plant’s stalk would knock you right down! In La Merica there were rivers and seas
leaping with fish. There were vast mountain ranges filled with so much gold
that roads were actually paved with it! No one went to sleep hungry. In La Merica there were three villages
where a working man could earn a real bundle. Like conspirators the men
cupped their fingers beside their mouths as they whispered the villages’
names. “New York,” they whispered. “Brazil. Argentina.” Papa Santuzzu gazed
up at the glowing stars in the sky, his lips whispering the magical names of
the three golden villages of La Merica.
“New York. Brazil. Argentina.” Mamma Adriana lay
beside him in the straw, wheezing, her belly already beginning to swell with
your saintly twin aunts. The firstborn child, Carla, lay at her side. The
three boys—Gaetanu, Luigi, and Salvatore—slept near her feet, mouths open,
drooling, their legs twined together like the strings of a single rope. From
the straw on the ground floor of the hut came the resonant snores and
sporadic grunts and various intestinal discharges of Gabriella. If he could win a
donkey, Papa Santuzzu thought, if a spirit could clear an entire field of
thorns, if a star could wrestle itself out of its fixed hole and leap like a
rabbit westward across the sky, then maybe, just maybe, his children could
live in a generous and more forgiving land. Papa Santuzzu pulled
himself up from the straw, crossed himself, then thrust his head and
shoulders out the gap in the roof. “New York!” he shouted as loud as he could
up to the stars. “Brazil!” he shouted. “Argentina!” See, all the talk in
the village had dropped the bean of an idea into Santuzzu’s brain. Once it
grew into a tall beanstalk, there was no stopping him from climbing it. His
old thoughts and old ways hardly had time to step back before the force of
the new idea knocked them right down. Don’t think it didn’t
take some doing. And don’t think it didn’t shatter Papa Santuzzu’s heart. For
a parent there are few pains worse than to see a child wanting. Papa Santuzzu
knew that his children were hardly better off than Gabriella. Said simply,
they were slaves. Adriana knew this too, and over the next years with the
birth of the twins and her last child, Assunta, she felt joy edged with the
most unbearable grief. Adriana understood too that the chains of miseria had to be broken. Figghiu miu,
it would have been so easy for Santuzzu and Adriana to say let our children
be the ones to break the chain. After all, just look at us, we’re old. We’ve
worked, we’ve suffered, we have such pains. Certainly now we deserve to sit
in the shade of our years and allow our cloudy gaze to fall on the heads of
our grandchildren! Let them be the ones to decide to send their kids to the
New Land. Besides, who will close our eyes when we die? Who will wash us? Who
will cover our bodies with stones and grieve? I tell you, after a
woman gives birth she labors for a while longer until she delivers the broken
sack that only moments ago held the infant she now cradles in her arms. The ruptured
sack is a lovely, shimmering thing. It emerges inside out, rippling with
veins, multicolored and shiny, like a muscle. You nearly believe it is alive.
As the woman delivers it, out pours a fluid the color of fine red wine. There
is so much of this birth wine the midwife has to hold a bowl beneath the
mother to receive it all. You can hold the sack in your hands and imagine how
the newborn fit inside it, how it swaddled the child, how its smooth and
perfect surface kissed the babe’s cheeks and face, every part of its
miraculous body. Mischinu!
Listen to me! How I go on. But whenever I think of the pain Adriana and
Santuzzu must have felt as they said farewell to their seven children, the
image that comes to my mind is a ruptured and shimmering birth sack. In the end I believe
it was Mamma Adriana’s decision. If the man is the head of la famigghia, the woman is surely its
center. She is the family’s heart and womb, you understand? She is the source
from which the strength and vibrant urgency of la famigghia flows. So Adriana and
Santuzzu called Gaetanu to them and, for his own good, ordered him to leave.
And the earth overheard them and opened her eyes and wept such salty tears
that fish leapt into the air three times filling the baskets of the campagnoli, and that night in the
village there was a great feast. The people of the
countryside ate, then made music and danced. Even Gabriella feasted and
brayed along with the music. The next morning
Gaetanu made ready to depart. He kissed Papa Santuzzu for the last time. He
kissed Mamma Adriana for the last time. I watched the three of them, standing
beside the road in the sun. I was just a girl, barely bigger than you are
now, the daughter of Gnaziu and Francesca. Mamma Adriana pulled on her hair
and said, “Tannu, my son, Tannu, Tannu. May the Madonna be with you always
and keep you safe.” She handed him a basket of bread and leftover fish. Papa Santuzzu was
unable to utter a word. All he could do was to stand in the sun beside
Gabriella, his face shaded by the bill of his cap, wiping away his tears with
the backs of his hands. Above them the sun
shone down stupidly, as if nothing important was taking place on the
spinning world below. So Gaetanu began his
long journey, walking the whole way from Girgenti to the city of Palermu,
then sailing across the blue water to Napuli, where he would meet the
steamship that would tumble him across the mad ocean to La Merica. No sooner had he left the village than deep in the
forest he heard some talking. He stopped. Three old women stood in a
clearing. The first woman said,
“We’re hungry, stranger.” “Wake up,” said the
second woman. “Cu dormi nun pigghia
pisci. He who slumbers doesn’t catch fish.” The third woman said,
“Have mercy on us, in the name of your dear mother and her mother before her
and so on and so on until the birth of time.” Gaetanu considered
the three women. They were ugly and old and as gnarled and skinny as twigs.
But Gaetanu had a generous soul, and so he opened wide his basket and gave
the women all he had—three leftover fishes and some scraps of bread. In the bottom of the
basket he saw a piece of thread that had fallen from Mamma Adriana’s sleeve.
The thread was all he had left in the world. He held it to his heart. Then
something strange took place. The more dearly he held it, the longer and
thicker it grew! Soon it was as fat as a fat piece of rope. Gaetanu held the
thick rope in his hands. The old women chewed
carefully, as those with only a few teeth do. One enters the world with a cry
and no hair and teeth, one leaves the world the same way. Then the old women
shriveled one by one into gold coins that fell softly to the forest floor. Gaetanu smiled and
put the coins in his pocket. With them he purchased passage on a steamship to
La Merica after he borrowed many
more coins at an incomprehensibly high rate of interest from a struzzeri who hung upside-down by his
feet from the ceiling, and with his long fingernails scooped the marrow from
Gaetanu’s bones while sipping a cup of his hot, terrified blood. The next day Luigi
and Salvatore saw a fish flying in the air. I saw it too from
where I worked in the fields. You don’t often see such a thing, so we leaned
on our tools for a moment and stared up at it. We were threshing grain that
day, singing as we threshed. I was helping with the gleaning. You know that
my mamma died when I was only a little girl, and my papa was so lame he could
no longer walk the distance from our hut to the fields. And these were two
whose hands were never seen in their pockets! The fields we tended were more
than a league away from the hut where Papa Gnaziu and I lived. I worked with the
other village girls. Already your father had taken notice of me. Sometimes
our eyes would meet across the bobbing heads of grain, and for a moment or
two we’d lock gazes. I didn’t have the prettiest smile or anything bright to
wear so I imagined there was a brightness inside me—something silver or
red—so he’d see that I noticed him too. I’d let a little of the brightness
shine out through my eyes, then cast them down quickly so he’d think well of
me. On the day of the
flying fish he was standing alongside Luigi, who pointed and shouted and
waved at the sky. The tuna saw Luigi’s wave and dropped, landing at Luigi’s
feet. In its mouth the tuna had a message from Gaetanu. “Dear Luigi,” spoke
the tuna, “I’m in La Merica, the
Golden Land, in the city of Lawrence, state of Massachusetts. I’ve just
completed the arduous task of paying off my debt. Also I took in marriage a
marvelous woman known by the name Teresa Pantaluna. While we speak of names,
the authorities on the Island of Tears gave me a second one, the name of our
province, so I am now Gaetanu Girgenti! That’s a lot of nice sound to come
out of a mouth all at once! Anyway, here’s a basket of food and a piece of
rope. May the food ease the hungers of your journey. The rope is so that
you’ll be able to find Teresa and me. Inform the men on the Island that
you’re my brother. Hold onto the rope tight. No matter what, don’t let the
rope go! With it, my brother, Teresa and I will pull you across the sea.” Then the tuna opened
wide its mouth and out popped the rope and the basket of fish and bread. So
Luigi, the second brother, set out with his older sister Carla. The earth again wept,
and all the people feasted, and the donkeys sang and danced. The next day in the
forest Luigi and Carla met the three old women, the bones of their arms and
legs so thin they resembled sticks. “We’re starving,”
they said. “We’re so hungry we’ve gnawed even our most bitter memories. All
of time has collapsed into an unbearable gnawing pain.” Of course Carla gave
them the basket of bread and fish. Who could say no in face of such need? The
women gobbled the scraps in an instant, then begged for the piece of rope.
“To keep our skirts up,” they said. “See, we’re so skinny, our skirts keep
falling right off.” Luigi put a finger to
his forehead, thinking. He remembered the fish’s warning. “No,” he said, “no
matter what, I’d better not let go of this rope.” In the light of the
women’s disappointment Carla said, “It’s a lot for a woman to lose her skirt,
Luigi. Look at the rope, it’s plenty big. It’s long enough for us all.” She offered the women
one end, all the while holding tight to the middle. The women blessed her as
they wrapped the rope around their waists. By the time they were through all
five were tied together, like a bundle of sticks, with Carla and Luigi in the
middle. Then the women turned
into three gold coins, and the end of the rope fell to the ground and
transformed itself into an eel, and the eel said, “Don’t worry, just follow
me.” All the while Luigi and Carla held on tight. Hold tight onto my finger,
just like Zia Carla and Ziu Luigi. Yes, that’s it. Tighter. Yes! So Carla and Luigi
followed the eel through the forest. Along the way they stopped for Ciccina
Agneddina, who was to be Luigi’s wife, and Gerlando Cavadduzzo, the famous
baker, who married Carla. Together the quartet found the ship and with the
gold coins paid for their passage, and the eel pulled the boat across the
blue-green ocean to the Promised Land where Gaetanu and Teresa were waiting. The next day in the
fields there worked only Santuzzu, Salvatore, and blind, old Gabriella. By
now Salvatore did the labor of three grown men. He was very handsome and
unbelievably strong. Like a hard, hot iron his body was! I can’t even begin
to tell you. Your papa was a tree the wind couldn’t bend, a mighty rock on
the seashore, un pileri, a fine
specimen of a man. As he labored in the fields he saw again the flying tuna.
In the tuna’s mouth was a message from Gaetanu and Luigi. “Brother,” the letter
said, “it’s time that you joined us. Here’s the rope and a basket of food.
Don’t let go of the rope, no matter what. Bring Papa and the twins, Rosaria
and Livicedda, as well as the infant Assunta. Tell everyone we miss and love
them. Say a prayer on behalf of each of us on the ground beside our dearest
mother’s grave.” I accompanied your
father to the village, where we found the man who could read and write.
Before touching our letter he washed and dried his hands, then drew his
spectacles ceremoniously out of a box lined with green velvet and held the
twin circles of glass up to the sun, then strapped their glistening hooks
behind his ears. By then Gnaziu, my
father, had passed from this world. No one from my family remained in the
village. My brothers and sisters had all drifted away, like winged seeds in
the spring wind. The wind blew a few of my brothers to Brazil. The wind
carried the others along with my sisters to Argentina. To the shores of New
York, the wind blew only me. Sometimes late at
night I still can hear the songs my mother sang while I fed at her breast.
Sometimes just before it rains, when the wind is high and the light is dying,
my nose fills with her smell. Her smell is a mix of almond blossoms and
souring milk tinged sweetly with sweat. I close my eyes and hold a soft piece
of cloth against my cheek. Sometimes I can feel her standing beside me. I
feel her trying to take my hands in hers. Sometimes her fingertips brush
against my face or hair. Sometimes I think that if I call to my sisters in
the other La Merica that lies far
away to the south they might hear me and answer back. I try calling to them
with my mind. Then I make my mind very still, and I close my eyes and listen. So the day that the
letter was brought to us was extremely sad, you understand, because I knew
even before the penman had time to clear his throat what words were inked on
that paper, and what those words might mean. Together Salvatore
and I carried the words to Papa Santuzzu. He was waiting for us, sitting
silently in the shade of a gnarled olive tree. By then he was so old that his
eyes were no longer black. They’d turned white, dusted with chalk. He
couldn’t see much more than our shadows, but he was like an old owl, he
didn’t miss much. “Regard me,” he said.
He took off his gray cap. His hair was as light as lemon blossoms. His eyes
were bowls of cream. Alongside him in the dappled shade sat Gabriella, front
legs curled beneath her body, which had turned the color of snow. “Do you remember that
rock we found five springs ago,” Papa Santuzzu said as he pointed toward a
distant field, “or was it seven, eight, nine, ten?” For a while he counted on
his fingers. He knew how to count from one to ten. “The one that at first
seemed so easy Tannu said he’d take care of it all by himself?” Papa Santuzzu
laughed. “Yet as Tannu dug, it grew bigger and then even bigger?” Who could remember
one rock, I thought, when there had been so many. “I remember it well,
Papa,” Salvatore said. “We worked on it for
weeks,” Papa Santuzzu said. Why were they talking
of rocks? I wondered. “The weeks stretched
into months, Papa,” said Salvatore. “The months grew into years. For years
every spring we tried to dig it up.” “You remember that in
the end,” Papa Santuzzu said, “we decided that it wasn’t a rock at all. It
was a hard edge of the world.” “You said it was an
edge of the bedrock, Papa. It was a part of the island of Sicilia herself.” “A living edge of the
world itself,” Papa Santuzzu said. “I climbed down into the hole around it
and could hear it breathe.” “I remember all the
trouble we had pulling you back out,” Salvatore said. “I didn’t want to
leave there,” said Papa Santuzzu. “The rock’s breathing seemed to match my
own.” “Tannu had to climb
down and tie you in a harness,” Salvatore said. “Pieces of rock that
have broken off,” Papa Santuzzu said, “even very big pieces, in time you can
drag them or break them apart and carry them from the fields. But you can’t
move the earth itself.” For several moments he patted Gabriella’s side. “You
know, when I started all this years ago I think at first I meant to move only
one rock. Or maybe three. I should have remembered that once you begin
clearing a field of stone, you’re tempted to clear it all.” He gave us a hard
stare. “Don’t leave anyone behind, you two, you understand? Not Livicedda and
Rosaria, or even Assunta. Do I have your promise on that?” Salvatore nodded.
“But don’t be fools and try to move the world itself.” “I understand, Papa,”
Salvatore said. “Don’t cry,” Papa
Santuzzu said. You could see he had only two or three teeth left in his head.
“Hey, you didn’t think I could ever leave my Adriana?” “She will always be
here too,” Salvatore said, pointing to his heart. “There will never be a day
that I won’t think of her with love and pray to her.” Papa Santuzzu nodded,
pressing both of his palms against his heart. Gabriella brayed softly and
shed a big tear. Then Papa Santuzzu
opened his arms, and his third and youngest son embraced him. Then I embraced
him and covered his face with my kisses and tears. By then I was one of his
children too. I didn’t know how to
tell him good-bye. There were no words to say. * And the earth wept
the most salty of all oceans, and the campagnoli
feasted and prayed to the Madonna and the special saints, and the donkeys
spun in circles, dancing with the goats and chickens. We entered the
forest. Your papa told me and his sisters, “Hold tightly onto this rope.”
Even though it was day, we could hear the howls of wolves. Then we came to a
clearing and saw the three old women. “Feed us,” they said,
“we’re very hungry.” “Clothe us,” they
said, “for the bright light is cruel, and the winter air is very cold.” “Stay with us, all of
you, today and all days, because we’re old and lonelier than the grave of
Pontius Pilate, condemned to eternally wash his hands with fire.” Your papa opened the
basket and gave them all that was inside, three fish and a few scraps of
bread. The women ate. Then Salvatore gave one of the old women his jacket,
the second his shirt, and the third his only pair of shoes, saying, “Please,
don’t request my pants too! These are three of my sisters.” He introduced
Rosaria and Livicedda, and then Assunta, who still sucked her thumb and
carried everywhere with her a piece of an old rag. “And this girl”—he
motioned to me—“her name is Rosa the Sweet. She’s my wife of only a few
months, and she’s barely had time to sew!” The first old woman
cackled and answered, “If she’s your wife of only a few months, you don’t
have much need of pants!” “We hope you’ve shown
her how well the needle can stick the cloth!” laughed the second old woman. “You’ll be blessed if
in darkness the bride comes to enjoy your threading the eye!” the third old
woman cried. I didn’t appreciate
such joking, but in the forest strange things are known to occur. One learns
that it’s wiser to hold one’s tongue than to chase after one’s head. So
Salvatore gave them all he owned. Then they asked him for the rope. “Here,” I said
quickly, offering them the skinnier end of the rope. “Remember, a free bowl
of soup never lacks for salt.” I tell you, I didn’t like them taking all of
your father’s clothes. The moment the old
women touched the rope they turned into three pieces of gold, and the eel led
us to Palermu. As we rode in the back of a wagon toward the sea, we thumbed
our noses at the moneylenders. The boat leapt away
from the shore. We looked back at the land as it began to grow smaller, then
even smaller. To Sicilia we cried, “I cannot live with you, nor can I live
without you!” The sea beyond was
beautiful, very lively and green, like a fine field after a week of rain.
Then the ocean turned angry and gray for nearly a month. It seemed as if the
voyage to La Merica would never
end. Some on board the
ship became so sick and nauseated they prayed to the saints to die. Some made
vows so extreme not even Jesù Cristu could keep them. The men in Palermu
packed us into the steerage hole like plugs of tobacco in a pipe. The air
down there—whew, what a stench! It could turn sweet milk to cheese. Even a
dead man with no dignity would have to pinch his nose! We had to take turns
going up on deck, and if you weren’t careful the smokestacks above blew
cinders into your eyes. We shared the space above with cattle and pigs. Their
mess ran all over the deck every time it rained. You couldn’t help but step
in it, or where someone had been nauseous. Then up the ship would roll, then
sharply down down down and over to one side, then back to the other side and
again up, riding the dizzy, never-ending waves. We held onto the rope
so tightly you’d think we’d squeeze off our fingers. On the other end Gaetanu
and Teresa Pantaluna, Luigi and Ciccina Agneddina, Carla and Gerlando Cavadduzzo
were pulling. Here, help them. Give the rope a pull. “Unh, unh,” they pulled.
That’s it, figghiu miu. Then we glimpsed the
incredible city and the massive statue of the lady. The sky above our heads
was so full of smoke we thought for sure the city was on fire. No, said a man
on board, who had made the trip once before, that’s how the sky of the New
Land looks every day. They took us on a second boat to the Island of Tears. Ellis Island—mischinu!—it was itself a whole
village. They brought us into a great hall, where we were told to sit on
wooden benches and wait. You wouldn’t believe the noise in the huge room. A
thousand voices, all going at once in a thousand different directions! Even
now just to think of it I want to cover my ears. When they separated me from
Salvatore and then from Livicedda and Rosaria and Assunta, I felt as if I’d
fallen into a bottomless well. Aboard ship I’d heard stories of husbands
taken from their wives, children taken from their mothers, brothers from
sisters, never to see the other again. I had only a shawl and my dress and a
pair of shoes. I held the empty basket on my lap. All around me was moaning
madness. Waiting on the bench by myself, I thought perhaps I had disappeared
or had died. I worried that I’d never see a familiar face again. The doctors counted
my teeth, pulled the lids of my eyes inside out with a hook, poked my ears,
smelled my skin, listened to my lungs. I told each doctor I was Rosa,
daughter of Gnaziu and Francesca, may they rest, spusa of Salvatore, brother to the twinned Rosaria and Livicedda,
as well as Assunta and Carla, Luigi and Gaetanu of Girgenti, our province in
beloved Sicilia, and had they seen any of these fine women and men? The doctors searched
my hair for lice, thumped up and down my spine, twisted my hands and feet,
listened to the terrified drumbeat of my heart. Some women were sent back.
The doctors cursed them with signs and symbols in chalk on their backs. I
prayed that they would not put their chalk on me! I could see the New Land in
the magnificent sunlight beyond the tall windows. Some women were separated
from their daughters. Some women could not hold their fright inside
themselves any longer, and they wept and moaned with great sorrow and fear. “All right,” a man
said to me in English. “You can go on now. Do you understand? You’re free to
go.” “Free to go,” I
answered. I knew enough to know
what those words meant. Repeating the words out loud in my mouth made me feel
different, like something born, as if I were brand new. When I saw your
father he was smiling so hard that I thought his face would crack. He stood
waiting for me with his three sisters. We took a steamer
from the island with the others. Now I didn’t mind the rolling waves. The
Golden Land’s greatest city stood proudly on the approaching shore, thrusting
itself up happily into the warm sun. Several paces from us
on the steamer, a dark-faced man scolded his young wife, then seized his
son’s blue straw hat and roughly threw it into the sea. I could guess by his
somber clothing that the father had spent some time in La Merica. A pair of ribbons covered with polka dots fluttered
from the back of the boy’s blue hat as it fell. It was as if this hat from
the old world wasn’t fine enough to be brought to the shores of the New Land. All at once I feared
that there was something in me, in Salvatore, in all of us, that would have
to be thrown into the sea too. The three old women?
My child, listen and I’ll tell you a secret. They shrunk yet again and grew
very small, smaller than you, smaller than your belly button, smaller than
even the little fingernail on your little finger, and then they hid inside
the pocket on Zi’Assunta’s skirt. Now they live here in La Merica, deep in the forest or somewhere out on the street,
testing the hearts of those they meet. They came along with
us, see? We brought many of the old things—the old ways—along with us. Remember, anything
you can imagine can happen to you once. Twice, it’s coincidence. But three
times and you’d better watch out. The three sisters are giving you a test. So
when they ask you, you’d better answer right. They’re outside,
waiting. Perhaps someday they’ll meet you too. Have a generous heart, give
them anything they want, but whatever you do don’t ever let go of the rope!
You may share it with them if you’d like, let them hold one end, allow them
to wrap it around themselves, whatever. But never let it completely out of
your hand. The rope is la famigghia, see? Each of us is a
thread, wound up in it. Before you were born, a rope connected me to you. One still does, figghiu miu. Stronger than twine
or the truest of leather, Family binds us
forever together. |