Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  ‘You’ve never said anything about Italo,’ Amelia said.

  ‘It’s not for me to judge, but from what you’ve told me from his letters he sounds a fine man.’

  ‘But you think it’s foolish to marry someone I’ve never met.’

  Her mother said nothing, just kept her eyes fixed to those of the Madonna. Amelia pushed back the quick of her thumbnail to make it hurt.

  ‘I’m so scared,’ Amelia said. ‘Isn’t that silly, now that it’s all done?’

  Velia squeezed Amelia’s hand, and they were silent. ‘My parents didn’t want me to marry your father. He was only a farmer, and they’d worked hard in their shop for so long. They knew a farmer’s life … They wanted a better life for me. But every morning he came to the bar next to the shop before he travelled out to their land.’

  ‘So far out of his way.’

  ‘I know.’ Velia smiled. ‘And when I saw him … When he looked at me, I felt something so strong. I couldn’t describe it.’ Her eyes shone. ‘He was so handsome. What hope did I have?’

  Amelia had never heard her mother speak of this. ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘I married him for this feeling, despite everything my mother said. But with time, the feeling faded. Those things weren’t so important anymore.’

  Amelia swallowed hard. ‘Don’t you love him?’

  ‘Of course I do. But there was a time … It lasted for many years. Even with all of you children and all the work, I felt very lonely. As hard as it is for me to say this, in my heart, I feel you have made the right choice. Your father doesn’t understand, but I do. But I’ll miss you. You’re my child.’

  Amelia looked away, into the face of the Madonna, so open and tranquil.

  ‘I’ve brought you a present,’ Velia said.

  From the bag, she produced two packages wrapped in brown paper. One was flat and the other rectangular, a small box. Amelia smiled and opened the flat, softer one. Inside was a silk shirt, a light mauve.

  ‘Mamma, it’s so expensive.’

  ‘You’ll need it, to make a good impression.’

  She pulled it free from the wrapping.

  ‘So beautiful. Your stitch is so fine—’

  ‘It’s not my stitch. I bought it.’

  Amelia gasped. Such extravagance.

  ‘Open your other gift.’

  She pulled back the thick brown paper. Inside was a book, an Italian–English dictionary, large with a strong binding of red leather and the pages with gilded edges, the paper as thin as tissue.

  Amelia laughed. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I had your uncle send it from Bologna. Despite all our poverty, I always bought you any book you needed.’ She stopped herself. ‘Your reading has led you to this marriage. It carried you away. Your brothers don’t see the point of it but from the moment I started to teach you, you read everything anyone gave you, newspapers, even pamphlets on the street. You’re like me – you believe it.’

  ‘Do you remember, years ago, my vision that the Madonna flew from Jerusalem to me? I think the vision was about being carried by reading.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘Despite our lifetime of hard work, your father and I are no better off than when we first met. I’m bone-tired. But we were lucky – your brothers were too young for the war.’ She turned and looked at Amelia, grabbed her forearm, her nails digging into the flesh. ‘Go.’ Her eyes widened, the black discs at the centres flared. ‘I give you my blessing to fly. Break this cycle. But don’t just fly – soar, as close as you can to the sun.’

  Her mother said goodbye, demanded she not follow her. She watched her walk the aisle, the tap of her sole uneven on the marble floor. Once she was gone, Amelia turned to the Madonna.

  ‘Please, Holy Mother, keep me safe.’

  But the Madonna remained, calm and impassive.

  For now, Amelia would fill and empty Signora Pina’s buckets.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Plans hardly ever go as willed. Despite Amelia’s rush, spurred by her dislike of Pina, the final stages of the bureaucracy took months. And once all the document leaves were in place, booking a steamer proved full of headaches. The closest port was Genoa, but these boats travelled only to Sydney. Italo couldn’t be away from the farm the length of time required to travel to meet her in Sydney. And her father disapproved – it wasn’t possible for a young woman to make her own way from Sydney to Brisbane and then to Cairns.

  But spring unfurled some good news. In July a British ship, the RMS Orvieto, would leave London but passing through Naples, sailing to Brisbane. Brisbane was closer; Italo could meet her there. And then Zia Francesca found a married woman who’d also make the voyage and act as a paid chaperone. And so all parties agreed, and the ticket was secured.

  In Amelia’s rush to say hello to Italo, she’d pushed from her thoughts the final goodbye to her family. In early July they left the cooler air of the north. In a last-minute gesture, Italo paid for the whole family to take a train south along the Adriatic coast and then overland to Naples, into the parched heat. Bologna, Pesaro, Ancona – such cities flew past the window. Amelia’s head spun. Those last moments together, the heat in the train, the uncharacteristic silence that would just not remit, the scratching for the last few words so she could hold the sound of their voices in her heart. Her brothers made no attempt to tease her. But even the knowledge she’d finally see Italo did nothing to quell the running tide of anxiety pulling and releasing in her belly; what had she done? This was folly, this was folly, complete, miserable and unanswerable folly.

  Finally in Naples, they stayed in a pensione near Piazza Dante, on the fringe of the oldest part of the city, the thick walls so high no sunlight graced the narrow streets. They could understand nothing of the Neapolitan dialect, which bore little resemblance to standard Italian and even less to theirs. They ate pizzas covered with tomato and mozzarella and basil and olive oil. She’d never tasted something so rich. Her brothers ate three each.

  And the next morning, in a single file, they walked towards the port. They passed the church of Gesù Nuovo, the austere façade protruding grey pyramids. She excused herself and went to the church’s centre door. An old man, his clothes tatty and soiled, his scent rancid, sat on the portico step. He raised his shaky palm. It lacked the two central fingers.

  ‘Signorina,’ he said. ‘Just a coin, just a coin.’

  Amelia stared into his eyes. He opened them wide. His left leg was missing. She opened her bag, found a few humble centesimi. She had no need of this money anymore and didn’t stop to count it – her last Italian transaction.

  Inside the church, her eyes burned with the thousand colours of inlaid marble, the gold and frescoed ceiling forming another sky, held high by square pillars that dwarfed men. She walked towards the altar, massive gold candlesticks and apricot marble columns pointing to heaven, past row after row after row of low wooden pews. At the centre, the Madonna stood, massive and white and bold, her clasped hands held to the side of her chest, her face and eyes lowered in diffidence. Amelia knelt on the cold marble and prayed – Hail Mary, Mother of God.

  Once she’d finished, she moved into the Holy Mother’s gaze. She gasped. This was the face she’d seen in her vision, so many years ago. She bowed, pressed her heated cheek to the cool marble floor. She’d not made a rash decision. Her path was long and slow, unromantic perhaps, but it was her own.

  ‘It’s time for me to go,’ she said.

  She raised herself, walked the central aisle, out into the powerful Neapolitan sun. Her mother smiled. In silence, they continued to the port. These were her last steps with her family, her last in Italy. She could find no words. Perhaps none were needed. The voices on the street, the clatter of traffic, rang too loud. She cowered, covered her ears. But Aldo took her arm, his strength encouraging her. This just had to be endured.

  Amelia guessed the salty tingling in her nostrils was the sea. They followed a chicane of signs, joined long lines, heard the babble of immigrati
on. This was real. This was happening. And then they were there, on the dock, standing near a tower of metal that somehow floated. The black hull, scored with rows of portholes, gave way to the white upper decks, crowned by two white funnels with lazy trails of dark smoke. The hull bore patched sections of paint, rust and brown stains, old, worn, almost uncared-for. Two masts and booms bookended the vessel, should the steam motors fail.

  Single men danced to the gangplank, whole families waddled like ducks, and young women on their own or in pairs, pulled themselves free of their parties. The moment had come. Monday the twelfth of July, 1920.

  First, she hugged her brothers, tall Aldo and then Giuseppe, who always smiled but now wept. They were good brothers. What more could she have asked for? Then her father.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘You’ll have to work so hard. You can’t speak the language. You don’t know him. I’ll miss you. I love you.’ He broke into open cries, his lips trembling. She’d never seen him so and searched for words to allay him but could find none. ‘You’ll see things I can’t even imagine. I can’t protect you.’

  She couldn’t look into his eyes, still so filled with confusion. And lastly her mother.

  ‘You carry my dreams,’ Velia said. ‘I will miss you.’

  She held her mother’s warmth. ‘I will miss you too.’

  Would she ever see her again? Italo was her fate.

  She stepped away, but her mother held onto her hand; her father cried. She pulled, but her mother’s grip was tight. She opened out her fingers. Her hand began to slip and then jolted free. Her mother wailed. Although her portmanteau was hardly heavy, she carried it with both hands – no brother now. Her steps on the gangplank, the bridge between the land and the sea – all these moments she etched on her brain. She turned to her family, still on the dock and now so small and far away. The ant-like figures waved, and she waved her hand above her head, stretched it as high as she could so they could see. Another group arrived on the deck and she moved into the shadows, gave her papers to a uniformed man who glared at the information. She had tears now, her vision blurred, her cheeks hot and wet. When she looked back to the dock, her parents and brothers were nowhere in sight. Their pain had been too great, and she exerted incredible effort not to drop her portmanteau and run through the crowd to find them. Cries rose in her throat, but she swallowed them whole.

  Her third-class ticket sent her to the lowest deck, each step along the long corridor heavy. In all the strain she’d given up trying to stem the tears. She found her cabin. Already there were two women, the cabin cramped. The elder, a squat woman of at least sixty years, came to her with open arms. Amelia raised her portmanteau like a shield but allowed herself to be taken by the soft folds of flesh. No words passed between them. Amelia stayed in the embrace until the woman released her and held her by the shoulders. The woman’s eyes were blue and soft, her flaxen hair now mainly grey.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said, in Italian but with an accent, heavy, German. Her large eyes changed expression constantly.

  Amelia nodded.

  ‘I am Frau Gruetzmann.’

  Amelia could find no words.

  ‘And this is Clara Sacco.’

  She recognised the name. This woman was her chaperone. She was only a few years older, taller than her with a fine figure, her nose straight and proud. Amelia offered her hand, but Clara embraced her.

  ‘This needn’t be formal,’ Clara said, and smiled. ‘And this is my son, Cristiano.’

  Amelia looked around the small cabin. A little boy of only five or six, his dark hair cut short and his eyes fine and inky, sat in the shadows on the lower bunk. He walked to her, stretched out his hand. The prim gesture made her smile and pushed at her gloom. She took his small hand. The three women and the boy stood together, Amelia still holding her portmanteau but now at her side.

  ‘And who are you?’ Frau Gruetzmann said, and smiled.

  Amelia laughed. ‘I am Amelia Durante …’ She stopped herself. ‘No … I’m no longer her. I am Amelia Amedeo.’

  With this error, she’d told this woman not only her name but her position, the purpose of her travel, where she was going. She felt the ring on her finger.

  ‘You’re from the north,’ Frau Gruetzmann said. ‘Your accent.’

  ‘Tovo di Sant’Agata.’

  The Frau narrowed her eyes and nodded.

  ‘Cristiano can move to the top bunk,’ Clara said.

  There were two sets of bunks. The top bunk seemed its own world, and after sharing a sleepless bed with Signora Pina for nearly three months, its privacy was appealing.

  ‘It’s easier for him to stay below,’ Amelia said. Clara made to protest but Amelia cut her off. ‘I insist.’

  Clara nodded. Under Cristiano’s watchful eye, Amelia raised her portmanteau to the upper bunk and unpacked her few clothes into a small cupboard at the bunk’s foot. He was most impressed by her Italian–English dictionary, though the book brought thoughts of her mother and fresh tears. Frau Gruetzmann smiled and chatted away, soothing the pain. She was from Innsbruck, which explained why the Frau had noted Amelia’s accent. She’d joined the boat in Toulon, two days before, and already knew where everything was. She was travelling to join her son, who lived in Melbourne. He’d been interned during the war in a prisoner of war camp in Victoria but was quite free now and making his way. Amelia felt the pathos – just two years ago Austrians and Italians were sworn enemies, and yet here they were, sharing a cabin, leaving Europe behind, a heavy underscore to the futility of war.

  Frau Gruetzmann spoke of Clara as if she weren’t in the room. She was to join her husband, Paolo Sacco. They lived in Bologna and had married in 1914, just before the war. He left for Australia and eventually settled in Brisbane. Amelia reckoned the years – Clara hadn’t seen her husband for six.

  ‘Cristiano, how old are you?’

  ‘I’m six.’

  Amelia nodded. ‘You’re a man now.’

  Cristiano nodded. His earnest face warmed her heart, but she doubted he’d ever met his father. She couldn’t imagine the full weight of the sorrow accompanying such separation. Suddenly her path seemed common.

  The ship’s horn blew, three times. They looked at the ceiling of their cabin. Cristiano grimaced and covered his ears. No-one said anything. The departure hour, the moment inscribed on all their documents, had become real. They were leaving Italy.

  ‘You two go to the deck,’ Frau Gruetzmann said. ‘I’ll mind the boy.’

  ‘I want to go too,’ he said.

  Clara reached out her hand to him. Amelia didn’t want to watch Italy fade and craved solitude. But Frau Gruetzmann wasn’t going to leave the cabin. As much as she appreciated her distracting talk, she felt a great need of peace. Clara smiled. Cristiano offered his hand. They were kind. Perhaps the fresh air would lift her spirits.

  The three walked together, the floor rippling under her feet. The ship’s horn blasted three more times. At the deck’s railing, Amelia took in the bite of brine. Below, men ran to the gangplank, raggedly dressed peasants waving hands and papers above their heads, their belongings wrapped in newspaper in their other arms. They were no better off than Signor Gregorio.

  ‘It would appear they too have missed Garibaldi’s promises,’ Amelia said.

  Clara glared at her. ‘Careful – you sound like a Bolshevik.’

  Amelia had read this word in a pamphlet but had no clear idea of what it meant, except people spoke of it in harsh tones.

  ‘The rising fascists,’ Clara said, ‘would strike you down.’

  Clearly, Clara was better educated, and Amelia should learn to hold her tongue.

  Finally, the gangplank was hauled away, the thick ropes unleashed, withdrawing like snakes into their holes. Amelia checked the dock one last time but there was no last glimpse of her family. The RMS Orvieto was dragged from the port by two tugboats. Italy began to slide away. With the other passengers, Clara and Amelia and Cristian
o walked to the rear deck. Fishermen in their two-sailed boats bounced across their wake. Clara looked back towards the shore. Her face bore no clear emotion, neither pleased nor sad to be leaving.

  ‘You must be excited,’ Clara said.

  The tension rose again, lodged bitter cries in her throat. Amelia raised her hand to her mouth. Clara raised a comforting hand to Amelia’s shoulder. She nodded, though she felt no sense of excitement. But Clara was trying, and she shouldn’t be ungenerous.

  ‘Your husband must be excited,’ Amelia said, wincing at her awkward deflection.

  Clara exhaled. ‘If it weren’t for Cristiano, I’d be like you. The truth is I don’t know him.’

  ‘Then why did you marry?’

  Clara narrowed her eyes. ‘The truth?’

  Amelia hadn’t meant to pry. But she nodded.

  ‘Yes, I’m tired of deception. Let’s start this voyage with the truth,’ Clara said. Her voice had a soft, wooden register. ‘I was pregnant.’

  Amelia sucked her bottom lip. She turned her eyes from Clara to the Bay of Naples. Only then she saw, to the side of the bay, brooding Vesuvius, a plume of dark smoke lazing in the sky as from a sleeping winter house.

  ‘And a piece of paper and a ring made everything all right?’ Amelia said, glancing back at Clara.

  ‘In some eyes.…’

  ‘But why did Paolo leave you in Italy?’

  ‘When we met, he was about to emigrate. He couldn’t – well … wouldn’t – alter his plans. I was to join him in a month, two at the most. Naively, I hoped I might even get away with no-one knowing I was pregnant. But then the war came, and we thought it was unsafe to travel, especially with the baby.’

  ‘But the war’s been over for two years.’

  ‘Once it was clear I was pregnant, I couldn’t work—’

  ‘You worked?’

  ‘I was a teacher. So without work, there was no money to live, even less to travel.’

  Amelia looked back to the smoke from Vesuvius and then the two trails from the steamer’s funnels. How often hopes crashed without money.