Sometimes I Dream in Italian

by Rita Ciresi

  The minute we hit the highway, Babbo fell asleep. After much fretting about the filthiness of the windows—”three dollars a ticket and you can't even see where you're going”—Mama pulled out one of her moistened washcloths and scrubbed at the panes. Then she handed the washcloth to Mrs. Fenilli, who did the same. Mrs. Fenilli passed the cloth to Mrs. Rinaldi. Mrs. Rinaldi passed it to Sister Thomas and Sister Sebastian, who had to be told in Italian what to do with it. The sisters passed it to Father, who looked at it with a puzzled expression before he used it to wipe his face. His seatmate, Gigi, grabbed the washcloth away from him, put it on the end of his finger, and twirled it around. With great gusto, he sang:

  Italian sailors

  Have a saying

  That goes without saying:

  The hell with London!

  The hell with France!

  There is nothing

  Like American pants!

  Gigi winked and nudged Father Angelosi, who began to sway to the music. Sister Thomas and Sister Sebastian clapped their hands; Babbo let out a big snore. Mama looked over at me. “What are you doing, crossing your legs? You gotta go?”

  I shook my head.

  Mama leaned down and seized the bottle of suppositories from the shopping bag, threatening me with the bottle.

  “I'll go,” I said.

  Satisfied, Mama traded the suppositories for the roll of toilet paper. She took my hand and pulled me to the back of the bus, squeezing past some people who still were rearranging their things in the aisles. “Look out,” she said. “Coming on through. This one here's got to go numero uno, maybe even due. Bimbi— can't hold it for two seconds.”

  At the back of the bus she huffed as she struggled to open the door of the bathroom. Once she pried it open, she pushed me in, then changed her mind and pushed me out, bunching up a wad of the toilet paper and swabbing down the seat before she stepped aside and pushed me back in again. “Go ahead, go,” she said.

  “Close the door,” I said.

  “What do I look like, some kind of pazzone?” she asked. “It took me five minutes to open it.”

  I pointed beyond the door to the other passengers. Mama glanced over her shoulder. Then she unbuttoned her coat and spread it wide, like a cape, as she stood in the doorway. “Just do your business and they'll mind theirs,” she said.

  It was senseless to argue. I pulled down my pants and squeezed out a meager tinkle. “That's all you got?” Mama asked. I nodded, grabbed the toilet paper, ripped off a shred, and wiped myself. Then I hastily pulled up my pants and tried to squeeze past Mama. She grabbed me by the collar and yanked me back. “Lava le mani!” she said. “Wash your hands.”

  When we got back to our seat, Lina stared out the window, refusing to acknowledge either me or Mama. I held my stomach because it felt queasy. Babbo continued to snore, and Mama, for lack of anyone else to talk to, turned around and started up a one-sided conversation with Mrs. Fenilli. “These modern kids,” she said. “They gotta have their privacy. In the old days, there was no such thing. My parents, they had a baccausa, a wooden outhouse right by the tomatoes. Good fertilizer, my father said. We kids used to line up every morning. Privacy? Ha! Everybody knew everybody else's business, whether it was good or bad. The whole neighborhood knew after my grandfather went. He had the turds of an elephant. Enough to knock you over.”

  Lina leaned over my lap. “Stop it,” she hissed at Mama.

  Mama nodded at Mrs. Fenilli. “Listen to that one there. Too good for her own parents. She's embarrassed by what I got in my shopping bag. This morning she gets into a fight with me about the toilet paper. She wants to know why I gotta bring it. You know what I told her? I told her thank God she has the paper. In the old days, it was the Sears catalog, remember? Or the newspaper, if you were lucky. During the Depression, nothing but your bare hands.” She reached across the aisle and poked my arm. “You,” she said. “What's the matter with you?”

  I opened my mouth to reply. My head felt fuzzy and my body felt like it was still lurching down the aisle of the bus. My stomach constricted and I burped a foul liquid. Lina just had time to shove me aside before I lost my cornflakes and milk all over my navy blue stretch pants.

  Babbo woke up, looked over at me, and closed his eyes again. Vinnie Viscusi glanced back, swore a loud dammit, and told Mama to mop it up. “I'll mind the kids, you mind the road,” Mama said. “Keep your eyes on it.”

  Mama shook her finger at Lina, Babbo, and me. “You see,” she said. “You laughed at all the things I brought.” She took up the Railroad Salvage bag, then grabbed my hand and once again pulled me to the back of the bus. She stopped only to display me to an alarmed Gigi. “You see why I don't like to travel,” she said to Gigi. “The excitement is too much. And it's expensive. She loses her breakfast, I gotta feed her twice as much for lunch.”

  I recovered my equilibrium just outside of New Rochelle. Babbo continued to sleep. Mrs. Fenilli expressed the desire to do the same, and Mama, lacking a willing ear to listen, took her black rosary beads out of her coat pocket. “May as well get some prayers in,” she said, and began mumbling to herself. When we began to inch across the bridge to Manhattan, Mama's eyes grew wide. She spoke her Hail Marys aloud as we passed under the steel spans. “Saints in heaven,” she murmured, after we were safely on land again. “That's one big Atlantic Ocean.”

  Babbo woke up as the bus came out on FDR Drive. Mama immediately clutched her purse and pressed her shopping bag between her feet and knees, as if a herd of infamous New York pickpockets would storm the bus and steal everything we had. Lina kept her nose pressed to the windowpane, searching in vain for anything that would represent the glamour of city life—a display of well-heeled mannequins in a department-store window, a real-life woman in furs and a passel of chihuahuas on taut red leather leashes, buildings that went up so high they ended in the clouds. But all we saw were trucks and cars and buses, gas tanks and water dirtier than the New Haven harbor. Babbo kept looking for Madison Square Garden. Several people claimed they saw Times Square. Gigi swore he identified the building that King Kong had climbed in the movie. It seemed to take longer to go fifteen or twenty blocks in New York than it took to get all the way to New York from Connecticut. But finally the streets became more narrow and less crowded. The bus pulled into a place called Battery Park, twisted along a road, and finally came out along the water. Lina said she smelled the beach. I sucked on my tongue and imagined myself a stowaway on one of the big boats slowly moving in the harbor.

  The minute he stopped the bus, Vinnie Viscusi shook his head and reached for his thermos. Gigi stood up and tried to call people to order. “Exit row by row,” he called. But the parishioners already were charging for the door. Lina and I squeezed in before the nuns, leaving Mama and Babbo behind to quarrel about Mama's shopping bag. Babbo insisted she leave it on the bus.

  “What, are you kidding?” Mama said. “I've heard about these New York thieves.”

  “What do you need that stuff for?” Babbo asked.

  “You never know,” Mama said. “You never know what you'll meet in this world. Only one thing's for certain: you better be prepared for it.”

  Lina and I dashed to the guardrail that circled the park. In the middle of the choppy water stood the Statue of Liberty, holding the torch aloft. My heart sunk. Although I had seen countless pictures of her before, somehow I thought that in person she would look more soft and feminine, like Betty Crocker or the Clairol girl. But with her perfect posture and blind gaze, she reminded me of the ladies on the Playtex bra boxes, whose blank faces and massive, stiff breasts looked positively intimidating.

  Lina turned away. “She looks like the color you puked up on the bus,” she said. “Why'd they paint her green?”

  Mama, who had come up behind us, swatted Lina on the back of her head. “Shame on you,” she said. “It's a sin to say anything bad about that lady.”

  “That's right,” Babbo said. “It's like saying something against the flag.�
�

  “Or against Mary,” Mama said. She crossed herself. “Yes,” she sighed. “I remember seeing her for the first time. The boat came just as it was turning dark. She was all lit up, like a madonna outside a church.”

  “You said the sun was shining,” Lina reminded her. “You said it was hot and you wanted a drink and then you got some lemonade.”

  “What's that?” Mama said sharply. “Were you there? Don't make up stories.”

  Gigi joined us. He pointed out to the statue. “Isn't she gorgeous?”

  “Anything in a skirt is gorgeous to you,” said Babbo.

  Gigi took out his pen and clipboard and began to round up the parishioners. “Stick together,” he said. “Everyone on the next ferry.”

  Babbo looked panic-stricken. “You gotta take a boat over?”

  “What do you think you do, swim?” Mama asked.

  “I thought they would have built a bridge by now,” Babbo said. He gazed across the water, where the ferry just was pulling away from the island. It bobbed in the water. Babbo's face turned green. “No, no, you go,” he said. “I'll watch.”

  “What's to watch?” Mama said. “She's not going to put down her torch or blink her eye. Gigi. Talk to your brother. He paid good money for his ticket. Three dollars to stand on shore and freeze himself to death.”

  Mama scolded him; Gigi cajoled him. But Babbo stood his ground. He would not get on the boat. His cowardice made him generous toward Lina and me. He patted our heads, as if we were going away on a long journey, then reached into his pocket and pulled out two quarters for each of us. “Get yourselves a souvenir,” he said.

  Lina's eyes lit up with greed. I snatched the coins and jingled them together in my palm while we waited for the boat, until Mama warned me, “Hold on tight. Finders, keepers. Losers, weepers.”

  The Lady Liberty was a double-decker ferry, with narrow white railings stretching all around the edge. Lina and I wanted to stand on the top deck, but Mama insisted that we stay on the bottom, right beside the gate so we would be the first ones off. She plopped her shopping bag down and we had to obey her. A man dressed in a sailor shirt and hat untied the thick rope that anchored the boat to the dock. Then the boat began to bob and blow its foghorn as it eased out into the water. In the gray haze we saw the shadows of other ships—steamers, fishing trawlers, and low barges—moving silently in the distance. We saw Babbo sit down on a park bench, then the people on shore faded away.

  Mama held on to the backs of our collars.

  “Let me go,” Lina said.

  “You might fall overboard,” Mama said.

  “I know how to swim,” Lina said, wiggling out of her grip and moving a good six feet away. I joined her. “She's so embarrassing,” Lina said, her breath hot in my ear. “Like some old off-the-boat lady.”

  “Don't talk to her,” I said. “Just pretend she's not our mother.”

  We glanced over at Mama. She stood as if her feet were glued to the deck. Her face was set so fierce and hard against us, she looked like the figureheads Norsemen used to put on their boats to drive the sharks away. She shook one finger at us. “No cahoots,” she said. “I'm warning you.” Lina and I linked hands to show our solidarity. With my free hand, I clutched the quarters that were in my pocket and rubbed them together, as if they were two pieces of dried wood that at any moment could kindle and explode into flame.

  Mama was the first one off the ferry. Lina and I lingered on deck, smirking at her as she stood on the shore, gesturing with one hand for us to disembark. She squeezed her shopping bag so tightly with the other arm that the bag broke underneath. The flashlight, the batteries, the Kleenex box—all rolled out onto the brown grass that was wet with dew. Mama simply leaned over, brushed off the items, and recruited other parishioners to carry them. “Here, hold this.” She shoved the toilet paper at Sister Thomas. “Father, have a pepperoni. Mrs. Fenilli, you got room in your purse for this provolone?” Mama glanced at the bottle of suppositories before she slipped them into her own coat. “Gigi,” she called out. “How big are your pockets?”

  Gigi ended up carrying the flashlight, which he used to shine on his clipboard as he gave us a brief introduction to the Statue of Liberty. We gathered around him at the base of the statue. He cleared his throat before he began reading from his brochure. “This marvelous symbol of freedom, which has welcomed so many immigrants to America's shore, was a gift of the French—”

  “What's he talking about?” Mama said. “It was the Italians. Christopher Columbus brought it over.”

  “Sh!” Lina said.

  Gigi continued. “Edouard de Laboulaye, a French historian, first conceived of a monument to symbolize liberty and the benefits of free government in the 1870s. However, the statue was not erected until 1884, after an intense fund-raising campaign on both sides of the Atlantic.”

  “And bet your boots we paid for most of it,” Mama said.

  “To show their good feelings, the Americans decided to build a monument of their own. On a bridge over the Seine River, they constructed—”

  “The Eiffel Tower,” Mama called out.

  Gigi looked up and glared at her. He clicked off the flashlight, folded his brochure into little pieces, and tucked it into his pocket. “Andiamo,” he said.

  “Where we going now?” Mama asked.

  “Into the statue,” Gigi said, as the parishioners headed for the entrance.

  “You go into that thing?” Mama asked.

  Gigi patted the brochure in his pocket. “It says here you take an elevator to the foot of the statue. Then you can climb a staircase into the crown.”

  Mama bent her head back and looked up at the top of the statue. Her face turned a pale verdigris. “You gotta be nuts going up that high,” she said.

  Lina and I began to fidget. “We want to go,” I said.

  “You could fall out the window,” Mama said, “and break your necks.”

  “But you paid a lot of money for our tickets,” Lina said.

  That did it. Mama gestured with her hand. “Go, go,” she murmured. “Gigi, watch them. Keep them out of trouble.”

  Lina and I bolted for the entrance, thrilled to get rid of both Mama and Babbo. We rode up the elevator with Gigi. When we reached the observation balcony on the top of the pedestal, I wanted to stop there and look out onto the skyline of Manhattan, but Lina was keen on going straight to the top of the crown. “Why not?” Gigi said.

  The metal staircase was deserted. It wound round and round, with cramped landings to rest upon after every second or third turn. Our footsteps echoed against the cold, damp walls, deep and dark as if they were resounding within a cavern. Gigi gave the flashlight to Lina and the clipboard to me. He put his arms around us as he escorted us up the stairs. “So, girls, here we are,” he said. “Inside the symbol of freedom, justice, and liberty. America is a wonderful country.”

  “I like it,” I said.

  “I guess it's okay,” Lina said.

  “It's more than okay,” Gigi said. “In no other country in the world will you find such opportunities. In America, a man can say anything. Do anything. He can read books, go to concerts, attend lectures on religion and philosophy. He can get a good job. Go to school and get an education.”

  “What can girls do?” Lina asked.

  Gigi bit his lip. Then he clapped her on the back. “Marry the men.”

  “Then what?” Lina asked.

  “Make the bambini,” Gigi said.

  “That's stupid,” Lina said, setting her foot squarely down on each step. “I'm never getting married.”

  “You say that now,” Gigi said. “Ten years from now, we'll listen to the tune you'll sing.”

  “You're not married,” Lina pointed out.

  “I haven't found the right girl,” said Gigi. “But I know someday I'll turn the corner, and she'll be there.”

  We breathed heavily as we climbed the stairs. My thighs and knees ached by the time we reached the crown. Only a handful of peo
ple stood up against the windows. When Lina and I pressed our faces up against the pane, we saw the city laid out like so many little building blocks. Clouds clung to the top of the silver skyscrapers. Gigi pointed out the Empire State Building and Central Park. I gazed down and tried to imagine where, in all those buildings, stood the places I had heard so much about—Radio City Music Hall, Carnegie Hall, Grand Central Station, and the United Nations. “There's water all over the place,” Lina said. “And everywhere you look there's another bridge.”

  After a while other people joined us in the crown. Sister Thomas hiked her black skirt up over her ankles and sat down on one of the benches, huffing for breath. “Bella, bella.” She nodded. “La bella donna.” Father Angelosi gestured with the pepperoni as he pointed out what he thought was Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Mrs. Fenilli's purse kept popping open from the provolone, filling the crown with its pungent scent. “Well,” she said to me, “we're here. What do we do now? Go down?”

  I looked around for Lina or Gigi, but I couldn't find them. Leaving Gigi's clipboard on the bench, I stood behind some of the other people, trying to squeeze my way toward a window. Finally Father Angelosi let me in. But I didn't have a very good view of anything—just some of the boats coming into the harbor. I got impatient—and queasy from the height—so I kept looking back over my shoulder for Lina instead of looking out over the water. Finally Lina touched my arm with the flashlight and signaled for me to follow her. I pressed past Father Angelosi. “Where's Gigi?” I asked.