Elizabeth Street Part 1

ELIZABETH STREET.

A NOVEL BASED ON TRUE EVENTS.

by LAURIE FABIANO.

PROLOGUE.

HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY, 1985.

"We lived at 202 Elizabeth Street." My grandmother looked away from the video camera to my head. "How come you don't do anything about your hair? Why don't you go to the beauty parlor?"

I ignored her. It was a refrain, not a question. "Nanny, try not to move around so much. You keep coming out of the frame."

For the tenth time, I got up to adjust the camera. My grandmother was seated on the couch and wore a red polyester s.h.i.+rt. Her dyed blonde hair had been set so that two curls framed her face, which was overwhelmed by her gold-rimmed gla.s.ses. She was eighty years old and could remember details from more than half a century ago, but not what she had eaten for lunch.

"How many more questions?" complained Nanny halfheartedly.

As Nanny had gotten older, she had mellowed. She said h.e.l.lo to people she didn't know well and showed her grandchildren more affection. It had taken two decades, but at twenty-eight, I was as close to my grandmother as anyone could be. Still, she was stubborn, and if I was going to get what I wanted on tape, it would take manipulation and coaxing.

"We just got started," I said, trying to sound sweet and patient.

"I don't know why you're doing this anyway," she grumbled.

"I told you. My memory isn't as good as yours. You don't want me s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the facts if I try to tell these stories to my kids someday."

"Some things you shouldn't tell."

PART ONE.

SCILLA, CALABRIA, ITALY 18901901

ONE.

Giovanna Costa gripped her father's arm as he escorted her down the aisle. Nearly everyone from the tiny southern fis.h.i.+ng village was in the church of the pescatori, pescatori, Santa Maria di Porto Salvo. People smiled at her, some whispered. Giovanna wondered what they were whispering and guessed it was nothing she hadn't heard before. Comments like, " Santa Maria di Porto Salvo. People smiled at her, some whispered. Giovanna wondered what they were whispering and guessed it was nothing she hadn't heard before. Comments like, "Finalmente, it's about time!" and "What took them so long?"

Nunzio glowed at the base of the altar. He was tall, taller than Giovanna even, and with the sun blazing through the windows making his deep red hair a bright gold, he resembled a lit taper. Even from this distance she could feel his warmth and see beyond his eyes. His gaze lifted her up and sent them both spinning into their own little world, which was where they existed most of the time.

The village of Scilla was their pezzo di cielo caduto in terra pezzo di cielo caduto in terra-piece of heaven fallen to earth. They lived in the Chia.n.a.lea, the oldest part of town, which housed the fishermen. Cobblestone alleys led to their stone houses, perched on the water. The crystal-clear azure sea lapped at their front doors, and their boats were docked at their doorsteps. Their backdoors and terraces led onto the narrow streets and alleys that wound up the mountain.

Scilla was situated on three levels, divided into three parts. The town jutted into the sea. At its point was the ruin of a castle that had been conquered and inhabited by countless invaders and clergy since it was built in A.D. 500. On one side of the castle was the Chia.n.a.lea. On the other, the half-moon-shaped Marina Grande. There the houses were set in from the sea, and the sandy beach served to dry the fishermen's nets. Above the Chia.n.a.lea was San Giorgio, the newer part of the city, where the town square and city hall overlooked the splendor of the Calabrian coast and Sicily's Aeolian Islands. And beyond San Giorgio were terraced lemon groves and farms that reached to the top of the mountains.

It was here that Giovanna and Nunzio grew like the vines on the village Indian fig trees, intertwined in such a way that it was impossible to know where one branch started and where the other ended. Giovanna did not know life without Nunzio. Her father and his mother were brother and sister. Their houses were two doors apart, and they were born two months apart. Although her earliest memories all had Nunzio at her side, it wasn't until she was six years old that she realized that life did not exist without him. Nunzio was hoisting baskets of smelts onto the dock from her uncle's fis.h.i.+ng boat. As Nunzio turned to say h.e.l.lo, he slipped, sending the fish flying. Giovanna laughed. Giovanna had a throaty, hearty laugh even at that age. Instead of getting angry, Nunzio did it over and over again until Giovanna laughed so hard she had to gulp for air.

When Giovanna and Nunzio weren't doing ch.o.r.es, they were in the water. They would swim out to one of the many rocks that dotted Scilla's coastline and use it as home base to explore the sea around them. The clear water showcased a kaleidoscope of color, created by hundreds of species of fish and coral. Over the years they had developed the ability to hold their breath for long stretches and dive underwater to explore the reefs and wrecks.

Early on, Giovanna's father and aunt had a.s.sured each other it was a childhood crush. There was a road to Scilla now; the people of Scilla were not obliged to marry cousins. With each day, though, it became more apparent that Giovanna and Nunzio were a matter of destiny, not circ.u.mstance. If someone commented, Giovanna's father and aunt stoically repeated what their father said on the subject of marriages within the family: "It makes the blood stronger."

When Giovanna reached p.u.b.erty at fourteen, they were no longer allowed to spend hours alone together. Because they were cousins and neighbors, they saw each other many times a day, but their unchaperoned adventures came to an end.

As Giovanna made her way down the aisle, she glimpsed the faces witnessing her journey to the altar. Each face held a story about her life with Nunzio. There was Paolo Caruso, who had saved her leg. Early one spring, she and Nunzio had climbed the narrow steps out of the Chia.n.a.lea, raced through the plateau of San Giorgio, and picked their way through the lemon groves and then headed to the farms to trade fish for goat cheese and milk. Giovanna fell over a stone wall, cutting her long, thin leg to the bone. Paolo was the first to hear Nunzio's cries and carried Giovanna home on his back. Nunzio trotted alongside, bravely singing Giovanna's favorite songs while holding his s.h.i.+rt around her leg to stop the bleeding.

Giovanna smiled at her older cousin Pasquale. Many times, this still formidable man had served as their protector. As children on the beach, Giovanna and Nunzio would search among the water-polished stones and fragments of terra-cotta for the ancient Greek and Roman coins that frequently washed ash.o.r.e, particularly after a storm. They would use these thousand-year-old coins, with bits and pieces of heroic images still visible, for a pitching game played in the narrow alleys of the Chia.n.a.lea. Once, older boys had cheated them out of their prize coins during a game. All burly Pasquale had done was knock on the culprits' doors, and the treasure was quickly returned to its rightful owners.

Zia Antoinette's cracked face brightened when Giovanna pa.s.sed. Zia Antoinette had been the first of many to catch Nunzio and Giovanna kissing. She'd whacked Nunzio so hard with her broom that Nunzio would later joke that kissing Giovanna made his head spin and culo culo hurt. hurt.

Giovanna pa.s.sed the row holding Nunzio's sister, Fortunata, her pregnant belly, and six children. The older boys, Orazio and Raffaele, were already fishermen. They stood tall next to their lean, muscular father, Giuseppe Arena. Fortunata's youngest boy, Antonio, waved to Giovanna from the pew.

Giovanna was also conscious of who was missing. In her mind she placed her brother, Lorenzo, who lived in America, and Nunzio's father, who had succ.u.mbed to cholera a decade ago, at the end of the aisle with her mother, Concetta, and Nunzio's mother, Zia Marianna.

Tears streamed down Concetta's and Marianna's faces and over their delicate features. Giovanna always thought the sisters-in-law looked like matching porcelain dolls: one with dark chestnut hair like her own, the other with red hair like Nunzio's. They were close, and even now they did not separate to sit on opposite sides of the aisle, as was customary for in-laws, but stood together holding hands.

Nunzio and Giovanna had grown up listening to their mothers talk and gossip while they wove linens and embroidered late into the night. They marveled at how quickly their mothers turned the simple string into strong and beautiful cloths. When Giovanna and Nunzio were twelve, they heard Concetta and Marianna planning to sew together two tablecloths they had made to create one large enough to cover the Christmas dinner table. On the night before their mothers were to st.i.tch the two cloths together, Giovanna and Nunzio each took the string from their mothers' sewing baskets, and out of sight in the moonlight reflected by the sea, they pulled the string slowly through their mouths. When Concetta and Marianna knotted the st.i.tches that wove the two halves together, they did not know they were accomplices in Nunzio and Giovanna's first act of commitment. And only the week before the wedding, Concetta still did not know why Giovanna was so insistent that the stained and tattered Christmas tablecloth be part of her trousseau.

Nunzio took Giovanna's hand after she had kissed her father and he'd shuffled into the pew beside his wife and sister. The couple's eyes locked. Nunzio said he saw the sea in Giovanna's eyes. He often told her that when he was out fis.h.i.+ng he imagined himself sailing on her gaze, and that like the sea, the color of her eyes changed before a storm. Nunzio could tell from the color of the water what the day's catch would be, and he could tell from the color of Giovanna's eyes whether she was tranquil or had dark undertows. For her part, Giovanna felt that Nunzio's eyes were windows. When life held her captive, she could escape through those windows. She could see farther and more clearly through Nunzio's eyes.

Unlocking their gaze, they turned toward the priest and faced the altar of Santa Maria di Porto Salvo. The church was humble on the outside, simple stone and stucco. But inside, the frescoes that covered every wall turned the village church into a cathedral of dramatic proportions for the fishermen. Scilla's history surrounded the paris.h.i.+oners and was interrupted only by windows onto its subject; and if the light was right, the view outside became one with the paintings. The tale of the creation of the frescoes had become part of village lore. It was a story built on stories:

One hundred years ago, an itinerant painter wandered into Scilla looking for work. The church had just been built, and the whitewashed walls mocked the paris.h.i.+oners with their poverty. The fishermen invited the painter to a town meeting in the church, where young and old regaled the painter with tales of Scilla. As they spoke, he sketched their faces and gestures in charcoal on paper they normally used to wrap the fish.

The oldest person in the village, Nunzio's great-great-grandfather Giacomo, told the oldest tale. "Scilla," he began with great flourish, "was the town Scyllae from Greek myth." He made it known to the painter that they were all good Christians, but that didn't mean there wasn't something to the legend-otherwise, there was no explanation for why the waters between Scilla and Sicily were so treacherous.

The painter apologized. "Signore, I am an illiterate man who only knows the stories of the Bible."

Giacomo smiled. He had hoped the artist did not know of Scylla. He relished the opportunity to recount the chilling legend and to watch his friends' and family's faces as they reacted to different parts of the story.

Giacomo eased back into his chair and moved a candle closer to his face. When he described in detail the beautiful nymph Scylla, who was loved by the G.o.d Glaucus, he studied the men's expressions. Giacomo knew they would miss the next part about Glaucus asking Circe for a love potion because their minds had not yet finished caressing Scylla's lithe and silken body. When he told of Circe's jealous rage, as she herself was in love with Glaucus, Giacomo saw the disapproval of the women. They sucked in their cheeks and shook their heads at such selfish emotion. The children's eyes widened when he told of how Circe had turned Scylla into a hideous creature with twelve feet and six heads. "Scylla was cursed to remain on a solitary rock and devour sailors as they attempted to navigate the Straits of Messina," Giacomo recounted dramatically. The children hugged their legs and drew them into their chests.

"Ever since," Giacomo directed his closing comments to the painter, "should a sailor survive Scylla's wrath, he would soon encounter the deadly whirlpool Cariddi, which lay in wait across the strait on the Sicilian side. This is why we say, 'Tra una pietra ed un posto duro'-'Between a rock and a hard place.'" Giacomo punctuated the ending by lifting his wine gla.s.s to Scylla and Cariddi. The artist captured the gesture perfectly, immortalizing Nunzio's great-great-grandfather Giacomo as Saint Paul.

Another villager had been waiting for her moment. She had listened attentively to her father's stories of ancient Scyllae, and when he died at sea she had become the unofficial town historian. Rocking her sleeping child in her lap, she began with great drama: "The blood of one hundred nations courses through our veins." She pointed into the night as if the painter could see the view beyond her hand. "There," she announced, "Sicilia. You can practically touch it. Every king and warrior believed they had to control Scyllae to control Sicilia. Scyllae was conquered so many times that the villagers lost track of who ruled the town-and were often reminded by the tip of a sword."

After many more stories, most of which were true, the oldest fisherman, Agostino Bellantoni, cleared his throat to gain the floor. His feet shuffled beneath him, and he hung his head humbly. "Signore Artista"-his voice was at first tentative but gained conviction as he continued-"we enjoy these old stories. But Scilla is what it has always been, a village of simple fishermen and goat herders. This may not be exciting to an artist, but Scilla is for us the sea, Scilla is the cliffs, the trees of lemons, and now, our church."

The most beautiful painting was behind the altar. Giovanna had studied it a thousand times, but today she felt herself standing in the boat with the disciples hauling in nets full of fish. The disciples looked at her with the familiar faces of the Costa, Pontillo, and Arena families of Scilla. Saint Paul, holding high a crucifix, gave her a warm smile from underneath his intense expression. Gazing from the boat, she saw Scilla's mythical cliffs, and beyond the cliffs was heaven.

Giovanna was a devout Catholic. Nunzio occasionally accompanied her to church, but she knew Nunzio treated his faith merely like an important tradition. She had decided his scientific mind wouldn't allow him devotion, but she forgave him because she loved the way his mind worked. She marveled at how he would use numbers to solve problems and how he could look at a building, a boat, or anything in three dimensions and know intuitively how it was built.

Nunzio was fixing fis.h.i.+ng boats by the time he was eight. When he was twelve he was improving on them. From May through August, the fishermen of Scilla caught the best pescespada pescespada-swordfish-in the entire world. They had built a special boat and developed a unique system for spearing the elusive giants. A pole jutted fifteen feet into the air from the center of the boat. A man acting as lookout balanced at the top of this pole, his feet perched on two small blocks. Beneath him, four standing men rowed the boat, and a sixth man stood at the prow, spear and rope at the ready to launch into the speeding pescespada.

When Vittorio Macri's boat was not moving quickly enough, it was Nunzio who figured out that the boat's balance was off because of a misplaced center pole. And when he was only a teenager, Nunzio worked with the forger to create a better spearhead, which locked into the fish when the rope was pulled back.

Nunzio enjoyed his elevated position in the village. He was proud that his father's friends came to him for a.s.sistance; it only made him love Scilla more. It was decided that Nunzio had a gift and should become an engineer. It meant leaving and going north to study. Felipe, the sometime village schoolmaster, warned him that he would be treated badly. He said they would call Nunzio a peasant and laugh at his clothes and dialect. But the prospect of losing status, of being mocked, all paled next to the thought of leaving Giovanna. In the end, Giovanna made the decision easy. She said that she would not marry him unless he went to school and came back an engineer.

It took Nunzio more than five years to finish his studies. Being from the Mezzogiorno, he was forced to work for less pay than his fellow students in his apprentices.h.i.+p, and the professors often held Nunzio's work to a higher standard, forcing him to repeat lessons. While these injustices kept him away from Scilla longer than planned, Nunzio reminded himself that it was a miracle he was studying at all. He would not spend his life, as every man of his family had before him, taking fish from the sea. Giovanna cursed their decision; life was intolerable without him. But her chest swelled with pride when someone asked if she had heard from "Maestro" Nunzio, a t.i.tle reserved for respected professionals.

To make the time pa.s.s while Nunzio was away, Giovanna worked day and night. In the early mornings she cleaned her family's narrow three-story house, starting from the top floor, with its terrace that overlooked both sea and village, and moving on to the second floor, which opened to the alley behind the house, and ending with the bottom floor, which faced the sea and the family's fis.h.i.+ng boat. After cleaning, she would go to her parents' fish store to ready it for the day's catch. She would return to the store in the afternoon after the midday meal to sell fish to the people of the Marina Grande and San Giorgio. When this routine left her with too much time in the evenings, she started trailing Signora Scalici, the town's midwife.

Giovanna had long been the person to whom villagers in the Chia.n.a.lea brought sick animals. When Giovanna held a hurt animal, it would calm down, and if she couldn't help the animal, she would hold it until it died to ease the creature's pa.s.sing. She was equally as nurturing with plants. On the family's terrace, a garden flourished in pots, and this became Giovanna's laboratory. She devised poultices for drawing out infections and healing wounds using a variety of herbs.

So when people saw Giovanna with the midwife, they acted like they had known all along that one day Giovanna would deliver the babies of the village. While it was a natural progression, some of the women were not happy at first. They thought Giovanna had airs. They disapproved of how she took charge in the fish store and had no problem scolding men about the quality or price of their fish. And the women were puzzled and suspicious of her decision to allow Nunzio to go north without marrying her.

As each year went by, more and more of Giovanna's time was spent helping Signora Scalici deliver Scilla's next generation. After their initial mistrust, the mothers liked having Giovanna around. Signora Scalici was kind, but all business. Giovanna could help take the minds of birthing mothers elsewhere when the pain was unbearable and focus them when the time was right.

Early in her training, she had helped deliver her childhood friend Francesca Marasculo's third baby. It had been a fast delivery. The women had cleaned up and left. Giovanna was to forever remain haunted by the screams of Francesca's husband echoing off the stone houses as he ran through the Chia.n.a.lea calling for help. He had woken up in a pool of Francesca's blood, as she lay hemorrhaging and unconscious beside him. By the time the midwives reached her, Francesca was dead, her two young children clinging to her limp hands.

Francesca's death became a scar that knit itself on Giovanna's soul. From that time forward, after birthing a baby, Giovanna spent the night with the mother, cooking, cleaning, and keeping a watchful eye. For that, too, she had earned the respect and trust of the women of the village.

The wedding guests had returned to their pews following communion. The church was silent. Nunzio and Giovanna knelt before the altar. The priest nodded, and Nunzio squeezed Giovanna's hand as they got up. Giovanna's mind stopped wandering. The joyful weight of the moment nearly made her fall.

"Do you, Nunzio Pontillo, take Giovanna Costa to be your wife?" Nunzio was at sea as he looked into Giovanna's blue eyes and said yes from their depths.

"Do you, Giovanna Costa, take Nunzio Pontillo to be your husband?" Giovanna felt complete when she said, "Yes." Life was as it should be and how it was meant to be.

S. Finalmente.

TWO.

Nunzio and Giovanna were born not long after the unification of Italy. As a child, Nunzio would climb on his uncle's donkey, with a stick for a bayonet, and pretend he was Italian revolution general Giuseppe Garibaldi, riding into town to exile the foreign rulers. Giovanna would cheer and wave a red cloth. When their elders said the word "Risorgimento!" Giovanna and Nunzio could hear the defiance, hope, and pa.s.sion in every syllable. Now, years later, it was different. It was as if the adults were saying an ex-lover's name. There was still an attraction in their voices, but you could hear the betrayal.

One of the changes since unification was that sometimes Giovanna and Nunzio went to school. School was the rented room of a teacher sent from the north. The professore professore never lasted long, but when there was a professore in town, Giovanna's and Nunzio's parents insisted that they go. The town was supposed to build a school with money from the north, but the school was never built, and the money disappeared. Despite fleeing teachers and nonexistent cla.s.srooms, somehow Giovanna and Nunzio learned to read and write, and this alone distinguished them from most of the other children. But the majority of their education came from proverbs, legends, and conversation they overheard in the town square-the never lasted long, but when there was a professore in town, Giovanna's and Nunzio's parents insisted that they go. The town was supposed to build a school with money from the north, but the school was never built, and the money disappeared. Despite fleeing teachers and nonexistent cla.s.srooms, somehow Giovanna and Nunzio learned to read and write, and this alone distinguished them from most of the other children. But the majority of their education came from proverbs, legends, and conversation they overheard in the town square-the chiazza chiazza.

The chiazza was Scilla's heartbeat. It was on the third level in Scilla and overlooked the castle, the neighborhood of the Chia.n.a.lea, and the beach. Its western end jutted out over the sea. Adjacent to the square were rows of pino marino trees and flowering bushes; in June the air was scented with honeysuckle. In good weather, which was nearly every day, people would gather there in the evenings, and on Sundays. Children were scooted away to play so that the adults could have a gla.s.s of wine and gossip. Giovanna and Nunzio had a spot under a bougainvillea bush where they could listen undetected while they sh.e.l.led and sucked on pistachios.

They loved when the talk turned from the village to the news of the world. Town gossip was boring. Generally it was a topic the men all agreed upon, and it made for uneventful conversation. "The fish are running good," and they would all nod and grumble in agreement, "S, the fish are running good." But when the subject was the politics of Italy, that was an entirely different matter. Arguments and curses flew fast and furious, fists were raised in dramatic thrusts, and unlikely alliances were both made and broken. the fish are running good." But when the subject was the politics of Italy, that was an entirely different matter. Arguments and curses flew fast and furious, fists were raised in dramatic thrusts, and unlikely alliances were both made and broken.

When Giovanna and Nunzio heard that a northern newspaper had made its way into town, it didn't matter how many ch.o.r.es they had, they would make sure they were under the bougainvillea bush with an extra stash of pistachios and a flask of wine. On these nights, Vittorio, one of the few contadini contadini in the village who could read, would scrub his hands and muscular forearms with lemons to rid them of the fish smell and put on his best s.h.i.+rt. He would stride to the chiazza and sit in the prime spot that had been reserved for him. Within minutes, scores of men would gather around Vittorio with the women on the perimeter pretending to be absorbed in their sewing. in the village who could read, would scrub his hands and muscular forearms with lemons to rid them of the fish smell and put on his best s.h.i.+rt. He would stride to the chiazza and sit in the prime spot that had been reserved for him. Within minutes, scores of men would gather around Vittorio with the women on the perimeter pretending to be absorbed in their sewing.

Vittorio would read aloud from what was usually a Roman newspaper, although sometimes a paper made it all the way from Milano. Their local newspaper was published in Reggio and written in their dialect, but it didn't have the same incendiary content of the northern papers. The northern papers were written in Italian, which was only vaguely similar to the dialect spoken in Scilla. Also, the paper was invariably three months old, and along the way pages had been torn out to blow a nose or to wrap the day's catch. So Vittorio would struggle to read what was left of the words that most closely resembled his own language.

"And then, the pig says"-Vittorio was p.r.o.ne to commentary-"our Italia must be protected by an Italian army. Our good men from l'alta Italia are serving, and so must the lazy dogs of the south whose families whine that they can't leave their farms."

"That stupid son of a wh.o.r.e!" Luigi DiFranco, a goat herder, shouted, jumping on his chair. It wobbled on the uneven cobblestones beneath. "If my son goes in their G.o.dd.a.m.n army, who will take care of the goats and make the cheese to pay their taxes!!??"

Every man shouted at once.

"Who will fix the nets?"

"Dogs! They are pigs! Sporcaccioni! Sporcaccioni!"

"How come they tax my mule but not their rich friends' cows? I'm not stupid!"

"Will their sons plow my land?"

The men were so loud that Vittorio's brother lit a firecracker to stun them into silence.

Cesare, one of the oldest men in the village, was the first to speak. "Who is this Italia and why does she need an army? Is she a Roman queen?"

After a moment there was laughter, but Vittorio was getting impatient; he wanted to continue reading. "Cesare, do you know nothing? Italia is the country we live in. The north, the south, Sicilia, we are all this country of Italia."

"Cesare's right!" The firecracker had done little to change Luigi's mood. "Who is this Italia? I'm Calabrese Calabrese. I can't afford to be an Italian. They taxed my goat, they taxed my mule, and now they want to take my son. Italian my a.s.s!"

"It's the price we pay for a united Italy. Do you want to be conquered every time the winds blow?" Vittorio felt he had to defend unification.

"No, but I want to eat!" shouted Luigi.

"I hear the northerners aren't running to join their army," another man shouted. "A s.h.i.+p captain in Naples told me the northerners are leaving in droves for South America."

It was like another firework had exploded. Voices overlapped. Hands and arms were not enough for gesticulation. They jumped up and down and acted out emotions. Someone fell off a wobbly chair. From afar, the group looked like it was engaged in a bizarre ritual dance.

"Leave their homes? When do they come back?"

"If there are no northerners in the north, let's move!"

"Have you ever seen a Piemontese Piemontese row a boat?" row a boat?"

The men talked until Luigi's one-eyed demented rooster crowed midnight, and Giovanna and Nunzio stayed under the bougainvillea bush until their mothers pulled them out by their ears. Giovanna couldn't remember if that was the first time she heard talk of people going to other lands, but from that moment on it was a constant topic.