GREEN WATER - The story I wanted to tell you

By Salvatore Giuseppe Pomara

Departures and returns between two different worlds: between the Sicily of traditions, feuding families, and the Mafia; and the United States of love stories, struggles for survival, and the American dream come true. Green Water, the story I wanted to tell you opens off the coast of Lampedusa Island with a shipwreck of immigrants, and continues with the correspondence between Pepo, the novel’s protagonist, and his parents. The facts, places, characters, animals, and even the stones described in this novel are all real, for Green Water, the story that I wanted to tell you is a centuries-long story of immigrants struggling between realities, both old and new.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salvatore Giuseppe Pomara
• Release date: Jun 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9786050384765

Book preview

mine.

Part One

The America

1

They used to leave in the fall, as they were migratory birds. But they were not looking for warmer countries, for they had enough warmth in Sicily. They were simply pursuing a possible life under other skies.

The peasants of Vallerosa were among those who chose America — la Merica bona, the good America. They went to New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and also to Novaleanza, as they called New Orleans. It was the city where so many went, attracted by the climate and by the possibility of being farmers as they had in their own country.

They left Sicily at the beginning of November, after having plowed and sown the fields, taking advantage of the winter months of forced rest to try their luck on the other side of the ocean.

Many did not find suitable conditions to stay and returned.

The air did not agree with me, they used to say, to justify their forced return in the eyes of their fellow-townsmen. But it was simply because they had not found a job that they had returned; the air or climate had nothing to do with it.

If we have to be miserable, we prefer to be so in our town.

Most of those who went away, however, took root in the new land and remained there forever.

"Cu nesci arrinesci — who goes away succeed, they say in Sicily. Those who go succeed" they kept repeating in Vallerosa. Many believed it and departed.

At the end of it all, there was no family that did not have a relative in some corner of the United States.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, more than four million Italians obtained a visa to enter the United States. One million and a half were Sicilians. From Vallerosa, the exodus began in 1880.

It all started when word spread among the peasants and shepherds of the town that there was a land called Merica, rich and a hundred times bigger than Italy, which could change their life from night to day.

Tickets and a guaranteed job, promised Agostino La Fata, sub-agent of an unspecified shipping company, who arrived one Sunday morning from Palermo and began to settle in the wealth of America.

You have even a little luck, he insisted, you can become rich. Or at least, you have a chance to set aside money to buy yourself a piece of land. And with a piece of land in Vallerosa, even the king — with all due respect — would seem like a pig.

That’s the Brooklyn Bridge, those are the skyscrapers, and this is the ship that will take you to America.

With his finger on a poster as large as half a tablecloth, the sub-agent showed the beauty of New York: a city that is the whole world.

The exclamations of wonder were numerous as they watched the Brooklyn Bridge and the skyscrapers.

My word, how high it is!

Incredible!

From where did they take all the iron to build it?

Under the sea and over the bridge!

And the buildings; how big are they?

They are called skyscrapers, for it is like they were scratching the sky; if I had not seen them myself, I would not have believed it, stated Agostino, who spoke like one who had traveled the world.

But where is America? asked one guy, while he was watching the figures dancing before his eyes.

Where is America? Where Jesus Christ lost his shoes; far, far away: twenty, thirty days at sea, who knows, echoed another.

Fifteen days. This is the time our ships take to reach the United States, corrected La Fata, who added, That poster shows but a hundredth part, a thousandth part of …

"Stop there. Do not exaggerate! I have also been in America, the America Argentina, Buenos Aires," interrupted Serafino Spartà.

"But I’m speaking of the good one: La Merica Bona — the Good America, which has nothing to do with ‘the Argentina America.’"

United States, Argentina: they are both America.

"Not so. And also, it is one thing if you have heard about a place, but a completely different thing if you have actually been there. And I have been in America three times, and therefore, I speak with true knowledge about the facts. So when I say that Argentina is different and that the United States is the actual Merica, I am calling bread bread, and wine wine. I am not adding or taking any facts away."

The entire morning and part of the afternoon had been taken to convince some of the people to leave. And now that there was less than an hour left for the train to Palermo, Agostino La Fata would not allow anyone to (as they say) break the eggs he’d collected in his basket.

Serafino Spartà knew perfectly well that the United States was not Argentina. But he was convinced that the guy was not telling the whole truth, so he badgered him to know more.

One last question.

Ask. I’m listening.

I ask myself: Are we sure that those who leave really arrive in America? Or is there the danger that, once on the ship, they are dumped somewhere else with the declaration, ‘This is America!’ as it had happened, if I remember correctly, to fifty emigrants from Girgenti.

That has happened and I cannot deny it, Agostino defended himself, and I’m sorry about that more than anyone else, because, due to some dishonest people, the honest ones will also pay the price.

No offense, added Serafino, but when one hears such horrible stories, it is always safer to keep one’s eyes open. My paesani — townsmen — are simple people. If you tell them that a donkey flies, they will almost believe it. So it is my responsibility to open their eyes."

No offense taken, said La Fata. In my case, however, deceiving the people would mean working against themselves, since I work in this field. The Bastiani Brothers is a shipping company known all over the world, and it has never happened that it was involved in something illegal or that any of its passengers have been wronged. A ticket to the bridge is not automatically a first or second class ticket, of course. Everyone gets what they pay for. The emigrants know it and do not complain. As for the rest, what the company promises, it delivers."

Bastiani Brothers, you said?

Yes, sir.

I do not doubt that it is famous, but personally, I have not heard much about it. On the other hand, there are so many ships that go back and forth from America that one gets confused. For example, I went to Argentina on a Greek ship.

Serafino, in truth, knew the Bastiani Brothers, but he would not give such satisfaction to La Fata. When the guy went away, however, he hastened to reassure everyone.

The ship will take you to the destination, he said. The company is too big and important to get up to any tricks. For the trip, you may sleep without worry. With regard to the cities you will go to, however, I can tell you neither good things nor bad things, for I simply do not know about them. Therefore, as they say, listen to everyone’s advice, but make the final decision on your own.

The shipping companies, interested in filling the belly of their ships to the maximum capacity, tried to recruit as many desperate people as possible to be shipped to America. Many of those who embarked did not remotely imagine what awaited them at the end of the trip. Agostino La Fata did know the truth about all of it, but he was only interested in putting them on the ships and taking the commission for it. The last thing he thought about was their fates.

"For those who have the intention of leaving, here’s the ticket for the boat, and here is the work contract. Don’t worry about food and shelter; li Miricani — the Americans, will take care of everything. You only have to give your signature or write a cross sign, and in fifteen days you’ll be in the bedda Merica — in the beautiful America. And remember that St. Joseph only comes by once, that is to say, ‘luck does not pass a second time’." These were the last words of La Fata, spoken to the Vallerosa Square packed with people.

It can’t get darker than midnight, or lead us to poverty more abject than from which we are fleeing, said those who accepted the offer without thinking twice.

Hundreds emigrated in those years. And most of them had a prepaid ticket.

Of over the two thousand people who lived in Vallerosa, only slightly more than half remained; the others made their way to America. Within a short time, entire families disappeared. And of the many names present once in large numbers in the town, there remained only traces, most of them on the tombstones of the cemetery.

Not all of those who left were lucky enough to get to their destination.

Two families perished at sea a hundred miles from the American coast, and five people were driven back at Ellis Island, when they had thought that they had already arrived.

After the medical check and the processing, those who were admitted to America did not take long to realize that the new land was not the Eldorado they had sought.

This is not America, this is the hell! they complained, while dripping with sweat in the mines of the Midwest.

"La Merica — The America — does not exist!" they wrote to the relatives and friends who had stayed in Sicily.

But the concept of the rich America was so deep-rooted in their minds that they had trouble believing what they read.

And so, wanting to see it for themselves, they too soon left looking for America.

Luckily, more than a few had suspicions that behind the promise of free tickets and a guaranteed job was something else hiding.

The tempting proposals of men like La Fata were not enough to convince everybody that going and working for American companies was the right choice. Some feared that the free tickets and the surety of work hid some surprise. The proposal seemed tempting, but you could not simply trust anyone who comes with your eyes closed.

It was their life. They had to dismantle a house and rebuild it elsewhere. Agostino La Fata apparently seemed like a good person — but you never know what intentions people have inside them!

Many asked for some advice from Rocco Papalia, a shepherd from one of the towns in the Madonie Mountains, who had been living for a short while in the Vallerosa woods. He knew America because he had lived there, and he also knew the promises of the travel agents who had come to recruit in his own town before they had gone to Vallerosa.

Oh Rocco, they asked him, is it true what they say about America, or is it all a tease? It’s always better to know in advance how things are in order to not be caught in a trap due to ignorance.

What you hear about America, began Rocco, is quite a different thing from what it really is. In America, if you work, you’re fine. And if not, it is worse than it is in Sicily. You also need health and a little luck. And keep in mind that not everything that glitters is gold, which, in America, there is none at all. However, I’ve only been to New Orleans and I can speak only of this city. About those who live in New York or in other places, I do not know. But I’m convinced that American cities are all alike. As for the many promises of this and that … my advice is to not take everything they say at face value and to be suspicious; for no one gives anything or leaves a dime if he doesn’t get something in return.

Many treasured the words of Rocco, and many do not. Many also did not even ask him.

We don’t trust him, they said, just look at the life he leads and you will realize that he does not have all his sanity in place.

He has it in place and he’s not foolish. If you get to know him, you will see that, insisted the brothers, Nicola and Paolo Ginestra, two young farmers from Vallerosa who had become their friends.

He’s not crazy at all, they added. We do not know the reasons which led him to be a recluse, but we respect his choice.

Rocco had had let them in on his secret, but they would never have told it to anyone.

2

Rocco had arrived in New Orleans when he was less than twenty years old and his head was full of dreams.

It was the first time he had left his town, and he had not the slightest idea of how things went on around the world. But he had a great desire to work, and he dreamed, like everyone else, of changing his life for the better.

With this hope, he abandoned what little to nothing he had in Sicily and he embarked for Louisiana.

A few days after his arrival, with the help of one of his villagers who had arrived in America years before, he found work at the French Market.

Go to the market and ask for Vinny. Everyone knows him. I am Frank’s cousin, you must say. And he will give you a helping hand.

Rocco got up very early that morning and did as Frank had told him.

Vinny, a Sicilian in his fifties, with a notebook in his hand and a half-Tuscan cigar in his mouth, was busy inspecting the goods that they had just unloaded from a ship.

"Assabinirica — Bless me, greeted Rocco. Frank sent me," he added after a few seconds.

How is he? he asked.

He’s well …

When did you arrive?

I’ve been in America since a week ago yesterday.

You’re a relative of Frank’s, aren’t you?

Yes, I am.

I come from Piana degli Albanesi. Have you been there?

Yes, I have been there once to visit the fair of St. Basil; I had to buy some sheep.

Did you buy them?

Yes, I did, and I made a good deal too.

In New Orleans, there are no sheep, or maybe there are, I do not know … to unload and load cases and bags … this is the job I can give you.

I want to work and any job is fine with me.

I see you have a good head on your shoulders. Come tomorrow. We start at four in the morning.

That’s okay with me.

I will wait for you tomorrow, said Vinnie, and say hello to your cousin for me."

I will, said Rocco.

"Assabinirica and thank you," he added, while Vinny was shaking his hand.

It was half past three and Rocco was already in front of the door of the market: A big arc which was mounted by the label French Market, indicating that the place, the city, and all of Louisiana were once a part of the Kingdom of France.

Once inside, Rocco did not take long to realize that, apart from the name, the market had retained very little of the French. The shouting of the sellers made him feel like he was in Vucciria, one of the historical markets of Palermo.

He had been worried about not knowing the American language. But in the matter of a few hours, he realized that he could do without it. For in the fruit and vegetable market of New Orleans, from the workers to the owners were mostly Italians — or Sicilians, to be more precise.

Many of those who worked with him came from towns not far from Vallerosa, and it was not difficult to make friends. In the area where he was living, it was as if a piece of Sicily — with all its customs, language, food, and norms — had moved there with him. There was even a church. Rocco could not hope for more.

At the French Market, they worked hard — twelve hours a day from four in the morning — but they also found time to kid around or complain, depending on the mood.

Titta Valenti, who was a couple of years older than Rocco, was never short of wisecracks. And his mates followed him freely.

This work must have been invented by the devil.

Who also could have invented it, if not him?

As they say, work does not kill anyone. On the contrary, it ennobles the man.

Man! Immigrant you mean!

We were not men in Italy, he continued, and we’re not men in America.

We are only numbers and nothing else.

"We are meat for slaughter."

America, America, you are the death of me, they chanted, as they moved crates of cucumbers, eggplants, tomatoes, pepperoni, and all kinds of vegetable and fruits.

All this under the watchful eyes of the boss — a big man with a French name who did not understand a word of Sicilian but repeated ad nauseam: work must go on.

They knew the work had to go on and could not slow for any reason in the world. Therefore, they spoke without looking at each other while they kept passing the crates from one end of the warehouse to the other.

The job itself was not harder than any other, but it did not give them a moment of rest, especially so early in the morning when hundreds of loaded carts arrived from the farms. They had to unload the produce in a split second and set the fruit and vegetables in the proper stands, making sure to arrange the best ones at the front and the not so good one at the back.

That time at the French Market was, for Rocco, a happy period.

Besides having a steady job, he also happened to fall in love. And when one falls in love, the entire world seems fair, and there is no difficulty he could not overcome.

A good woman makes a house and a bad one destroys it, said his grandmother. He was looking for a good woman who would help him start a family, as his father, bonarma (bless his soul), had done before him, and as his grandfather had done before that — because, if there was ever a thing they believed in, it was family.

Rocco hoped so much to follow the family tradition and not betray the teachings of his parents and of his grandmother, who had raised him like a son.

There had been enough girls in his town but, at the time, he had had other things on his mind than to look at some of them with the intention of getting married; and then, even if he had considered it, how could he have supported a wife?

The girl he fell in love with was called Pilar. She was not an American (they would not even look at him), and she was not an Italian. She was a Mexican chica.

The first time he saw her, she was standing in front of the tropical fruit stand.

Can I help you? he asked.

No thanks.

Are you American?

No, I come from Mexico, she replied.

She’s as beautiful as the sun, mumbled Rocco, who kept looking at her as she walked away.

Pilar worked at a dressmaker’s two blocks past the market. And every night, she walked the same street as he, so he had the chance to meet her more than once. It was Pilar who took the initiative with a smile: a radiant smile showing her very white teeth. Rocco’s gaze ran down; he could not believe his eyes while he returned her smile.

My name is Pilar.

I am Rocco.

A smile, a word, two, and even another smile.

"Quantu si bedda! — How beautiful you are," exclaimed Rocco, while touching her face with his fingers. Pilar closed her eyes and tilted her head as if to lean in to the caress. A shiver ran down her spine, and she turned to seek Rocco’s face. He kissed the corner of her mouth and held her until it hurt.

They met again at the same hour every evening after work: One week, two, a month, another, and yet another.

They simply started one afternoon, talking about silly things, and ended up holding hands.

Rocco could only think of the girl with chocolate skin and black curls, and Pilar too had lost her head for that