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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On the following morning I was parting with my gracious hostess and her charming family, tears were rolling down Marie’s cheeks copiously. Her brother Joe broke up the little drama by his usual jests and shoved me in his car.
While waiting on the high platform of the 125th Street station, Joe reassured himself that I didn’t need any financial assistance, exacted my promise to let him know promptly if anything went wrong and gave me some last instructions.
The train approached with a deafening noise and stopped for half a minute. A uniformed colored man stepped down and, after Joe spoke to him on the side and no doubt handed a good tip, he turned to me with a broad grin, accentuated by his white teeth and the white balls of his eyes. He was very attentive to me on the whole trip.
The clean, spacious couch, with wide upholstered seats, seemed to me like one of those rare first class cars which I had admired in Italy, from station platforms. I was traveling on a semi-express train which would take thirty or thirty-six hours to Chicago. The fare was thirty dollars. The express train covered the distance in eighteen hours, but the fare was fifty dollars, and twelve or fifteen hours of my time were not worth the difference. As it was, my cash resources were about thirty dollars, of which I spent two or three dollars for meals on the train. What a luxury to eat in a beautiful dining car, with white table cloths and shiny silver! There was also a compartment with comfortable desks and stationery. I spent much time writing letters.
At nine P.M., the porter motions that the bed is ready and I curl in. I remember the night trip from Naples to Rome, wedged in with other travelers. It feels good to stretch in your own berth, on a soft mattress and under fresh clean sheets. So far, America has been wonderfully generous to me. But I am not building castles in the air and am prepared…
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….to battle my way forward, no matter what the obstacles may be. With those thoughts rambling in my mind, I am rocked to sleep.
When I wake up, plains glide by, like the expanses of ocean I saw the first morning from the porthole of the Moltke. Mile after mile, hour after hour, the flatland unfolds interminably. Tall grass, very few trees, long rustic fences and, once in a long while, herds of jaunty horses with long bushy tails, galloping away into space. No human beings, no cows, no sheep. Unbelievable that all that vast region is unoccupied and uncultivated! And million of toilers in my poor motherland keep on building walls, to hold the sterile mountainsides!
It is getting dark and, answering my inquiry, the porter informs me that we are less than an hour from Chicago. I show him the address of my destination and, by words and mimic, he tells me not to worry, that he would give me advance notice and take care of the baggage. I get off and find myself in a big station, brightly illuminated, where people scuttle in all directions. I look around for Ferrari, but my search is unrewarded. It is possible that both of us have changed beyond each other’s recognition? Nonsense. I would know Ferrari a mile away. He was tall, dark and distinctive.
I had expected him to be there ahead of me, but he is apparently late and, knowing his ways, I am not surprised. Half an hour has elapsed and no sign of my friend. The station is almost empty. Ferrari must have misunderstood the time of my arrival and further waiting is useless. I hire a cab handing the driver a slip with my address.
We go through a cheerless neighborhood, across a rickety wooden bridge and the trotting of our horse is the only thing audible. This must be a short cut and an unfrequented street. We make a few turns and stop in front of a small frame building with an open entrance, Ferrari’s number, on South Halstead Street.
Lugging my baggage, I go up five or six steps and, at the first door on a narrow landing, I press a button. A husky young man opens the door and, with a quiver in my voice, I ask: “Does Mr. Ferrari dwell here?” Just as if I had cracked a joke, he doubles up from laughing and with a stretched arm, he point upstairs. I go up and am greeted by a rather heavily built woman, holding a baby in her arms. Behind her, I hardly recognize Ferrari’s mother, who seems much older than I had…
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…expected. She is happy to see me, introduces her daughter-in-law and asks for her son. I tell her that he wasn’t at the station. “How is that possible? He left here an hour and a half ago to be at the station long before your arrival.”
“Is there perhaps another station?”
“Yes, there are two stations in Chicago. You must have stopped at the wrong one.”
“But the porter on the train told me it was the right one and I got here in less than twenty minutes.”
We are standing in the kitchen. The glaring light shows a worn-out oil cloth on the floor. I make the acquaintance of two pale little boys, one three and the other one five. Stringency is written all over and I feel as if I had fallen in an icy pit, while dreaming. I conceal my shock, but the old lady, Donna Filomena, sees to detect it and very graciously she shows me my room, separated from the kitchen by a narrow hall, which also leads to an antiquated bathroom and two other bedrooms. While I transfer my baggage, Donna Filomena explains that they were planning to move to better quarters, after my arrival, and that they had stayed here for some time, just to please a friend of theirs, an Italian doctor who owned the house and lived downstairs. I reassured her that it was quite comfortable and not to be the least concerned about me. After all, I wasn’t used to luxury.
We return to the kitchen where the odor of tomato sauce has a familiar appeal. Our three cornered conversation is resumed in mixed fragments when Ferrari makes his dramatic appearance. “Toto (another diminutive for Antonio) how in heaven did you get here?…I called the other station and you weren’t there…How did you know that there was another station?…It is a secondary one…” His perspiration was proof of his anxiety and exertion, but he soon calmed down and became most effusive in expressing his delight at seeing me, after so many years. He was the same warm-hearted, generous, emotional fellow of old. He had put on quite a little weight.
After dinner, Ferrari and I went to sit at the far end of the kitchen, while his wife and his mother were attending to the children and the dishes. My friend started to talk about his prospects of big business with the newspaper and in other fields. He was still affected by his old mania…
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…for grandiose achievement and didn’t realize the humbleness of his surroundings. I didn’t give him the slightest inkling of disappointment and, fully appreciating his sacrifice in sending me a steamship ticket and offering me hospitality, I pledged in my own heart to stand by him in anything he would ask me to do.
We retired. My room was small and penuriously furnished. Through its window shone the lights from another house a few feet away. My bed was squeaky and the mattress was rather thin, but I slept soundly.
Next: Chapter 30
