The Shoemaker's Wife(44)

Two old British men wearing rumpled wool suits with plaid vests, the uniforms of il professore, climbed the steps to first class, speaking proper English. An Italian family, with grandmother in tow, headed to second class. She directed her grandsons on the proper technique for hauling the food hampers. It occurred to Ciro that men pretended to run the family, but in truth, the women were in charge. He wondered why this family was emigrating, as it appeared that they were doing well in Italy. It occurred to Ciro that most people were not on the run as he was. Perhaps they were looking for an adventure, just for its own sake. He could not imagine the luxury of that.

“Ciao.”

“Ciao,” Ciro said as he turned to face a man of thirty, with thick brown hair, who wore an immaculate white uniform with colorful bars across the pocket.

“Are you the captain?” Ciro asked.

“The bursar. I’m Massimo Zito.” The man smiled. “I hire the crew here.”

“You speak Italian,” Ciro said, his ears ringing from the circus of sounds around him. “My Italian.”

“And French, Spanish, Portuguese, and English. And a little Arabic.”

“The only language I speak is Italian,” Ciro told him. “And Latin, only because my brother insisted I learn it.”

“Why are you going to America?”

“To make money,” Ciro said. “Is there any other reason?”

“Si, Si. America has lovely women. Do you like blondes? The gold in their hair glitters like the gold in the streets. Brunettes? Like chestnuts, they’re everywhere. Redheads? Like apples in trees, available by the bushel. They work in factories and crack their gum.”

“They can do whatever they want, as long as they talk to me.” Ciro laughed.

A lovely young woman wearing an apricot dress with periwinkle calfskin boots glided up the plank into first class. Ciro and Massimo watched her go.

“I hope this trip takes a lifetime if all the girls on board are that beautiful,” Ciro said.

Massimo laughed. “It’s a brief lifetime. We’ll arrive in nine days. Are you alone?”

“Yes, Signore,” Ciro said.

“Are you looking for a job?”

“That depends,” Ciro said. “What position are you offering?”

“I need another man in the boiler room. Shoveling coal.”

“What are you paying?” Ciro looked off in the bustle below and squinted nonchalantly, just as Iggy had taught him. Never show the padrone you want the job.

“I can pay you three dollars American for nine days’ work.”

“Three dollars?” Ciro shook his head. “I’m sorry. Can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I need ten dollars for that job,” Ciro said. He gazed out over the docks absently, though his heart raced.

“That’s crazy.” Massimo’s voice went up an octave.

Ciro had no idea how hard the job in the belly of the ship would be; he only knew that he was strong, and certainly knew his way around a shovel. If he had dug a grave in a poor village for two lire, surely one American dollar was a fair daily wage for shoveling coal aboard an ocean liner. Ciro talked himself into his firm counteroffer with logic. “Ten dollars, Signor Zito,” Ciro replied evenly.

“You’re out of your mind. Eight dollars,” Massimo countered.

Ciro turned to face Massimo. “I suppose it would be difficile to find someone to shovel the coal at this point. I mean, we’re about to shove off here. You don’t have time to go and empty the local jail, or pick up an ambitious boy on the street who wants to take a ride to America. From the looks of the French boys, you’d be hard pressed to find one strong enough to do the work. They’re as lean as the overpriced baguettes they sell on the pier. I can appreciate the bind you’re in. How about this—I’ll take the eight dollars, if you’ll also refund the fare I paid to ride this boat.”

“You expect one hundred lire plus eight dollars?”

“I’m sure the rest of the crew gets their room and board for free. Including you.” Ciro leaned over the railing and studied the middle distance, awaiting Massimo’s counteroffer.

Finally, Massimo sighed. “You’re going to do very well in America.”

Waves of blistering heat greeted Ciro as Massimo Zito unhinged the entrance door to the furnace room. When the good sisters of Vilminore had taught Ciro about hell, he imagined an open pit with flames. The belly of the SS Chicago came close to their description.

The massive boiler room extended the length of the ship under a low steel-beamed ceiling. It held the mechanics for the coal ovens that heated the water that fed the steam engine. The storage bins for the coal were as deep as the ship, funneled through a large chute that led to the coal pit in the boiler room. From there, the crew shoveled the coal into the furnace. It would take 570 tons of coal to produce enough steam for the SS Chicago's transatlantic voyage, shoveled round the clock by thirty men in twelve-hour shifts. Ciro was the thirtieth hire.

Massimo Zito pulled the overseer off the job to meet Ciro. Christie Benet, a Frenchman and the boss of the operation, was covered in coal dust. The deep furrows of his brow seemed engraved in black ink, making the whites of his eyes look bright and menacing in contrast.

“He’ll do,” Benet told Massimo. He turned to Ciro. “There’s a pair of overalls in the pump room.” Benet turned back to the open mouth of the pit. Ciro was in awe of the mighty furnace, but more so of his good fortune. He had secured his first job, and he hadn’t yet set foot in America.