“So you’ll start when?” Julietta and Luciana had continued on, oblivious to Annamaria’s plight.
“Soon. Of course, I’ll have to learn better English. That’s what Madame said.”
“Better English . . .” Luciana didn’t know any English at all, but she needed to. She had no hope of survival in this country without it.
“I told her I’d take a course at the Settlement House.”
“A course?”
“A class. Where they teach you English.”
“It’s a . . . school?”
Julietta shrugged. She supposed it was like a school.
“Where is this place?”
“The Settlement House?” Didn’t the girl know anything?
“Over on Parmenter.”
“And they would teach you English at this place?”
“You and everyone else.”
That was something to think about. She wondered how much it would cost.
Annamaria spent the rest of the day pulling out her work and then starting over again. If she refolded the material, she thought she just might be able to hide the stain within the fold of a pleat. Julietta worked with swift hands. She wondered how many more leaves and vines she’d have to embroider. How many more flowers she would have to create before she could lay down that work forever. She imagined herself in the sleek and elegant clothes of a shop owner. Part owner. Wondered if she shouldn’t start altering some of her clothes to that end now.
Just how long would Madame make her wait?
At the end of the day she gathered her things quickly and ran down the stairs without a backward glance. She needed to celebrate her good fortune by herself, on the streets of downtown Boston. She needed to align herself with destiny just as surely as she needed to visit the Settlement House.
She was at North Street before she became aware of her surroundings. Before she descended from her daydreams long enough to register a male voice.
“Buon giorno.”
Angelo! She smiled as she turned.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“Have you?”
“I have.” He linked an arm through hers, pulling her along with him.
Julietta’s heart thrilled at his touch.
“You owe me something, Signorina.”
“I – I do?”
“You owe me your name. I gave you mine . . . ?”
She smiled. “Julietta.”
“Julietta?”
“Giordano.”
“Julietta Giordano. Well. You have to stop running away from me, Julietta Giordano. So that we can get to know one another. You want to go for a walk? To the waterfront?”
Oh, but – she was supposed to be signing up for an English class. Wasn’t that what Madame had said? And what if she asked Julietta what the classes were like? Or worse, asked her to say something in English!
He tugged at her elbow. “Come on.”
I’d like to say that she hesitated more than a moment. I long to tell you that she refused him altogether, but alas, that would not have been true. As she stared into his eyes, she decided that English lessons could wait one day more.
They walked down to North Bennet and then turned onto Commercial Street by the wharves, Angelo saluting carters and longshoremen, until they reached the water. Amid the clop of horses’ hooves, the honking of trucks, and the teamsters’ cries, they stood together, gazing out at the harbor. She knew somewhere out there, beyond the wharves and ships, was the ocean. And somewhere beyond that was the old country. That land of family and tradition and la miseria. She turned her eyes upon him. “Where are you from, Angelo?”
“Roma.”
Roma? It wasn’t such a usual place to be from. Not in America.
“And what did you do there?”
He shrugged. “Whatever I wanted. I was a student.” And so he was. He’d studied Stirner’s amorality as well as Armand’s free love; he was dedicated to both those causes and methodical in practicing their disciplines.
She’d suspected that he was smart. He drove a truck, didn’t he? “And what were you studying?” What did people study? “Medicine?” People besides Mauro. “Law?”
“Something like that. What I was studying will cure what infects the world. And all the people in it. Nectarine?” He’d taken it from a crate when no one was looking. It wasn’t an ice cream, but it was something.
He bowed as she took it from him, letting his eyes roam her face. “And what do you do?”
“I work for a gown maker. And she’s going to make me her partner. She told me so herself, just this day.” And telling someone somehow made it seem more official.
“Partner? In a shop?” Angelo wasn’t nearly as jubilant as she was. “Why would you want to be her partner?”
Why? – men! When had they ever understood anything when it came to fashion? “It’s a fancy shop. Where the finest ladies in Boston come to buy their gowns.”
“Finest? By that you must mean the richest.”
Wasn’t it the same thing? And why did he have to speak so scornfully?
“Why would you want to become a parasite and oppressor of the poor? You don’t seem like that kind of a person.”
Parasite? Oppressor of the poor? “I didn’t say any of that, I only said that she wants to make me her partner.”
“Your shop owner doesn’t actually make the gowns, does she?”
“She drapes them and fits them. Like a genius. The best in Boston.”
“And then I suppose she makes everyone else put them together.”
Well, of course she did. “She pays us for it.” Julietta forgave him his great disdain, for how could a man be expected to know what making a gown required?
“Ah! But how much does she pay you? Not nearly what you’re worth, I’d guess. She keeps some of what she makes for herself, doesn’t she?”
“I suppose she should. She owns the shop.”
“And yet it’s you who does all the work.”
Julietta had never thought about it like that. But it was true. In a way.
“She owns the shop, she’s undoubtedly rich, and she becomes richer off your labor. She’s a parasite. She’s making all of her money from your hard work.”
He made it sound as if she deserved more money. Imagine asking Madame for a raise! There were at least three girls down on the second floor who aspired to her position. Asking for more money would be the same as telling Madame to let her go! But then, he’d just come over from the old country, hadn’t he? Perhaps he didn’t yet understand how America worked. “Perhaps she is. But what’s wrong with a pretty gown?”
Nothing. He liked seeing a pretty girl in a pretty gown just as well as any other man. He’d like Julietta’s better, of course, if her neckline were lower. And the skirt even a bit higher. “I just hate to see a girl like you deceived by all that propaganda.”
“And what am I supposed to do if I don’t work?” She couldn’t imagine such a thing.
“You could ride along in the truck with me.”
All day? Much as she liked Angelo, much as she hoped her future would include him, she knew that none of her best assets would be showcased sitting beside him all day in a truck. “Maybe I could. But I’d have to ride in one first to see if I’d like it, wouldn’t I?” She threw the nectarine pit into the litter-strewn water, then turned on a heel and began walking away.
“But – where are you going?”
She turned, but continued to walk, one dainty foot, one slender ankle behind the other. “Home.” She smiled and gave a little wave.
“Meet me tomorrow. Here.”
She nodded and then she disappeared from view around the corner.
Tomorrow! He’d asked her to meet him tomorrow. Of course . . . she’d told Madame she’d work on her English. She almost turned around and went back to tell Angelo she couldn’t see him. But . . . wouldn’t he think her a child to be so unsure of what she wanted? To keep changing her mind? She was old enough to do what she wanted. Isn’t that what she’d told Mama? And that’s exactly what she planned to keep on doing! As far as she’d seen, America was about doing what you wanted.
While Julietta was talking with Angelo, Luciana was back on Beacon Hill. She’d been sent to retrieve the sample books from Mrs. Quinn. And this time, Billy wasn’t going out to The Tennis and Racquet Club, he was coming back. He jogged up the steps behind her and opened the door for her. What good fortune! What great luck!
She was wearing the same gown she’d worn the day before, an ivory color, in a fabric so insubstantial it seemed to float in the air around her. It was done up with a sash that let him know that underneath all those layers she was as slender as she was lithe. He wondered anew what country she was from. Had he had the advantage of a classical education, he would have known how to speak Italian. Proper Italian. Her Italian. As it was, his mother had never let him learn it. It was the one point from which his father could never sway her.
“For what purpose?” she had always asked. “So that he can speak to those filthy, destitute immigrants? Why should he have to learn to speak to them? They ought to be learning to speak to him.”
His father would always sigh and shake his head. Protest that not all Italians were like that, while his mother argued that of course they were, a peculiar sort of triumph lighting her eyes.
Billy had learned a different language instead. And he could speak it quite well, though he hadn’t kept up with those studies since the war had started. German wasn’t something that anyone wanted to admit to speaking. Not anymore.
While Luciana was waiting to be given the sample books, Billy slipped outside and dismissed her waiting car. Then he asked for the Packard Twin to be brought around instead. He wanted to speak to her again. Or at least try to. He knew it probably wasn’t the most proper thing to do, but how many more times could he expect her to show up on his doorstep? When he was home? And in any case, he couldn’t ask her permission to drive her home. She didn’t understand him. He had to present it as a
fait accompli
.
She came out the door and made it down one step before she realized her motorcar had gone. She stepped back up onto the porch. Looked up the street. Put a hand up to shield her eyes from the slanting sun. Looked down the street. Her motorcar was nowhere to be seen. “Mannaggia!” She’d had to endure the strega’s sharp looks and the diatribe the woman had given, and now her motorcar had gone.
There was no help for it. She’d have to walk back to Madame’s. And then she’d still have to walk home. She sighed. Looked down toward her throbbing feet. She’d finally set aside enough money to buy new shoes, but she hadn’t been able to afford the best quality. The leather was too stiff. They had been biting into her heels the entire day.
“Hey!”
She looked toward the sound and saw a man waving at her. The strega’s son. She lifted a hand and waved back.
“I can drive you.”
She smiled. Waved again. Pressed the heavy books to her chest and started down the steps.
Porca miseria
. Of all the miserable luck. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, turned east, and started the trek toward downtown.
What? She was going to – “Wait. Stop!” Billy lifted his voice so that it would follow her.
Luciana heard Billy’s cries and threw a glance back over her shoulder. He’d opened the door of the car.
“I can drive you.”
Was he asking her to get in? He’d been nice enough the day before, though she hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
“Really. I can drive you. It’s not a problem.” He’d opened the door even wider, gesturing for her to get in.
No. She’d had quite enough of handsome, charming young men. She clutched the books more tightly to her chest and continued on down the sidewalk.
He watched as she turned her back and walked away from him. Rats! She didn’t understand. He slammed the door shut, ran to the driver’s side, and got into the car. Started the engine as she kept walking farther down the street.
He pulled up beside her. Raised his voice to be heard above the engine. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”
She sent a look of alarm in his direction. Began to walk faster.
“Hey – just – ” He left the car idling, got out, and sprinted to the sidewalk. “Would you just – ”
She dodged him and continued walking.
He skipped two steps to catch up. Tried to take the books from her.
She wrenched them free.
“Look, I just want to – ”
She’d started walking again.
He grabbed her by the arm to stop her.
Luciana was frightened now. Should she shout? Should she yell? She wrested herself free, terror dictating her motions, fear flashing in her eyes.
Billy saw tremors shake her shoulders. He stopped. Held up his hands. He hadn’t meant to cause such fear. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
She took one slow step backward. Then another.
“I want to help you.”
She didn’t know what to do. Should she knock on the door of one of those dignified houses and beg for help? But how would she make anyone understand?
“I don’t – I just – ” He’d completely botched it. But he was too polite to use the word he wanted to say in the presence of a woman, so he settled on satisfying sounding syllables instead. And he spoke them in German. “
Verflixt!
” Ran a hand through his hair as he turned away.
Behind him, Luciana blinked. Had he – “What is the matter with you?” Out of reflex she had responded in kind. In German.
He stopped and turned around. “What did you say?” Billy’s German accent had gone a bit flat from disuse, but Luciana understood him well enough.
“I said, what’s the matter with you? Accosting me like that!” His ability to speak German had cured her muteness. And it had restored her indignation and backbone too. Luciana the Immigrant had no idea how to fend off an unwanted advance. But Luciana Conti, schooled in the ballrooms of Europe, could quite handily wield every weapon in a woman’s arsenal.
A smile lit his lips, giving birth to a dimple in one cheek. “You’re German!” He would never have guessed it. She didn’t have the fair features or light-colored hair he associated with that race of people.
“German?”
“May I offer you a ride?”
His questions were coming too fast and were too confusing. A ride? “Where?”
“Back to the shop.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have one.”
She frowned. “I know it. I don’t understand what happened! The motorcar was supposed to wait for me.”
“I sent it away.”
“You – you what? Why?”
“Because I wanted to take you myself.”
“What for?”
He blinked. His intentions had never before been questioned, let alone his person scrutinized. At least not that directly. He found it rather awkward and more than a bit uncomfortable. But he fell back on his Irish charm. “How else am I to spend time with such a beautiful young woman as you?”
She wondered if all Americans were as charmlessly blunt. Now that he had explained himself, it all seemed rather innocuous. And there could be no deceit hiding within him. Not when he looked at her with such clear green eyes. She had the impression of being able to see straight through to his soul. “Then I forgive you.” She nodded and continued on her way.
She? – forgave him? Billy Quinn? Unbelievable! She’d had him practically on his knees, admitting to all kinds of private thoughts and secret hopes, and now she was going to walk away? Well . . . he wasn’t going to chase after her. There were some things a man just wouldn’t do. “The offer’s still good. For a ride back.” The foreign words, uncomfortable on his tongue, paralleled his emotions.
“I don’t need it.” What’s more, she didn’t want it. She turned, determined once more to walk away.
But he couldn’t just let her go. “One thing more. Before you leave, could I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”
She didn’t see any harm in giving it to him. At least not the first part. “It’s Luciana.”
“Luciana.” It fairly danced off the tip of his tongue.
The way he said her name made her remember . . . things that she shouldn’t. And so she didn’t reply and she didn’t stop. She kept on walking.
“Luciana.”
Did he have to keep saying her name! “What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I – ” Bleeding? “Where?” Her foot. It had to be. She lifted her heel up to the side so she could see it.
Verflucht!
He was right. She’d walked a hole right through one of her stockings and a gash right into her heel. And now that she’d seen it, her foot throbbed even more.
He drew the passenger door open. “May I offer you a ride?
If that wouldn’t be improper?”
Oh . . .
bene
. She’d accept his offer, but only because she was afraid she’d soon wear her heel to the bone. She approached the motorcar, and did what she’d always done in Roma. She climbed, not onto the front bench as Billy was hoping but past it, toward the backseat, leaving him to play chauffeur.
And he couldn’t help laughing out loud. Once again, she’d outfoxed him.
It wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. But he
had
sent her car away and he
had
nearly frightened her to death, so he supposed that he deserved it. Billy Quinn playing servant to an immigrant girl? Wouldn’t his mother be scandalized?