Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [112]
“You’re going to go there?”
“If I can find it.”
“Look in the toe. It’s spelled S-c-i-l-l-a.”
“No wonder. I was looking for S-h-e-i-l-a-h.”
“That’s Irish.”
“Do we still have family there?”
“No, there was no work. They’ll all be gone by now.”
“Did you ever visit?”
“I went with the cousins’ club in 1970, after Nonno died. It’s beautiful there. But I was also there when I was a little girl. I went with my mother, just the two of us. That’s when I first saw your grandfather…”
It took ten trains to get to the toe of the boot. The sea was a gorgeous turquoise that glowed in the early evening light. Land was visible across the water, and from all my staring at maps, I knew it was Sicily. The way my family spoke of Sicilians, it was hard to believe they came from the same country, let alone only a mile or two across the water. A mountain was also visible across the strait, and it was smoking. The difference between the civilized north and seismic south couldn’t be more obvious.
There was only one pensione in town. It was called “Le Sirene”—“the mermaids”—and sat on a beautiful white sandy beach. The room was sparse. Tile floors, stuccoed walls. Over the bed was a picture of Saint Anthony. I tried to remember from catechism class what he was the patron saint of. His claim to fame wasn’t visually obvious, like Saint Lucy, who was always shown holding her eyeballs on a plate. I had to look it up: “patron saint of those searching for something.”
Hunger pangs struck, and I picked the restaurant with the swordfish on the sign. Inside, the walls were lined with old fishing pictures. I was stunned by how all the men’s faces resembled my relatives. I stared harder hoping to actually recognize Nonno in one of the photos.
“What are you looking for?”
The man next to me spoke English.
“Well, my family was from Scilla.”
“Thousands of American families were from Scilla.” The man sounded bored, like he heard this all the time. From the way he stopped to talk to waiters, it was apparent he was the owner of the place.
Obligingly he asked, “What’s your family’s name?”
“Arena.”
“Ah, Arena. You know what Arena means in Italian? It means ‘sand.’ There are nearly as many Arenas from Scilla as there are grains of sand on this beach.”
“The town doesn’t look that big.”
“You Americans are so literal.” Seeing I wasn’t going to give up, he asked disinterestedly, “Do you know anyone who would have lived here in my lifetime?”
“My grandfather’s name was Anthony, I mean Antonio.”
“Half the boys are Rocco and half are Antonio. I’m Antonio.”
“Well, I had an Uncle Sal who came back and forth from America.”
“Salvatore Arena?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about this Salvatore.” Antonio looked expectant.
“Well, he was pretty bad…”
“What do you mean, ‘bad’?”
“He was the black sheep. He gambled; he drank…”
“Salvatore Arena! He was my father’s best friend! Salvatore,” he said, shaking his head. “Sit down. Sit down.”
Antonio led me back to my table and called for wine.
“You know, you have family here,” he said. “Salvatore’s two children—Cosmo is a fisherman, and he lives with his sister, Rosa, and her family.”
“Where’s their house?” I asked, practically standing up.
“In the Chianalea with all the fishermen. It’s too late to go there now. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and I’ll take you.”
The next morning, Antonio was waiting outside the restaurant in his car. We drove less than a minute before he pulled over and parked.
“We have to walk from here. Cars don’t fit in the Chianalea.”
We wove our way down stone staircases and through narrow streets. Occasionally, I had to flatten myself against a wall to allow a scooter through. In the breaks between the houses, I could see the water. At a large opening between buildings, where five or six boats were drawn up on shore, a man sat repairing a net.
Antonio called in Italian, “Cosmo! Cosmo! This is your cousin from America.”
“Che?”
“Questa è tua cugina.”
Cosmo walked over, looking confused. Antonio explained that Cosmo’s father and