eyes, her ears and her sturdy legs."
Zi'Yolanda nodded her head in agreement. "Al these books will give her too many ideas, make her lazy and useless. Look at Anna, for heavens sake!"
I had been in my room, reading one of the books from Napoli. I wanted to tel them that I did sit stil . I was back in Giuseppina's house, but now a desk stood under the window, stacked with texts and copybooks and ink pots.
"Look at me now, turning the pages of this book, laughing at the stories, going far away in my mind to the places I read about," I wanted to shout at them.
But Pasqualina and Yolanda moved on to another topic, their opinions of my mother and her passion for education fal ing in a heap with the eggplant skins at their feet.
I wanted to tel them that Signore Ventuolo was not at al like Sister Philomena. He brought me sweets from the conditoria in his neighborhood in Napoli. After I read my lessons to him with no mistakes, he rewarded me with a bonbon. Every week he had something different in the white-and-gold bag. Sugarcoated almonds in pale colors of pink and green and lilac, cherries dipped in chocolate, colored fruits and flowers made of almond paste.
The only thing I didn't like about Signore Ventuolo teaching me was the look on Giuseppina's face—her annoyance when I left with my packet of books to walk to my mother's house and her pain when I returned, ful of lightheartedness and excitement that I could not share with her.
CHAPTER 6
A Game Cal ed "America"
The changes my mother initiated by educating her daughters were only the beginning. Within two years, the foundation upon which we based our lives began to shift, creating tremors as real as the earthquakes that sent whole vil ages toppling down the mountainside in our val ey. My brother Claudio decided to leave Venticano right after the feast of the Ascension, as soon as he turned eighteen. He wanted to be someone other than what Papa wanted for him. He told us al , in that voice of his that was always so sure, so smart, that there was no better place for him than New York.
In the last months before his leave-taking, Claudio and Papa had done nothing but argue with each other—
thunderous shouting matches that began out in the courtyard and carried into the house at dinner.
"Smal potatoes," he cal ed Papa's business.
"The world, is wider than the road from Venticano to Napoli," Claudio told him. "This is the twentieth century, for God's sake. This region is dying. Pretty soon you'll only be hauling caskets to the graveyard."
"Hasn't this life given you enough?" Papa demanded. "You, with your fancy suit and the respect you get just because of your name. What do you think bought you that respect? Who built this house that stands higher than any other in Venticano, so that you, too, can hold your head higher? From living over a stable with your grandmother's herbs hanging from the rafters, I have brought al of you to this. Stone by stone, this house was built because every day I traveled that road to Napoli—that road you say is so narrow. Every morsel you put in your mouth, every thread on your body..."
"And just as living over a stable wasn't enough for you, staying here in Venticano isn't enough for me! Every day I drive into Napoli I hear the same stories at the docks—the opportunity, the immensity and fertility of the land—that's what I want for myself, a future in America!" Claudio shouted back at Papa.
"You think America is going to give you this and more? You think you're not going to have to work hard? You think you can turn your back on your family, on your heritage, and succeed? Then go. Get out of my sight!"
Papa slammed his fist on the table, my mother caught his flying wineglass, and Claudio grabbed his hat and bolted out the door and down the hil to Auteri's for a glass of grappa. The rest of my brothers and sisters watched wide-eyed and swal owed silently, not wanting to draw Papa's notice and take Claudio's place as the object of
Zi'Yolanda nodded her head in agreement. "Al these books will give her too many ideas, make her lazy and useless. Look at Anna, for heavens sake!"
I had been in my room, reading one of the books from Napoli. I wanted to tel them that I did sit stil . I was back in Giuseppina's house, but now a desk stood under the window, stacked with texts and copybooks and ink pots.
"Look at me now, turning the pages of this book, laughing at the stories, going far away in my mind to the places I read about," I wanted to shout at them.
But Pasqualina and Yolanda moved on to another topic, their opinions of my mother and her passion for education fal ing in a heap with the eggplant skins at their feet.
I wanted to tel them that Signore Ventuolo was not at al like Sister Philomena. He brought me sweets from the conditoria in his neighborhood in Napoli. After I read my lessons to him with no mistakes, he rewarded me with a bonbon. Every week he had something different in the white-and-gold bag. Sugarcoated almonds in pale colors of pink and green and lilac, cherries dipped in chocolate, colored fruits and flowers made of almond paste.
The only thing I didn't like about Signore Ventuolo teaching me was the look on Giuseppina's face—her annoyance when I left with my packet of books to walk to my mother's house and her pain when I returned, ful of lightheartedness and excitement that I could not share with her.
CHAPTER 6
A Game Cal ed "America"
The changes my mother initiated by educating her daughters were only the beginning. Within two years, the foundation upon which we based our lives began to shift, creating tremors as real as the earthquakes that sent whole vil ages toppling down the mountainside in our val ey. My brother Claudio decided to leave Venticano right after the feast of the Ascension, as soon as he turned eighteen. He wanted to be someone other than what Papa wanted for him. He told us al , in that voice of his that was always so sure, so smart, that there was no better place for him than New York.
In the last months before his leave-taking, Claudio and Papa had done nothing but argue with each other—
thunderous shouting matches that began out in the courtyard and carried into the house at dinner.
"Smal potatoes," he cal ed Papa's business.
"The world, is wider than the road from Venticano to Napoli," Claudio told him. "This is the twentieth century, for God's sake. This region is dying. Pretty soon you'll only be hauling caskets to the graveyard."
"Hasn't this life given you enough?" Papa demanded. "You, with your fancy suit and the respect you get just because of your name. What do you think bought you that respect? Who built this house that stands higher than any other in Venticano, so that you, too, can hold your head higher? From living over a stable with your grandmother's herbs hanging from the rafters, I have brought al of you to this. Stone by stone, this house was built because every day I traveled that road to Napoli—that road you say is so narrow. Every morsel you put in your mouth, every thread on your body..."
"And just as living over a stable wasn't enough for you, staying here in Venticano isn't enough for me! Every day I drive into Napoli I hear the same stories at the docks—the opportunity, the immensity and fertility of the land—that's what I want for myself, a future in America!" Claudio shouted back at Papa.
"You think America is going to give you this and more? You think you're not going to have to work hard? You think you can turn your back on your family, on your heritage, and succeed? Then go. Get out of my sight!"
Papa slammed his fist on the table, my mother caught his flying wineglass, and Claudio grabbed his hat and bolted out the door and down the hil to Auteri's for a glass of grappa. The rest of my brothers and sisters watched wide-eyed and swal owed silently, not wanting to draw Papa's notice and take Claudio's place as the object of
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