It was a concrete slab, not yet the feel of Argentina’s earth, but it thrilled her. Three men from behind her excused themselves as they walked past, directly to the warehouse that held their baggage, there was no one waiting for them and they would make their own way. They would take their baggage to the Hotel de Inmigrantes, a place that Argentina had designed especially for immigrants who arrived with nowhere to stay, where they would receive room and board for five days while they began to look for work—a help, surely, but still she pitied them, so alone, so far from home.
To her left, two brothers found each other. They wept and laughed and slapped each other’s backs.
Just beyond them a man was greeting his wife with a long and tight embrace, they were swaying and murmuring to each other, no longer at the port of Buenos Aires but in a private universe all their own.
Dante, where was Dante. She looked and looked but could not find him. She wove through the crowd in search of him, pushing past the many bodies. It was too loud, there were too many voices shouting their excitement, her fellow emigrants were scattering and no longer part of a merged river, she was alone. She began to feel afraid. Was it possible that he was late, or had forgotten the day she was coming? Or that he was playing a trick as he sometimes liked to do, when they were children, crouching behind a rock when Cora went to call him in for dinner, making her climb the hill in search of him when all the while he was just at the edge of the garden?
She stood against a wall, from which she could watch the remainingimmigrants disembark. The crowd dissipated. Her husband was not there.
She had no idea what to do. She would do nothing. She would wait for Dante to come.
Soon only a small cluster remained on the dock. A stranger had been watching her, a young man whose clothes were worn but clean. His glances made her nervous. She stood up straight and tried to look dignified, pure, a married woman with somewhere to go. The excitement of arrival had disappeared, replaced with a kind of horror at the sheer size of Argentina, its vast unknown expanse, and she here at the lip of it, alone, female, easy prey.
The stranger approached her, hat politely pressed against his chest.
“Signora di Mazzoni?”
She turned to him, blankly. She had never been called a signora before, and for a strange instant she thought he was confusing her with her mother. “Yes.”
“I’m here to receive you. I’m a friend of your cous——your husband, Dante.”
“Yes? Where is he?”
“I am truly sorry, signora . Dante is dead.”
DUE
A Corner of the Possible
The stranger’s name was Arturo. He said he would take her home.
At first, he tried to explain everything, to tell her the story of what happened to Dante, but his words came out jumbled and Leda could not make sense of them, something about a mistake, a hero, the Buenos Aires port—nothing made sense, the very dock she stood on had become the outer edge of chaos, the air around her rioted, broken, too bright. All she could say was, I’m sorry, I don’t understand you, I don’t understand. And so he gave up and suggested that they get her trunk and go home. She followed him to the warehouse where the baggage was held, not a woman walking, but a ghost of herself, a shadow.
Her trunk was not difficult to find, as they were the last to arrive. The customs official who inspected it had a bulbous nose and a quick smile. When he found the olive jar from the baker’s wife, he grinned. He said something in Spanish, shaking his head, then opened the jar and put an olive in his mouth. Leda did not understand him, though the bones of his words were familiar. Listening to Spanish was like listening to someone speak her native tongue through murky water.
“He says you can’t bring them into the country,” Arturo said.
She should not have cared, it shouldn’t have mattered, but in that moment Leda felt as
To her left, two brothers found each other. They wept and laughed and slapped each other’s backs.
Just beyond them a man was greeting his wife with a long and tight embrace, they were swaying and murmuring to each other, no longer at the port of Buenos Aires but in a private universe all their own.
Dante, where was Dante. She looked and looked but could not find him. She wove through the crowd in search of him, pushing past the many bodies. It was too loud, there were too many voices shouting their excitement, her fellow emigrants were scattering and no longer part of a merged river, she was alone. She began to feel afraid. Was it possible that he was late, or had forgotten the day she was coming? Or that he was playing a trick as he sometimes liked to do, when they were children, crouching behind a rock when Cora went to call him in for dinner, making her climb the hill in search of him when all the while he was just at the edge of the garden?
She stood against a wall, from which she could watch the remainingimmigrants disembark. The crowd dissipated. Her husband was not there.
She had no idea what to do. She would do nothing. She would wait for Dante to come.
Soon only a small cluster remained on the dock. A stranger had been watching her, a young man whose clothes were worn but clean. His glances made her nervous. She stood up straight and tried to look dignified, pure, a married woman with somewhere to go. The excitement of arrival had disappeared, replaced with a kind of horror at the sheer size of Argentina, its vast unknown expanse, and she here at the lip of it, alone, female, easy prey.
The stranger approached her, hat politely pressed against his chest.
“Signora di Mazzoni?”
She turned to him, blankly. She had never been called a signora before, and for a strange instant she thought he was confusing her with her mother. “Yes.”
“I’m here to receive you. I’m a friend of your cous——your husband, Dante.”
“Yes? Where is he?”
“I am truly sorry, signora . Dante is dead.”
DUE
A Corner of the Possible
The stranger’s name was Arturo. He said he would take her home.
At first, he tried to explain everything, to tell her the story of what happened to Dante, but his words came out jumbled and Leda could not make sense of them, something about a mistake, a hero, the Buenos Aires port—nothing made sense, the very dock she stood on had become the outer edge of chaos, the air around her rioted, broken, too bright. All she could say was, I’m sorry, I don’t understand you, I don’t understand. And so he gave up and suggested that they get her trunk and go home. She followed him to the warehouse where the baggage was held, not a woman walking, but a ghost of herself, a shadow.
Her trunk was not difficult to find, as they were the last to arrive. The customs official who inspected it had a bulbous nose and a quick smile. When he found the olive jar from the baker’s wife, he grinned. He said something in Spanish, shaking his head, then opened the jar and put an olive in his mouth. Leda did not understand him, though the bones of his words were familiar. Listening to Spanish was like listening to someone speak her native tongue through murky water.
“He says you can’t bring them into the country,” Arturo said.
She should not have cared, it shouldn’t have mattered, but in that moment Leda felt as
Similar Books
