Basta! A New Beginning

The boat swayed back and forth as it pulled into the harbor. It would have felt like a peaceful rocking, but nothing about Louie felt at peace, and no movement of a boat – no matter how peaceful – could change that.

While most of the boat, and even his cabin mates, were likely on deck, watching their arrival to this new county, this new place, Louie sat on his top bunk, in the cramped, dark, and smelly cabin, and thought back over the last month of his life. The choices that he made four weeks ago had led him here – on a boat, to a strange new land, to this dank, windowless (porthole-less?) cabin. The three other men – boys, really – who shared his cabin had all spent the last hour working to make themselves as presentable as possible for the American immigration authorities.

Louie lay in the dark, on his top bunk, making no effort. In spite of the fact that he hadn’t showered in three weeks, that he likely stank, that he had lost some of the muscle that he built working on his father’s farm, he was still handsome – beautiful, even. And that was part of the problem, part of the reason why he was thousands of miles away from his beloved Italy, from his hometown in Naples. He opened his eyes and the deep, brilliant blue of his eyes seemed to shine even through the darkness of the room. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair and sighed. Even though he hadn’t washed it in three weeks, it still looked perfect – maybe better than usual, even. As if it was reverting to its natural state and glorifying in the way it was meant to be.

At 17 years old, Louie looked 25. He certainly felt as though he had aged that span in the last four weeks. He felt no joy of youth; he held no idealistic thoughts of what the future may have in store for him. The future he thought he knew was no longer a reality for him.

The door opened, and in walked Carmine, his cousin, a short, stocky 18-year-old, who moved with the authority of a man twice his age. “Let’s go – get ready. And maybe wash your face.” And while he lacked the natural beauty of Louie, the way he moved, the way he seemed to own any room he walked into, endeared him to nearly everyone he met. Carmine was the reason that Louie was still alive, why he lay breathing on the manky cot, in the dark room, in the boat now on the other side of the world. He owed him his life, even if it was a life he no longer recognized.

The boat stopped rocking, and Louie sighed again and sat up. He would do what Carmine said and wash his face – he would always do what Carmine said, he owed him that, at least. Apparently, the immigration officers were strict – the stories that were whipping around the ship about them seemed to get bigger and more exaggerated every telling. He wasn’t sure if it would be a good thing or a bad thing if he got kicked out of the line. He missed Italy. He missed his mother. He missed the Italian sun on his face and the blue green of the ocean and the smell of his father’s farm. It was his fault he had to leave – he knew that. He was a different person than the boy who left Italy – who ran, was chased, really from Naples. And ended up on this boat with Carmine, heading to a new world and new life, no matter how reluctantly.

Carmine always had dreams of America, of New York City. He always said he was going to end up there, and here he was, living his dream, with Louie tagging along. He had plans to live with cousins on Mott Street, to open his own restaurant, to bring the people of America the food of Italy. He could spend hours and days obsessing over a recipe, fiddling with an ingredient, always asking Louie to help him gather ingredients, bring fresh lemons from the farm, help him pound out bread and dry out pasta. Louie always did, he loved feeling needed and helpful to Carmine. He was the youngest of 10, his closest sibling in age six years older than him, which may as well have been a different generation all together.

Carmine had always been like an older brother to him, had always had such strong ideals. He never had to think about the right thing to do – he just knew what it was, and he did it, no matter the effect. He had always looked out for Louie, which he appreciated. Naples wasn’t the easiest place to grow up. And when you are young, and beautiful, and your natural inclination is to float towards risk and danger like a moth floats towards flame – well, you end up on a boat, running for your life. Louie floated too close to danger, his natural pull towards it in stark contrast with Carmine’s pull to the truth. And even though he floated too close to his flame, he wasn’t yet dead. Because of Carmine.

Carmine had always talked about New York, described it in such detail that Louie was surprised he had never been there. He was always listening to radio programs about it and scouring letters from family who had made it there before him. So, he thought he had an idea, of sorts, of what he was in for, when he was forced to join him at the last minute, to run to New York and away from the danger he had so longed for.

But nothing prepared him for what stood before him as he shuffled up the deck, bumping shoulders with what felt like the entirety of Italy, squished onto this boat. And when he finally turned the corner, and saw the giant statue, of the woman with the flame, standing sentinel above them, he felt his breath hitch in his throat. The city of New York steamed behind her, just over the harbor. Carmine clasped a meaty hand on his shoulder.

“Basta!” he said, and they shuffled on, Louie knocked speechless by the scenes in front of him. And for the first time since he got on that boat three weeks ago, Louie felt a glimmer of hope.