Part 28 (1/2)
The boy looked at him, consoled by a ray of hope.
”Come with me,” said the peasant.
”Where?” asked the lad, gathering up his bag again.
”Come with me.”
The peasant started on; Marco followed him. They traversed a long stretch of street together without speaking. The peasant halted at the door of an inn which had for its sign a star, and an inscription beneath, _The Star of Italy_. He thrust his face in, and turning to the boy, he said cheerfully, ”We have arrived at just the right moment.”
They entered a large room, where there were numerous tables, and many men seated, drinking and talking loudly. The old Lombard approached the first table, and from the manner in which he saluted the six guests who were gathered around it, it was evident that he had been in their company until a short time previously. They were red in the face, and were clinking their gla.s.ses, and vociferating and laughing.
”Comrades,” said the Lombard, without any preface, remaining on his feet, and presenting Marco, ”here is a poor lad, our fellow-countryman, who has come alone from Genoa to Buenos Ayres to seek his mother. At Buenos Ayres they told him, 'She is not here; she is in Cordova.' He came in a bark to Rosario, three days and three nights on the way, with a couple of lines of recommendation. He presents the card; they make an ugly face at him: he hasn't a centesimo to bless himself with. He is here alone and in despair. He is a lad full of heart. Let us see a bit.
Can't we find enough to pay for his ticket to go to Cordova in search of his mother? Are we to leave him here like a dog?”
”Never in the world, by Heavens! That shall never be said!” they all shouted at once, hammering on the table with their fists. ”A fellow-countryman of ours! Come hither, little fellow! We are emigrants!
See what a handsome young rogue! Out with your coppers, comrades! Bravo!
Come alone! He has daring! Drink a sup, _patriotta_! We'll send you to your mother; never fear!” And one pinched his cheek, another slapped him on the shoulder, a third relieved him of his bag; other emigrants rose from the neighboring tables, and gathered about; the boy's story made the round of the inn; three Argentine guests hurried in from the adjoining room; and in less than ten minutes the Lombard peasant, who was pa.s.sing round the hat, had collected forty-two lire.
”Do you see,” he then said, turning to the boy, ”how fast things are done in America?”
”Drink!” cried another to him, offering him a gla.s.s of wine; ”to the health of your mother!”
All raised their gla.s.ses, and Marco repeated, ”To the health of my--”
But a sob of joy choked him, and, setting the gla.s.s on the table, he flung himself on the old man's neck.
At daybreak on the following morning he set out for Cordova, ardent and smiling, filled with presentiments of happiness. But there is no cheerfulness that rules for long in the face of certain sinister aspects of nature. The weather was close and dull; the train, which was nearly empty, ran through an immense plain, dest.i.tute of every sign of habitation. He found himself alone in a very long car, which resembled those on trains for the wounded. He gazed to the right, he gazed to the left, and he saw nothing but an endless solitude, strewn with tiny, deformed trees, with contorted trunks and branches, in att.i.tudes such as were never seen before, almost of wrath and anguish, and a spa.r.s.e and melancholy vegetation, which gave to the plain the aspect of a ruined cemetery.
He dozed for half an hour; then resumed his survey: the spectacle was still the same. The railway stations were deserted, like the dwellings of hermits; and when the train stopped, not a sound was heard; it seemed to him that he was alone in a lost train, abandoned in the middle of a desert. It seemed to him as though each station must be the last, and that he should then enter the mysterious regions of the savages. An icy breeze nipped his face. On embarking at Genoa, towards the end of April, it had not occurred to him that he should find winter in America, and he was dressed for summer.
After several hours of this he began to suffer from cold, and in connection with the cold, from the fatigue of the days he had recently pa.s.sed through, filled as they had been with violent emotions, and from sleepless and hara.s.sing nights. He fell asleep, slept a long time, and awoke benumbed; he felt ill. Then a vague terror of falling ill, of dying on the journey, seized upon him; a fear of being thrown out there, in the middle of that desolate prairie, where his body would be torn in pieces by dogs and birds of prey, like the corpses of horses and cows which he had caught sight of every now and then beside the track, and from which he had turned aside his eyes in disgust. In this state of anxious illness, in the midst of that dark silence of nature, his imagination grew excited, and looked on the dark side of things.
Was he quite sure, after all, that he should find his mother at Cordova?
And what if she had not gone there? What if that gentleman in the Via del los Artes had made a mistake? And what if she were dead? Thus meditating, he fell asleep again, and dreamed that he was in Cordova, and it was night, and that he heard cries from all the doors and all the windows: ”She is not here! She is not here! She is not here!” This roused him with a start, in terror, and he saw at the other end of the car three bearded men enveloped in shawls of various colors who were staring at him and talking together in a low tone; and the suspicion flashed across him that they were a.s.sa.s.sins, and that they wanted to kill him for the sake of stealing his bag. Fear was added to his consciousness of illness and to the cold; his fancy, already perturbed, became distorted: the three men kept on staring at him; one of them moved towards him; then his reason wandered, and rus.h.i.+ng towards him with arms wide open, he shrieked, ”I have nothing; I am a poor boy; I have come from Italy; I am in quest of my mother; I am alone: do not do me any harm!”
They instantly understood the situation; they took compa.s.sion on him, caressed and soothed him, speaking to him many words which he did not hear nor comprehend; and perceiving that his teeth were chattering with cold, they wrapped one of their shawls around him, and made him sit down again, so that he might go to sleep. And he did fall asleep once more, when the twilight was descending. When they aroused him, he was at Cordova.
Ah, what a deep breath he drew, and with what impetuosity he flew from the car! He inquired of one of the station employees where the house of the engineer Mequinez was situated; the latter mentioned the name of a church; it stood beside the church: the boy hastened away.
It was night. He entered the city, and it seemed to him that he was entering Rosario once more; that he again beheld those straight streets, flanked with little white houses, and intersected by other very long and straight streets. But there were very few people, and under the light of the rare street lanterns, he encountered strange faces of a hue unknown to him, between black and greenish; and raising his head from time to time, he beheld churches of bizarre architecture which were outlined black and vast against the sky. The city was dark and silent, but after having traversed that immense desert, it appeared lively to him. He inquired his way of a priest, speedily found the church and the house, pulled the bell with one trembling hand, and pressed the other on his breast to repress the beating of his heart, which was leaping into his throat.
An old woman, with a light in her hand, opened the door.
The boy could not speak at once.
”Whom do you want?” demanded the dame in Spanish.
”The engineer Mequinez,” replied Marco.
The old woman made a motion to cross her arms on her breast, and replied, with a shake of the head: ”So you, too, have dealings with the engineer Mequinez! It strikes me that it is time to stop this. We have been worried for the last three months. It is not enough that the newspapers have said it. We shall have to have it printed on the corner of the street, that Signor Mequinez has gone to live at Tuc.u.man!”