New York - The Novel

a mark in blue chalk on Paolo’s chest. And a few moments later one of the men took Paolo away. His mother became very agitated.
    “What are you doing?” she cried. “Where are you taking my son?”
    “To the doctor’s pen,” they told her, “but don’t worry.”
    Then one of the men told Salvatore to take a deep breath, and he puffed his chest out, and after a moment the man nodded and smiled. After that, another man inspected his scalp and his legs. It took a while until they had all been checked, but at last his mother was told they could all proceed.
    “I will wait here until you return my son,” she said. But they told her: “You have to wait for him in the Registry Room.” And there was nothing else she could do.
    They entered the Registry Room through a big double door. To Salvatore, it looked like a church—and indeed, the huge space, with its red-tiled floor, its side aisles, its soaring walls and high, barrel-vaulted ceiling, exactly copied the Roman basilica churches to be found all over Italy. About twenty feet above their heads, an iron balcony ran round the walls, and there were officials observing them from up there too. At the far end there was a row of fourteen desks, in front of which there were long lines of people snaking back and forth between dividing rails, but there was also quite a crowd of people waiting to join the lines.
    They looked around, but there was no sign of Paolo. Nobody said anything.
    Nearby they saw a man they had spoken to on the ship. He was a schoolmaster, a man of education. Seeing them, he smiled and came over, and Concetta told him what had happened to Paolo.
    “It’s just a cough that he has,” she said. “It’s nothing. Why have they taken him?”
    “Do not worry, Signora Caruso,” replied the schoolmaster. “They have a hospital here.”
    “A hospital?” His mother looked horrified. Like most of the women in their village, she believed that once you went into hospital, you never came out.
    “It’s different in America,” said the schoolmaster. “They cure people. They let you out after a week or two.”
    Concetta was still doubtful. She shook her head. “If Paolo is sent back,” she began, “he cannot go alone …”
    Salvatore was thinking that it wouldn’t be much fun in America without Paolo. “If Paolo has to go home, can I go with him?” he said.
    His mother let out a cry, and clasped her breast. “Now my youngestson wants to desert his family?” she screamed. “Has he no love for his own mother?”
    “No, no, signora.” The schoolmaster was soothing. “He is a little boy.”
    But his mother had turned her face away from Salvatore.
    “Look!” cried Anna.
    It was Paolo, with Giuseppe and their father.
    “We waited for him,” Giovanni Caruso explained to his wife.
    Paolo was looking pleased with himself. “I had three doctors,” he said proudly. “They made me breathe in, and cough, and they looked down my throat. And two of them listened to my chest and another to my back.”
    “You are safe, then?” cried his mother. “They have not taken you away?” She clasped him to her bosom, held him close, then released him and crossed herself. “Where is Luigi?” she asked.
    Giovanni Caruso shrugged. “I don’t know. He got separated from us.”
    Salvatore knew what had happened. The doctors from the madhouse were questioning Uncle Luigi. But he didn’t say anything.
    The family joined the line in front of the desks. It took a long time before they reached the head of the line, and there was still no sign of Uncle Luigi, but finally they were approaching the big desks where the officials were waiting, some seated, others standing close behind.
    “The men behind are the interpreters,” his father whispered. “They can speak all the languages of the world.”
    When they reached the desk, the man addressed Giovanni Caruso in Neapolitan, which anyone from the Mezzogiorno could understand.
    Checking their names against the manifest, he smiled. “Caruso. At least the ship’s purser could get your name right. Sometimes they mangle them terribly.” He grinned. “We have to follow what’s on the ship’s manifest, you know. Are you all here?”
    “Except my brother-in-law. I don’t know where he is.”
    “He’s not named Caruso?”
    “No.”
    “I’m only interested in Caruso.” The man asked a few questions, and seemed satisfied with the answers. Had they paid for their own passage? Yes. “And have you a job in