Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

Nick could see the Coit Tower spiraling its way out of the fog, as he leaned on the railing at the epicenter of the Golden Gate Bridge, his eyes blinking then closing, a salty brine massaging his face, finding himself adrift like so many sloops on the sea or barges on a river. As a child he remembered when Papà would take him sailing in the San Francisco Harbor, the city rising in blue-green sea water, flanked by its bridges linking all the Bay Area, everything in motion, ships coming in and fishing boats going out, an occasional Navy boat patrolling, people walking along the shore and matchbox-size cars chasing each other across the bridges. Papà’s face was brown and wrinkled, his hands swollen and chapped from netting fish, contrasted by his jet-black hair, slicked back with pomade, and his light blue eyes that shined with kindness, even when he scolded his son for being a muschitta.

By the time Nick was a teenager, Papà stationed him on the rudder. His father relied on the sea, negotiating the high and low of tides and the tidal forces of nature, saying these things would help Nick navigate life. He trusted his son so much at the helm that he could shut his eyes, feel the warmth of the sun, the smell of a saline sea, something he could never do on his purse seiner searching for the mother lode of sardines. He would recount many tales of his voyages, at an age for Nick when stories could be repeated. One time, after they left the safety of the bay, on a calm and blue sky afternoon, Papà ordered his son to turn the sailboat around, to Nick’s objections on the way back home, and when they first saw the international orange towers of the bridge, the waves began to swell above their heads, the winds howling as they slid into the bay water. Papà taught Nick about other things like the stars and how they were more than astrological signs, these pointed lights showing the right direction if one knew how to read them. Everything natural mattered to a fisherman and, like his father, if Nick couldn’t be on the water, he liked to be near the sea or above it, riding his bike on the walkway of any bridge.

Nick’s eyes opened wide at the edge of his country, high above the smokestacks of a Cunard ocean liner entering the bay, and slowly hummed the melody of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” a song often played on the radio he loved to listen to at home in North Beach. It was as if the words were on a ball undulating on nature’s grey screen, before disappearing precipitant into the sea. Nick loved the tune but didn’t believe it was about him—an American-born guy, but still having that foreign look, that Mediterranean look —una faccia, una razza, an old Italo-Greek saying, “one face, one race.”

Only nine days before, a cataract of black smoke had zigzagged in funnels across the sky of Pearl Harbor and Nick was stunned just like everyone else across America. Though over two thousand miles away from the Hawaii Territory, he knew that things in his life were never going to be the same and temporarily lost the ability to form lucid words about what was happening. He stammered sounds that echoed scant meaning, while his thoughts turned murky as the fog that encircled him, the remaining lyrics of that folk song opaque.

There was a sudden clearing on the water underneath him and within a short while a US Naval destroyer cruised through the channel of the bay. Before it reached Fisherman’s Wharf, Nick pulled out his mother’s opera glasses to get a closer look. As the destroyer slowed down, it looked as if all the purse seiners were chugging away from the dock, one after the other, following the warship like ducklings to Treasure Island, his father’s being the last one, judging by its height and wide frame. When Nick could no longer see his father’s boat, he became anxious, as if the scene were some blurry mirage right out of a Hollywood movie. Surely it was a sleight of hand, a magician’s fingers sprinkling over a puff of smoke and all is vanished. But he could not mistake Papà ’s boat. Five minutes later, Nick hopped on his maroon cruiser, designed to look like a motorcycle, and cycled as fast as his legs could pump, hitting his first hill near Fisherman’s Wharf. He dodged a trolley clanging him out of the way, made it to Columbus Avenue, turning left on Filbert Street, passing Saints Peter and Paul Church as he crossed himself and made it back home several blocks away.

He carried his bike up the stairs and leaned it in the corner, then ran into their Victorian style house, calling out: “Mamma!”

His mother, Lucia, came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Nicolo, chi cosa ? Why you no in scuola?”

“It’s a Reading Day before exams,” he said, rushing the words in between breaths.

“Then, why you no study?”

“Forget it, Mamma. You know I get high grades. For Christ’s sake, it’s about Papà ! I saw him sailing away from the dock. All the fishing boats left.”

“ Allura ,” she said, glancing at the wooden clock on the mantle. “Maybe they have to go to some place special to fixa them.”

“It’s too early for something like that. Aren’t they supposed to sell off all the fish first?”

Lucia averted her eyes from Nick. “Chi sacciu ?” His mother had always relished life in the neighborhood, but suspicious things were happening all around her now and she didn’t seem to grasp it, or maybe it was her inbred, Sicilian survival skill when overwhelmed. She appeared smaller in her five foot two frame, streaks of gray suddenly poking through her black hair. His mother looked scared but wasn’t saying anything, always trying to protect her son.

That afternoon the door creaked opened and his barrel-chested father walked in and, before he took his first step up the stairs, Lucia called out, while Nick stood behind her: “Gaetano, what happened to your boat?”

“I saw you from the bridge, Papà ,” Nick interrupted, as he watched his father speak with his eyes to Lucia, warning it was not the right time.

“Somethin’ bad happened!” Lucia said, her hands on her hips.

Gaetano plunked on the first step. “ Nenti .”

“ Papà , I saw the destroyer.”

“Since when does stranger tella you what to do with your boat?” Lucia insisted. “Who is this scanusciutu anyway?”

“An officer from the Coast Guard spoke to me privately at the dock.” He looked at the wall. “The word spread around.”

Her eyes widened. “You never have trouble with them before.”

“Basta!” He flicked his fingers under his chin.

“So when you get your boat back then?”

“I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“You always saya that.”

“Papà, were they looking for Japs?”

“You read too many newspapers, figghiu miu.” His father grinned but Nick could see through his feigned expression, while Lucia placed her palm on her cheek as if she were holding up her face. “Allura, why don’t help your Mamma get ready for your birthday party tonight?” he said before climbing the stairs to wash away the reek of fish.

Lucia turned towards Nick, looking even more fearful than before. “I didn’t want to tella your father to upset him, but Giuseppina next door told me that her husband was fired from his job on Montgomery Street. Somethin’ about his being Italian and the war. She only told me because I saw her cryin’ in the backyard.”