"Don't you see how big that ship is?! It can't be the Luciano Manara, the Luciano Manara has left, I tell you. And now what are we going to do, what are we doing here in Curacao?"
"Take a closer look," said Luigino.
I looked closer. It was our own ship. That alongside the small boats and small houses of the port of Curacao had suddenly grown large. Indeed huge, a question of relativity, I thought, remembering the departure from Genoa.
The Luciano Manara, Sidarma group of Venice - equipped partly for freight transport, partly for emigrants, with very few cabins for passengers - had made several stopovers during the voyage: Lisbon, Madeira, Funchal, Tenerife. In Tenerife I was surprised to see my drawing of Venice in a bookshop. I was about to go in to buy the book but then I told myself that Papa would certainly give me Across the River and so I contented myself with a hole in front of the window.
We arrived at Guaira early on a Sunday morning. The Venezuelan authorities made it known that nothing and no one could go ashore until Monday. The quay was crowded with people, relatives and friends of the emigrants who, rejected by the policemen, tried to approach the ship to throw bouquets of flowers on board. From the bridge someone threw down some oranges, fruit of the land just abandoned. Trichen policemen began beating with short sticks those who were trying to pick them up.
I was angry to see my countrymen so treated by mestizos! I had shared their life on board, I had seen them pray intensely at Sunday mass, I had listened to the nostalgic songs, they had become friends.
Since everyone was very agitated...
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