Middlesex. Jeffrey Eugenides

two of them hardly even moved; the ocean swells did the work for them.

      Their periphescence existed simultaneously with a less passionate stage of pair bonding. Sex could give way, at any moment, to coziness. So, after making love, they lay staring up through the pulled-back tarp at the night sky passing overhead and got down to the business of life. “Maybe Lina’s husband can give me a job,” Lefty said. “He’s got his own business, right?”

      “I don’t know what he does. Lina never gives me a straight answer.”

      “After we save some money, I can open a casino. Some gambling, a bar, maybe a floor show. And potted palms everywhere.”

      “You should go to college. Become a professor like Mother and Father wanted. And we have to build a cocoonery, remember.”

      “Forget the silkworms. I’m talking roulette, rebetika, drinking, dancing. Maybe I’ll sell some hash on the side.”

      “They won’t let you smoke hashish in America.”

      “Who says?”

      And Desdemona announced with certitude:

      “It’s not that kind of country.”

      They spent what remained of their honeymoon on deck, learning how to finagle their way through Ellis Island. It wasn’t so easy anymore. The Immigration Restriction League had been formed in 1894. On the floor of the U.S. Senate, Henry Cabot Lodge thumped a copy of On the Origin of Species, warning that the influx of inferior peoples from southern and eastern Europe threatened “the very fabric of our race.” The Immigration Act of 1917 barred thirty-three kinds of undesirables from entering the United States, and so, in 1922, on the deck of the Giulia, passengers discussed how to escape the categories. In nervous cram sessions, illiterates learned to pretend to read; bigamists to admit to only one wife; anarchists to deny having read Proudhon; heart patients to simulate vigor; epileptics to deny their fits; and carriers of hereditary diseases to neglect mentioning them. My grandparents, unaware of their genetic mutation, concentrated on the more blatant disqualifications. Another category of restriction: “persons convicted of a crime or misdemeanor involving moral turpitude.” And a subset of this group: “Incestuous relations.”

      They avoided passengers who seemed to be suffering from trachoma or favus. They fled anyone with a hacking cough. Occasionally, for reassurance, Lefty took out the certificate that declared:

      ELEUTHERIOS STEPHANIDES

      HAS BEEN VACCINATED AND UNLOUSED AND IS PASSED AS VERMIN-FREE THIS DATE SEPT. 23, 1922 DISINFECTION MARITIME PIRAEUS

      Literate, married to only one person (albeit a sibling), democratically inclined, mentally stable, and authoritatively deloused, my grandparents saw no reason why they would have trouble getting through. They each had the requisite twenty-five dollars apiece. They also had a sponsor: their cousin Sourmelina. Just the year before, the Quota Act had reduced the annual numbers of southern and eastern European immigrants from 783,000 to 155,000. It was nearly impossible to get into the country without either a sponsor or stunning professional recommendations. To help their own chances, Lefty put away his French phrase book and began memorizing four lines of the King James New Testament. The Giulia was full of inside sources familiar with the English literacy test. Different nationalities were asked to translate different bits of Scripture. For Greeks, it was Matthew 19:12: “For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake.”

      “Eunuchs?” Desdemona quailed. “Who told you this?”

      “This is a passage from the Bible.”

      “What Bible? Not the Greek Bible. Go ask somebody else what’s on that test.”

      But Lefty showed her the Greek at the top of the card and the English below. He repeated the passage word by word, making her memorize it, whether or not she understood it.

      “We didn’t have enough eunuchs in Turkey? Now we have to talk about them at Ellis Island?”

      “The Americans let in everyone,” Lefty joked. “Eunuchs included.”

      “They should let us speak Greek if they’re so accepting,” Desdemona grumbled.

      Summer was abandoning the ocean. One night it grew too cold in the lifeboat to crack the corset’s combination. Instead they huddled under blankets, talking.

      “Is Sourmelina meeting us in New York?” Desdemona asked.

      “No. We have to take a train to Detroit.”

      “Why can’t she meet us?”

      “It’s too far.”

      “Just as well. She wouldn’t be on time anyway.”

      The ceaseless sea wind made the tarp’s edges flap. Frost formed on the lifeboat’s gunwales. They could see the top of the Giulia’s smokestack, the smoke itself discernible only as a starless patch of night sky. (Though they didn’t know it, that striped, canted smokestack was already informing them about their new home; it was whispering about River Rouge and the Uniroyal plant, and the Seven Sisters and Two Brothers, but they didn’t listen; they wrinkled up their noses and ducked down in the lifeboat away from the smoke.)

      And if the smell of industry didn’t insist on entering my story already, if Desdemona and Lefty, who grew up on a pine-scented mountain and who could never get used to the polluted air of Detroit, hadn’t ducked down in the lifeboat, then they might have detected a new aroma wafting in on the brisk sea air: a humid odor of mud and wet bark. Land. New York. America.

      “What are we going to tell Sourmelina about us?”

      “She’ll understand.”

      “Will she keep quiet?”

      “There are a few things she’d rather her husband didn’t know about her.”

      “You mean Helen?”

      “I didn’t say a thing,” said Lefty.

      They fell asleep after that, waking to sunlight, and a face staring down at them.

      “Did you have a good sleep?” Captain Kontoulis said. “Maybe I could get you a blanket?”

      “I’m sorry,” Lefty said. “We won’t do it again.”

      “You won’t get the chance,” said the captain and, to prove his point, pulled the lifeboat’s tarp completely away. Desdemona and Lefty sat up. In the distance, lit by the rising sun, was the skyline of New York. It wasn’t the right shape for a city—no domes, no minarets—and it took them a minute to process the tall geometric forms. Mist curled off the bay. A million pink windowpanes glittered. Closer, crowned with her own sunrays and dressed like a classical Greek, the Statue of Liberty welcomed them.

      “How do you like that?” Captain Kontoulis asked.

      “I’ve seen enough torches to last the rest of my life,” said Lefty.

      But Desdemona, for once, was more optimistic. “At least it’s a woman,” she said. “Maybe here people won’t be killing each other every single day.”

       Book Two

       Henry Ford’s English-Language Melting Pot