Imported Americans: The Story of the Experiences of a Disguised American and His Wife Studying the Immigration QuestionBrandenburg, Broughton
History
Imported Americans: The Story of the Experiences of a Disguised American and His Wife Studying the Immigration Question
Brandenburg, Broughton
Italy -- Emigration and immigration; United States -- Emigration and immigration
In the second and inner room there was a thick, blue atmosphere of pipe
and cigar smoke through which the gas jets in the centre of the room
flared sharply. Around the uncovered tables of varying sizes were
Italians to the number of a score or more. More than half of them were
in rough working clothes. Some had beer, some had wine before them and
some were eating the stringing macaroni from large dishes heaped with
it. Three of them were under the gaslight and were leaning forward in
postures of straining excitement, and as each spoke a number he thrust
out one hand or both with fingers held out,—three, four, seven, perhaps
only one. All the numbers spoken were under ten, and the numbers spoken
did not correspond with the numbers indicated by the fingers. After
watching them a minute I saw that each man was trying to guess what
number the other man would indicate on his fingers, and a correct guess
ended each bout; then would come laughter at the expense of the defeated
one, and the game would begin over again for points.
Later inquiry as to the name and popularity of the game brought forth
the information that it is called _mora_ and is very general through
southern Italy, being a favorite diversion among the country people. In
Italy country boys will get together in a corner and play _mora_ till
they are exhausted, and in the place under us I have known the last
hoarsely shouted number to sound after the hour of three.
As I climbed back into my own room I took with me the satisfying
knowledge that we should probably hear _mora_ and sing-songing every
night while we dwelt in the place. It was evidently a restaurant and
used as a sort of club house by a company of the convivial and
congenial. There was not the slightest indication on the street front
that the place was anything but an ordinary tenement basement.
The commissary end of our campaign after information was very weak. Home
cooking is well enough with facilities. It is a destroyer of peace and
well-being, without them. Therefore we began a series of disastrous
experiments in lunching and dining out in first one and then the other
Italian restaurants thereabouts, and after a plucky and determined
resistance to the enemy we succumbed. Our stomachs demanded time to
accustom themselves to the change, and so we took to Italian fare only
in moderation, securing at last an ability to eat and enjoy it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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