TwoWorlds

She spotted him the moment she stepped into the baggage claim area at the American airport. It was, in fact, the third time she’d seen him since her flight from South America made a stopover in Italy on its way to the United States.

The first time she’d set eyes on the olive-skinned young man with the dark hair and very European face was while she and her family sat in the waiting area of the Rome airport. It was a three-hour layover and the young man had joined the group of other passengers waiting for the plane about an hour before they boarded it. He had an expensive-looking dark leather carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. Joanna noticed that he never put the bag down or released his hold on it.

When their flight was called and they joined the slow moving line to board the aircraft, the man was two people in front of her. But he didn’t appear to take note of her then, nor when they were on the plane, either. He sat in the aisle seat across from her, one row up. Joanna, on the other hand, couldn’t stop watching him, wondering who he was and why he was traveling to the United States, why he was all by himself.

“Who is that young ish?” Joanna’s mother, Verona, asked in Hebrew. They were waiting for their luggage at the American airport. She stared at the Italian man too.

Verona was Egyptian by birth. But she and her husband, Marco, fled Egypt shortly before Joanna was born into the Promised Land. The Harlens had made a home in Israel and had borne two children. But after more than a decade there, Marco, an officer in the World Allied Army, felt the country wasn’t a safe place for his family. Verona had relatives in Chile, so that’s where the Harlens relocated.

Joanna loved Israel. It was her home. She had many friends there and in her school. But she had made no gripes about moving and had settled in well in their new home in South America. She had learned the language, made new friends, gone to school.

Now she was seventeen. Her father had been transferred to the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. It was again a whole new beginning. But Joanna was very excited about it, looking upon it as an adventure.

Joanna’s younger brother, Alex, piped up, answering his mother’s question in Spanish. He had been only six when the family left Israel and hadn’t learned to speak the Hebrew language fluently. Spanish had come much easier to him. He spoke it quite well. Alex was now twelve, and considered

himself a Chilean, rather than an Israeli. “Whoever he is, Madre, looks like Joanna’s making google eyes at him.”

Pivoting around, Joanna glared at her brother.

“Alex!” Verona admonished, before Joanna could utter a word.

Alex looked adequately subdued.

Satisfied, Joanna nodded to her mother, then turned back to her vigil, watching the Italian man. Her heart went out to him. He was trying to convey something to a very young-looking American porter. But the lanky fellow in the dark blue airline uniform and cap on his head had a completely blank expression on his face. He held out both his hands in front of him, indicating that he didn’t understand what the other man was saying.

Steam rose quickly in Joanna toward the porter. Although she did not know Italian herself, which is what the man was speaking to the American porter, it was pretty obvious what the Italian man was trying to relay considering where they were. She was certain he was having difficulty finding his luggage and needed help in locating it.

Joanna wanted to help.

Without turning back or uttering a word of explanation to her family, she moved off in the direction of the man. Stopping just behind him, she raised her hand and, with one finger, tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Permiso, Senor?”

The man spun around to face her. “Si?” he asked, sounding confused and looking startled.

Joanna smiled brightly at him. She noted that close up he was even more handsome. “I was wondering...Is there anything I can do to...” she stammered, searching hard for the American word for what she was trying to say, but it wouldn’t come. “Ayuda...help?” she added quickly in halting English. She wanted the porter to know too what she was saying.

The dark eyes narrowed as the Italian man stared at her. Joanna’s heart sank even more. He didn’t understand. Looking up, Joanna spoke to the porter. He was already nodding his head. “I think he’s having trouble finding his...malata,’ she said, realizing suddenly that it was doubtful that either man understood what she had just said. She threw her hands up in the air in frustration. She was pointing to the leather carry-on bag that hung on his shoulder. “His bag-“

Suddenly the Italian man’s head popped up. His eyes were bright. He began nodding vigorously. “Si, si. Gracia, gracia!”

Joanna wasn’t even sure what she had just said. She looked at the porter. His face looked clearer too now.

“Do you know his name, Miss?” the porter asked her. “It would be easier to locate his bags if I knew THAT.”

Joanna swallowed hard. She understood what the porter was asking her. No, she did not know the Italian man’s name, nor did she know how to relay the question to him. “Como te llamo?” she said in desperation, knowing that would be completely useless. But it was all she could think of right then. Her lips had gone dry. She sighed heavily and repeated the word the porter had just used. “Name?” she said to the Italian man and pointed to him. “Mine’s Joanna.” she added, pointing to herself then to further indicate what she was trying to convey.

Slowly, a smile appeared on his handsome face. Digging a hand into the hip pocket of his trousers, he pulled out what looked like a business card. He handed it to Joanna. Taking it from him, she glanced down at the small, rectangular card. On it, in a very neat scripted handwriting was written a name, his name. “Angelo Deleto,” she pronounced out loud for the sake of the porter as well.

Angelo’s smile brightened even more. He was nodding his head excitedly. “Si, si.”

“Is that his name?” the porter asked Joanna.

She looked up at him. “I think so,” she replied, handing him the card.

The porter took it. He too glanced down at the card. “Well, come this way, Mr. Deleto. We’ll go look for your bags. I think we should be able to find them now.”

Gesturing with his hand to Angelo, the porter started moving off. Angelo followed close behind. Joanna stayed back. Sadly, she felt her assistance was no longer needed. But she also felt a sense of pride that she had offered her help to a complete stranger and had been successful in it.

Suddenly, the porter stopped walking and turned back to face her. “Will you come along too, Miss? You seem to be able to communicate more easily with Mr. Deleto than I can.” The porter glanced at Angelo, then back at Joanna. His eyes were squinted. There was confusion on his face.

“I don’t get it,” he said, scratching his ear. “You two don’t seem to be speaking the same language and you don’t look anything alike, so you’re probably not from the same countries. How is that that you can talk to each other?”

Joanna smiled and nodded her head. The same question had gone through her own head. Maybe they weren’t exactly ‘talking’ to each other verbally, not in that manner. Maybe their understanding of one another went much deeper than spoken words. But she didn’t quite know how to explain it.

Angelo had his arm held out for her. “Vena, per favor!” he said. His tone sounded warm and inviting.

Without turning back to face her parents, Joanna called out to them in Hebrew, “Mi-yad ashuv.” She didn’t want them to worry. But right then, she didn’t have time to explain fully where she was going. She’d tell them the whole story when she came back. Then she trotted forward and looped her arm through Angelo’s thicker one.