The Italian passengers had very little contact with the crew of the ship. This did not appear to be a matter of policy, just that this was a working ship, a freighter for the most part, and the sailors were quite busy. This and the linguistic barrier kept them apart. Though Giulio did volunteer for a working party when one was requested; who knew what technical secrets lay in the bowels of the ship! He discovered little other than that the St. Columba was steam-powered, peat-fired, and built in Cork. All of which he was sure the CIA already knew. In exchange for this fragment of information he spent an exhausting afternoon shoveling peat past a broken conveyor belt from the bin. It was little solace that all of the others suffered as well, and returned to their quarters complaining bitterly and comparing the blisters on their hands.
Then the voyage was over. Gentle hills and an undulating coastline appeared ahead. The St. Columba moved slowly between the outstretched granite arms of the two great breakwaters and into the harbor. DUN LAOGHAIRE, a large sign said on the dockside building, but there was no clue as to how it was pronounced. With little ceremony the men, carrying their few belongings, were moved off the ship and boarded the waiting double-decker buses. AN LAR; read the destination on the display boards, and all of the men chattered excitedly at the thrill of riding in a power-operated vehicle. The buses were silent too, obviously electrically powered, and moved out in a lumbering convoy for a short ride through narrow streets. There were green trees and small houses, gardens with flowers and parks with smooth, rich grass. The journey ended before a high wall and a tall, impressive-looking gate that opened to admit the fleet. The men unloaded in a large courtyard surrounded by interesting-looking buildings. Giulio tried to remember all of the details as he had been trained to do. As soon as the buses had left, with a cheery wave from the last driver, the gates swung shut again and a man mounted a platform and blew into the microphone there. His magnified breath echoed like a wind from the walls and the Italians grew silent and turned to look at him. He wore a dark suit with matching waistcoat, a gold chain draped across the full front of this, and smoked a large-bowled pipe which he pointed at them to emphasize a point. It was pointing now.
"My name is Mr. O'Leary," he said, "and I am in charge of this establishment. Some of you may speak English now and all of you will learn it if you intend to stay here. Gino here is the translator and he is going to translate now. But there are English classes every evening and you will be expected to attend. Tell them that, Gino."
O'Leary produced a lighter and proceeded to fire up his pipe while the translation was in progress. Then he nodded, whether at the translation or the tobacco was not made clear, and went on.
"You gentlemen are guest workers of Ireland. There are valuable jobs to be done here and I know you will enjoy doing them. The work is not hard, you will be fed well, will have a good deal of leisure time, will be permitted to send your salary home if you wish. Which will go to the church of your choice, which of course will be the Roman Catholic church. As we discover your qualifications and abilities you will find the best work suited to you. Some will become street sweepers, for we pride ourselves on the cleanliness of our cities, and others will have the pleasure of being dustmen and riding the great and powerful vehicles that perform this vital function of the community. There are opportunities galore for you." He tamped down the smoldering jobacco with his thumb and appeared not to hear the mutter that muttered, across his audience.
"Yes, I know that you applied for skilled jobs, masons and carpenters and the like, but if my experience of past drafts is correct there isn't an honest workingman here." There was steel in his voice now and a new hardness in his eyes. "Nor a single callus on the soft hands of the lot of you. But that's all right. We know that you all are rich or know someone rich enough to enable you to afford the bribes and forgeries of papers that got you here. It'll not be held against you. You will be expected to work hard and measure up. And if you do not you will be shipped home forthwith. But live up to the terms of your contract and we will live up to ours. You will enjoy your stay on our shores. Remember, you will be permitted to send food parcels and manufactured articles to your families at home. You will prosper on the healthy diet of the land. You will drink Guinness and grow strong. You will assemble here at half-seven tomorrow morning to begin carrying bricks for the construction of the new power plant."
At this O'Leary turned away — was there a twinkle in his eye? — and left before the translation was finished so that the groan that greeted his final words followed him through a small door. His audience went, somewhat crestfallen, to their quarters.
But not Giulio. Depressed? Never! Power plant! This was the best luck ever.
It was drizzling next morning and in groups of ten, damp and cold, they stood in the courtyard. Each group next to a large pile of singularly massive-looking bricks. A squat and solid man with large red hands talked to Giulio and his companions and held out an object towards them. It had a long wooden handle that supported two boards, set edge to edge to make a V.
"This," he said, "this, my good lads, is a hod. Got that? Hod, hod. Let me hear you say it. Hod?"
"Hod," one man said, then others, "hod, hod."
"Very good. You're a bright lot and you'll learn fast. Now this is a wee bit of a hod, as anyone who knows about such things will tell you, but that is because the bricks are not the normal, weak, crumbling things that you are used to in your foreign lands."
The men listened, puzzled, and Giulio tried to appear as unknowing as the others. The mere fact that no one understood their instructor did not seem to bother him nor halt the flow of his words.
"Time was when you had to carry a great hod just heaped with bricks, but now there are but three in a load. Why, you might ask, only three? Well I'll be happy to tell you. There are but three because they're bloody heavy, that's why, seeing as how they are now the Irish Standard Brick and made of solid granite and good for the centuries. Just pick one up — if you can that is, you there, Tony my lad, smile away, but this is no bag of pasta, that's it. Touch of the old hernia there if you don't learn to lift better…"
"Paddy," a voice called out. "I need a pair of brawny lads to unload a lorry. Got any to spare?"
"They're a puny lot and you can have them all. Take what you will for I despair of ever making good union hod carriers out of any of them."
The newcomer stood behind them and pointed to the nearest man. "You then, Tony, come-o with me-o. Got that? And you too, Tony." He jabbed a finger at Giulio and waved him over. Giulio went through a pantomime with him, of pointing to his chest and nodding and so forth, then followed meekly. Excited.
Through a small gate and then another. Towards a great, window-less building that dominated all the others around it. From high on the wall, standing forth on hulking white insulators, great electric cables reached out to a tall pylon and beyond. This was it!
"Grand sight, isn't it, Tony? Nothing like that back in the land of pasta, is there? But work first then. Boxes off lorry-o, on to handcart. And bloody smart if you don't mind. Like this. Got it?"
It did not take long. The lorry pulled away and two men pushed off the handcart. "More lorry, got that?" their guide shouted, waving and pointing at the ground at the same time. "Take a kip and we'll be back."