—Yawn, my name in English is Yawn! Like “Forza Yawn!” I exclaimed.

While still in Italy, preparing for the event of their emigration, Giovà had discovered his English name. In Italian, his name was Giovanni, Giovà for short but he also went by a host of other diminutives, cute only for a baby. In Canada, what would be his name? He received as a parting gift an important linguistic tool: a pocket dictionary. It was wrapped by a brown, plastic cover, and it exuded an irresistible odour that compelled him to nibble and slobber on it. With a careful bite, you could even make satisfying little punctures in it. The substance was probably an intoxicating oil by-product that chewed like bubble gum. Afterwards, he would always associate the smell and texture of that dictionary with the English language to the point that years later, while in Italy, he was surprised by a girl who spoke English and it caused a Pavlovian response that he had to keep to himself, for the sake of good manners. It was as if his body was saying: "Oh you speak English? How yummy! Let me slobber all over you like a St. Bernard!"

Zio Antò had given Giovà the dictionary because he would need it to learn English, he had wisely said. Skimming through the two inches of cigarette-paper pages no wider than a box of cerini, tiny waxed-stem matches, Giovà discovered that the key to the door of the English language was closely related to cigarettes! Still, captivated by the scent of the vocabulary, Giovà turned the pages of a lexicon otherwise unmanageable without the sharp eyes and slim fingers of a young boy:

—Yon, my name in English is Yon! Like “Forza Yon!” —he exclaimed.

He had no idea of English phonetics. The name was identical to that of his hero, John, from the continuing episodes of “Forza John!” from Il Monello, his favourite comic book. He read it every two weeks, cover-to-cover, as he walked home with his face buried in it. From the minute he bought a copy at the newsstand, he re-read Il Monello several times, and his sister and mother read it at least once.

He imagined flying in planes upside down in adventures with many other of John’s friends: gangly Palissandro Giacinto Livingston, the bespectacled, English journalist; Rosario, the burly sailor and owner of the schooner for the sea adventures, and Geremia, the yappy parrot who was always drunk.

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John was going to be his name in Canada!

—Ohó! Ohó! Che forza ddavero!—was his victory cry.

He would learn the correct pronunciation of his English name very soon after touching ground at the airport. Foreign sounding names were not welcome in Calgary.