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Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

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BOOK: Bella Fortuna
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They enjoyed a candlelit dinner and talked about how blessed they were to have finally found jobs as tailors and to have good friends like Raquel and John Sutton.
Olivia excused herself to go to the bathroom. Their railroad-style apartment forced her to walk through their bedroom before she could enter the bathroom. She froze when she saw what was on the bed—
ten
boxes of Noxzema! She ran over to pick one up, still not believing she was holding one in her very
own
home and not in a drugstore. She took out one of the jars, removed the lid, and smelled the cream. She then noticed the card that lay on her pillow. She ripped open the envelope.
Cara Olivia. Ti amo con tutto mio cuore. Tuo sposo, Nicola
Olivia turned to run out to the dining room, but Nicola was standing in the doorway smiling.
“You can finally have all the Noxzema you want.”
“I can't believe you!” Olivia ran into his arms.
Nicola kissed Olivia. “You can send a few of those boxes to your sisters in Sicily. I know they've been begging you.”
“You are the best husband in the world!”
“You are the best wife!”
That night, Olivia generously slathered the cool Noxzema all over her face, spreading it smoothly and making sure to create deep circles around her delicate eye area as she'd seen the TV commercial model do. She kept the Noxzema on for ten minutes, reveling in the tingling sensation and inhaling deeply its minty fragrance, as if its properties could benefit her lungs in addition to her complexion. When she rinsed off the cream, she was convinced that already her skin looked brighter and younger than it had that morning.
 
So this thirty-year-old Noxzema ritual Olivia still swore by did more than just keep her skin looking young. For it reminded her of her early days in New York, of how far she'd come since she'd left Sicily, and most of all, of her love for Nicola.
Olivia yawned, finally feeling herself surrender to sleep. Though Nicola was the last person in her mind before she drifted off to sleep, she didn't dream of him tonight. Instead, she found herself back in her beloved home in Tindari, Sicily, and dreaming of her first love—Salvatore Corvo.
8
Another Time, Another Place
“
A
ve, ave, ave, Maria! Ave, ave, ave, Maria!”
My friends and I are standing on the cliff where the cathedral of the Black Madonna of Tindari is perched. Wreaths of orange blossoms crown our heads, and we stand in a ring around the statue of the Black Madonna. Every so often a soft breeze blows, carrying the citrus fragrance from the flowers in our hair.
I always feel a magical feeling every year when May, the month of the Madonna, comes around. My love for her and for God fills my lungs. I sing as beautifully as I can, offering my gift to the Madonna.
The buzzing sound of several
motorinos
reaches our ears as they make their way up the tortuous road of the mountain that leads to the sanctuary. Soon we hear men's shouting. Entranced by our devotion, we all ignore them. But it becomes harder to stay focused, as the sounds grow louder. From my peripheral vision, I can see they are fast approaching the mountaintop. A few of my friends lower their voices and turn their heads toward the motorists, but I sing even louder, giving everyone a stern glance. But it's no use. My voice is soon drowned out by the raucous laughter of five young men riding their
motorinos
. I, too, am now forced to look. The men's shirts puff out behind them like a boat's sails on a gusty day.
How dare these crass, stupid boys disrespect us and disturb our veneration? Closing my eyes, I concentrate on my singing again, raising my voice as high as it can go. The men have now reached the cliff and are parking their
motorinos.
Their boisterous talk and laughter continues. Suddenly, one of them breaks out in song.
“Lasciate mehhh cantahhh-re . . .”
My eyes flash open. All of my friends are staring at the fool who is singing this song. They start laughing when he begins marching toward us like a soldier. Lifting his legs high and bending his knees in an exaggerated manner, he salutes every second or so. He is so entranced with his song that his eyes are closed. Has he been drinking? The audacity of this buffoon! And he has the nerve to be singing the words “Let me sing.” No doubt he is mocking the Madonna and us.
“Cretino!”
I mutter under my breath.
His friends are keeping their distance. No doubt they've seen the furious look on my face. At least they have some sense. But just when I think this they break down laughing. A couple of them are bent over holding their crotches, laughing quietly as tears stream down their faces.
Of course we have ceased our singing amid this spectacle. I glower at the
pagliaccio
before me whose eyes are shut and who now raises his voice in an ear-splitting soprano.
I walk over to him with my hands on my waist. The breeze kicks up from the ocean below, whipping the white scarf that holds my hair back like a gesture of peace. But I am far from calling an end to the war that is brewing. Finally, he opens his eyes. We scan each other from head to toe. His eyes are as black as the lava rocks that spew from neighboring Mount Etna's volcano when it is erupting. But instead of instilling fear in me, his eyes awe me. Everything about him is mysterious and dark. I cross my arms in front of my chest.
“Why have you stopped singing? Well? Go on!
Canti!
You disrupted our worship so that you could be heard, and now that you have our attention you just stand there mute!”
“Forgive me,
signorina.
My friends and I were just carried away with the beautiful day. We didn't—”
“
Canti!
I don't want you to talk!”
“
Signorina
, please accept my apology. I'll leave now and let you continue with your feast.”
He turns to walk away, but I jump in front of him.
“Sing! Now!”
I point to the ground with my index finger, a gesture my father always uses when he commands us to listen. I glance around to see where this clown's friends are, but of course, none of the cowards are in sight. My singing partners have slowly advanced, all of their eyes fixed on this young man I am torturing. We now completely surround him. A few of the women whisper to each other, giggling softly. Even the three nuns in their heavy dark habits have their hands over their mouths.
“Come on, let's hear you sing,” my best friend Gabriella shouts.
“Yes, that's what you wanted, after all. You were singing ‘
Lasciate Me Cantare
. ' ”
Sister Pia Maria, who never disagrees with anyone, shouts, startling me.
“Canti!”
The statue of our Virgin Mary has been forgotten as everyone joins in,
“Canti, canti, canti!”
Instead of the Black Madonna, the brazen young man now is at the center of our circle.
“Okay, okay. Just please give me some space.”
Everyone steps back except for me. I can't resist smirking, but my rigid stance has not relaxed. The man sings, but not the same foolish song he had sung before. Instead he chooses a very sad love song that is popular with the girls. He closes his eyes and sings, in a deep, rich voice, the story of two tragic lovers. We are all mesmerized.
The song is short. When he is finished, I resist the urge to beg him not to stop. Everyone applauds except for me.
“Have I humiliated myself enough for you now,
signorina?
”
His fierce, dark eyes meet mine. I lower my gaze to the ground.
“Buon giorno, signorine
.
”
“Buon giorno, signore
,
”
the choir echoes in unison.
He walks away. I take a step forward but stop. My friends watch me, their eyes imploring me. I break into a run, calling after him:
“
Ritorni, per favore! Ritorni!
I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean any harm. Please come back.”
“
È niente
. No offense taken,
signorina
. Don't worry.” He continues walking toward his
motorino
. My head throbs. What am I doing? Young ladies don't run after men, my father always told my sisters and me, but I continue to follow him.
“Please, come join us in our picnic. We all would like you to stay. My name is Olivia Sera Repetti.”
He stops but does not turn around. “Sera?
Come la sera
?”
“
Si,
like the evening.”
He gazes off into the distance for what feels like an eternity. I'm about to walk away when he says, “You should go by your middle name.”
“Why?”
“It suits you better. Your mood is brooding and dark like the evening.”
My anger flares up again. I'm about to lash at him when I see his smirk. That is exactly what he wants—for me to lose my temper so he will be right.
“And your name is?” I force a smile, hoping to belie my true feelings of wanting to slap him.
“Salvatore Corvo.”
“Salvatore? What are you the savior of? Fools?”
I can't resist my sharp retort.
Salvatore frowns and is about to say something, but doesn't. Ha! I got the better of him.
“Well,
signorina
. I should be on my way and see where my friends are. I'm sorry again that we disrupted you and your prayers.
Buon giorno
.”
“Please. Won't you join us—even just for a little while?”
“No,
grazie
.” Salvatore walks away.
My heart sinks when I realize he is not going to accept my apology. I am such a silly, stupid girl. I turn around and begin walking back to my friends, who are still watching us.
“You know what? My friends will find me when they're ready. I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I joined you and your friends just for a few minutes. That is, if you are sure I wouldn't be interrupting? I've already created a distraction from your singing and praying.”
“No, it would be my . . . our pleasure. We were going to break soon for a picnic. We have more than enough wine and food.”
“Grazie.”
Salvatore walks by my side.
“Aspetta.”
I wait for him as he walks over to a jasmine bush. He breaks off a cluster of the sweet flowers.
“For you. I know you are already wearing flowers in your hair, but I wanted to offer a peace gesture after my bad behavior earlier.”
I smile as I take the flowers.
“Grazie.”
“And you know, I was only joking about your name. It's beautiful. Nighttime happens to be my favorite time of the day. Would you mind if I called you Sera instead of Olivia?”
No one has ever called me by my middle name before. The thought of having Salvatore call me Sera intrigues me. It is almost as if I have another identity.
“Yes, you may call me Sera. I was only joking about your name, too.”
Salvatore smiles at me. We join my friends and lay out our picnic. Salvatore has not left my side, and instead of staying for only a few minutes, he is with us for the remainder of the afternoon. He asks me where I am from and how long have I been singing. We also talk about our love of music. Salvatore's friends eventually return and join our picnic. They seem nice, but from this moment on, there is only one man who exists for me—Salvatore.
 
Olivia awoke from her sleep with a start. Sighing deeply, she reached over to turn on her lamp and noticed the time on her alarm clock—five o'clock in the morning. Nicola's photograph caught her attention once again. Olivia picked up the frame and stared at her deceased husband. She remembered her dream, which was really a memory of the first time she'd met Salvatore. Very little was different in her dream from the actual meeting. How odd that she should have a dream that mirrored an event that had taken place in her life. She always dreamed of her youth and spending time with her family and friends in Sicily, but it had never been an actual recording of events as it had been tonight.
Though Olivia never told Nicola about Salvatore, she sensed he knew that she had loved before and had suffered. For he took his time with her, letting their friendship deepen before wooing her. And when Olivia was finally able to close the chapter on Salvatore, she gave her heart fully to Nicola. So every once in a while when she had a dream about Salvatore, she always felt extremely guilty. Nicola was her husband, after all. Salvatore was just a part of her past.
Perhaps she still dreamed of Salvatore from time to time because she never had—what did the Americans call it? Closure? Salvatore had disappeared from her life as abruptly as he had entered it. But none of that mattered now after all these years. She'd moved on and had met Nicola two years after she'd last heard from Salvatore.
Olivia noticed some light coming in through her curtains. Glancing at her clock, she couldn't believe it was already almost six in the morning. There was no way she'd be able to go back to sleep. She pulled the covers off herself and got out of bed. Walking over to the window, Olivia stared at the sky. Dawn was her favorite time of the day, for it reminded her of those magical mornings on the beach in Tindari and of Nicola.
BOOK: Bella Fortuna
4.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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