Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop (19 page)

“Rosalia?” Signore Mandanici called out to her.

She offered him a small smile. “You remember me.”

“Of course! Why wouldn't I? You and your father are among my best customers.”

Rosalia cringed slightly at his use of the present “are.”
He doesn't know anything,
a voice whispered inside her head.

“So what can I do for you today?” Signore Mandanici then took notice of Antonio and frowned. “Is your father well? Why isn't he with you today?”

Rosalia's heart sank. Her suspicions were confirmed. “He . . .” She couldn't continue as her voice cracked. Antonio came to her rescue.

“Signore Mandanici, I am Antonio, a friend of Rosalia's. This might sound strange, but please bear with us. Rosalia was separated from her family.”

Signore Mandanici's eyes widened. He was about to ask a question, but Antonio held up his hand before Signore Mandanici could speak.

“I'm afraid it's too long a story and too complicated to explain. We don't want to take up too much of your time. We know how busy you are.”

Antonio's last statement appeared to placate Signore Mandanici's curiosity.

“As I was saying, she was separated from her family, and she is desperate to find them. Rosalia was wondering if her father has been in the shop in the past month? And if so, did he give any indication as to where he might be living now?”

Signore Mandanici raised his right eyebrow. He then looked at Rosalia.

“Rosalia, is everything this young man is saying true?”

“
Si.
I'm afraid it is, Signore Mandanici. Have you seen my father?”

“The last time I saw him was in November. I should've suspected something was wrong since he came in, not wishing to purchase fabric from me, but instead to ask if I wanted to buy a few men's suits that he had made. He was even offering them to me at a much lower price than what they were worth.” Signore Mandanici shook his head. “He explained to me that the men whom he'd made these suits for had never returned to his shop to pick them up, and he wanted to unload them. It seemed like a plausible explanation, so I believed him.”

Rosalia remembered what Signora Tucci had told her about her father's losing business at the shop. She imagined Papà had made the suits for the sole purpose of selling them.

“Did you buy the suits from him?” Rosalia asked.

“I did, but I insisted on paying him more than he was asking. As I said, the suits were worth more than the low price he was asking, and I didn't feel right paying him so little for them. Besides, your father has been a steady, loyal client to me over the years. I felt I owed him.”

“
Grazie,
Signore Mandanici. You are an honest man.”

Signore Mandanici waved his hand. “It was nothing. I am just so sorry to hear that your family is having a difficult time. Are you all right, Rosalia? If you're looking for them, then where are you staying?” Again, he looked questioningly at Antonio.

“I am staying at a convent in Santa Lucia del Mela. The nuns are treating me kindly and have been so generous to let me stay with them until I can locate my family. May I give you the phone number at the convent? If by any chance you see my father again, can you please give it to him and tell him I am there?”

“Of course.” Signore Mandanici reached for a notebook he kept next to his cash register. He opened the notebook to a page with other contacts and phone numbers and handed a pen to Rosalia. “Write your number down here.”

Rosalia then realized she didn't know by heart the convent's number. It wasn't as if she ever had a need to call the convent, since this was the first time she had been gone from it by herself. She looked at Antonio, panicked.

“I don't know the number.”

“Don't worry. I do.”

Rosalia breathed a sigh of relief as Antonio took the pen out of her hand and wrote the number down.

“Perhaps you should make inquiries with a few of the other shops in town that your father regularly frequented? They might have more information for you than I do,” Signore Mandanici offered, but the sad expression on his face told Rosalia he doubted it.

“
Grazie,
Signore Mandanici. We will do that.”

Rosalia and Antonio wished him farewell and turned to leave the shop, but Signore Mandanici called out to Rosalia.

“Wait! I want to give you these two bolts of fabric. I know it's not much, but perhaps you could make yourself a few pretty dresses.”

“That is all right, Signore Mandanici.”

“Please. I want to do something for Signore DiSanta's daughter. I respect your father. He's a fine businessman and an excellent tailor. I haven't been able to sell these bolts of fabric in the past year, so you would be doing me a favor by taking them off my hands.” He smiled and held out the fabric.

Rosalia knew he was telling a small lie in saying he hadn't been able to sell the fabric. As Papà had told her many times, Signore Mandanici's fabric store was the best in Messina. His business did very well.

“
Grazie molto.
I will never forget your kindness,
signore
.” Rosalia's eyes teared up.

“Take care of yourself, my child. And please, do let me know if you find your family and if there is anything else I can do for you.”

Once they stepped out onto the street, Antonio took the bolts of fabric from Rosalia and held them for her.

“I'm sorry, Antonio. I wasn't thinking when I accepted the fabric from Signore Mandanici. Now you will be stuck carrying these bolts of fabric all day.”

“I don't mind. And besides, I can't wait to see what beautiful dresses you will make. I didn't know you know how to make clothes. But I guess that makes sense since you are the daughter of a tailor.”

“I can make basic dresses, not as beautiful as the ones my mother makes. But the true talent in our family is my father. His suits are impeccable.”

“Do you want to inquire at any of the other businesses about your family?”

“If you don't mind?”

“Of course not.”

They asked at the café where Rosalia and her father would stop to take a small espresso break and buy sweets for her mother when they came to the city to buy fabric. But the café owner barely remembered Rosalia and her father. They stopped at a few other businesses where her father had also visited, but no one had seen him in months.

“If you still want to see the Duomo's clock, we'd better be on our way since it's almost noon.” Antonio glanced at his watch. “But if you'd rather make a few more inquiries, that's fine. I've seen the mechanical figures of the Duomo's clock before.”

“No, that's all right. The few shops we have already gone to were the only places my father would stop by when we would come to Messina. My family is most likely not here, and they probably aren't even anywhere near this city. Do you believe in premonition, Antonio?”

“I guess.” Antonio shrugged his shoulders.

“I have this premonition. This sense that my family is far from Messina. I don't know why, but I do. And before I learned that my family had left my hometown, I sensed something was wrong.”

Antonio placed his hand on Rosalia's arm, but didn't say anything.

“How will I find them, Antonio, if they are far away?”

“I will help you.”

“But how? Sicily is so large.”

“I will make calls to the local authorities in every county.”

“That's crazy! Besides, the police inspector of Santa Lucia del Mela is doing that already. According to Madre Carmela, nothing has come of his efforts.”

“I see. I didn't realize the police inspector was involved in searching for your family.”

Rosalia could see the questions in Antonio's face, but he refrained from asking her anything.

They reached the Duomo just in time for the mechanical clock to start its show. A crowd had gathered in front of the cathedral.

Unlike the other spectators who had gathered to watch the mechanical figures of the clock, Rosalia felt no elation. For how could she take pleasure in anything without having those she loved most near her? Instead, as she watched, she couldn't help feeling that she was like the figures and had no control over her own fate; rather, time was dictating her every move.

14

Cuscinetti

CITRUS-FILLED ALMOND PILLOWS

 

 

 

 

R
osalia was shifting and turning in bed, unable to sleep. She glanced at an old wristwatch, which had a small crack on its face, that she kept on her nightstand. One in the morning. Madre Carmela had given her the old watch so she could keep time. Rosalia always kept it on her night table and only used it to know what time she was waking up in the morning—or to see what time it was when she couldn't sleep. She yawned, resting her arm on top of her forehead as she turned onto her back. Thoughts of her day spent with Antonio in Messina kept flashing through her mind. While they had tried to make the most of their afternoon, there had been a cloud hanging over them. Rosalia's hopes were deflated, and she no longer believed she would find more clues. She had taken some small comfort in the fact that Signore Mandanici had seen her father, even though the news that Papà had sold a few of the suits he'd made only served to deepen her pain over the hard times her family had fallen on—and all because of her. While she knew she should listen to Madre Carmela's advice not to blame herself, it was near impossible for Rosalia not to do so.

Sighing deeply, she decided to get out of bed and go down to the kitchen. Perhaps studying the recipes in Madre Carmela's recipe book would tire her enough that she could finally go to sleep. This was a habit Rosalia had begun in the past few weeks whenever insomnia took hold. At least once a week, sometimes more, she could not fall asleep, or she would wake up in the middle of the night and be up until morning. She welcomed sleep since she often dreamed about being with Mamma, Papà, Luca, and Cecilia. But just as often as there were good dreams, there were also nightmares—nightmares that awakened her and left her feeling a terrible emptiness deep inside her.

Fortunately, none of the other nuns or lay workers who resided at the convent had problems sleeping, so when Rosalia went down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, she was all alone. But as she approached the kitchen tonight, she saw light streaming out into the corridor. Although she knew how meticulous the nuns were about ensuring the lights were turned off when not in use, perhaps one of the workers had forgotten.

A few feet away from the kitchen, Rosalia stopped. She could hear noises coming from the kitchen, a light scraping sound. Walking slowly to the entrance, she stretched her neck and peered into the kitchen. She was stunned by the sight that greeted her.

Mari, the oldest of the lay workers, was dancing! And not just any frivolous dancing, but ballet. Rosalia placed a hand over her gaping mouth as she watched the woman go from one movement to the next, completely absorbed. Mari made a deep plié, her feet turned out one in front of the other in fifth position. Her arms arched high over her head as her head tilted gracefully to the side. She leapt up and soon was dancing in semicircles around the space in the center of the kitchen. Though her leap was not very high, her skill and ability to still dance this well in her early sixties impressed Rosalia.

Rosalia knew a little about ballet, for one of her teachers had had a book on the subject and had lent it to her once. She'd loved looking at the photographs of the lithe ballerinas all decked out in their frilly tutus and dainty ballet slippers. She remembered reading about the five ballet positions and seeing the illustrations of each one. And she'd also read about pliés, chassés, and rond de jambe.

Mari ended her dance with a pirouette, but instead of completing the spin gracefully, she lost her balance and fell to the floor.

Rosalia ran over to her. “Are you all right?”

Mari looked up, confused at first to see Rosalia, but then embarrassment took over as she glanced down, nodding her head.

“I'm fine. Just a little dizzy.”

“Let me help you to your feet.” Rosalia held out her hand, and Mari took it as she slowly stood up.

“Did you see what I was doing?” Mari asked as she walked over to the kitchen sink and washed her hands.

“I did. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spy on you. It's just that I couldn't sleep, and I thought I'd come down here and study a few of the recipes in Madre Carmela's books.”

Mari wiped her hands dry with a clean kitchen towel before saying, “So you discovered my secret.” She smiled, much to Rosalia's surprise. She rarely saw Mari smile.

“Were you a ballerina?” Rosalia asked.

Mari nodded. “In another life.”

“You were beautiful.”

“Ah.
Grazie.
But I can no longer dance the way I once did.”

“I'm sorry if I am prying, Mari, but may I ask why it is a secret?”

Mari shrugged her shoulders. “I just haven't spoken to anyone about my former life, before I came to the convent's pastry shop. I suppose if people found out it wouldn't be that big of a deal, but then there would be more questions—questions that would lead to my having to be evasive. And I'd rather not have any speculation swirling around me. I just want to be left alone to make my pastries here.”

Rosalia realized in that moment that Mari did not know there was already much speculation swirling around her. Rosalia remembered that Anunziata had told her there was some scandal in Mari's youth that had brought her here. But, from what Mari had just said, it seemed as if she hadn't told anyone about her past. So why would Anunziata and a few of the other pastry shop workers be spreading rumors that there was a scandal in Mari's past?

“I can understand your not wanting to talk about your past.”

Mari looked at her for a moment. Rosalia couldn't help feeling as if Mari were seeing straight through to her soul.

“Ah, Rosalia. You have come a long way since the day the sisters found you, but I can see in your eyes you are still suffering, especially after learning that your family had moved. If there is anyone who can understand even a hint of what you are going through, that would be me. Come with me.”

Mari took Rosalia by the hand and led her to one of the worktables toward the back of the kitchen.

“Before I decided to relive my days as a ballerina and almost kill myself with that pirouette, I was making
Cuscinetti
. You're not the only one who comes down here when you can't sleep.”

She gestured toward three large rectangular sheets of rolled-out dough. A bowl of preserved citrons was next to the dough.

“Have you learned how to make these yet?”

Rosalia shook her head. “Did I hear you right when you said they're
Cuscinetti?
”

“
Si.
That's what they're called. Little pillows. You'll see once we're done filling them and cutting them; they resemble cute little pillows. I think these are my favorite desserts to make.”

Mari smiled as she scooped up some citron preserve with a tablespoon and spread a diagonal line of it down the center of the rectangle. She then folded each side of the dough, overlapping the two edges, before taking a knife and cutting eight pieces of dough off.

“See!
Cuscinetti.
Aren't they adorable?”

Rosalia couldn't help but note the childlike glee in Mari's voice. She helped Mari fill the remaining rectangles of dough and then cut the individual little pillows.

“When I was fourteen years old, my wealthy aunt, who lived in Paris, told my mother I could go live with her and learn ballet. Zia Santa wanted to sponsor me and had high hopes that I would become a prima ballerina someday. She didn't care that I had never donned a pair of ballet slippers, and in the ballet world, fourteen was already too old to master the art. My parents were very poor, and this offer was the next best thing to a suitor's asking them for my hand in marriage. They would not have to worry about feeding another mouth if I went to stay with Zia Santa. I had three younger brothers. In fact, a few months before Zia Santa made the offer, my father had begun talking about trying to find a suitor for me.”

Mari stopped working for a moment as her eyes fixed on a memory only she could see.

“My aunt had never married and had no children. Though she had many friends, there was always a loneliness about her. I suppose that's why she made her offer. Even though I was a little nervous about going to another country where I didn't know the language or even my aunt, for I had never met her before, I was relieved. I was not ready to be wed to some stranger, and that's what would have happened if I hadn't moved to Paris. So I went. Zia Santa was very kind and became like a second mother to me. She hired a tutor so I could learn French, and while it was difficult in the beginning, especially in ballet school as I struggled to understand what the teacher was instructing me to do, I learned the language enough to feel confident speaking on my own in just six months. My ballet training was rigorous, but I fell in love with it. The younger students laughed at me in the beginning since I was much older and taller than them, but knew so little. But my teacher, Mademoiselle LeJeune, encouraged me. Zia Santa always said Mademoiselle LeJeune saw something in me, and that was why she worked so hard to bring me to the level of the other students in the class. Within a year and a half, I was putting the other students to shame. They were no longer laughing at me and instead were now jealous.

“When I turned eighteen, I was offered a position with a reputable ballet company in Paris. Zia Santa's dreams of seeing me become a successful ballerina were realized. My parents were so proud of me and told me they would come to Paris someday to watch me, but they never did. They couldn't afford to take such a trip, and when I sent them the money so they could come, they sent it back.” Mari's eyes filled with tears.

“Why did they do that?”

“Pride. Silly pride. But I don't blame them. Here I was the child of farmers, and now I was making so much money. My father had always taken great pride in providing for his family, even when he struggled to do so.”

“How often did you come back home to visit?”

“While I was still in dance school, I came back to Sicily every summer for Ferragosto. Zia Santa even accompanied me a few times. I could tell that her visiting was uncomfortable for my parents since she had so much money. They invited her to stay in our home and, to be polite, Zia stayed, but I could tell my parents wished she had stayed in a hotel during her visits. They were embarrassed about how poor they were. But Zia didn't care. Mamma always seemed happy to see me again, even if she did feel a little uncomfortable around her sister.”

“What about the times your aunt didn't join you?”

“Of course my parents were more relaxed, but there was still a strain between them and me. It was as if we no longer knew one another. That pained me a lot, and I couldn't quite understand why there was this strain, especially on my part. I should've felt that nothing had changed when I returned home, but of course, so much had changed. I had become this young woman who lived in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world and was learning to become a world-class ballerina. But more important, I was living under my aunt's roof in a lavish house with servants. I wore expensive clothes and had my hair done.” Mari shook her head before continuing. “No wonder my poor parents felt uncomfortable around their own daughter. And I suppose now that I look back, my own awkwardness around them was because I felt guilty. Guilty that I had so much when they had so little.”

“I can understand that. I feel guilty about things with my own family.” Rosalia sounded very sad as she said this.

“Once I began working, it was hard for me to come back home every summer since I was often touring. So I continued to work hard, improving my dance skills and thrilling to the applause of audiences as I peformed. When I was twenty, I met a man who regularly came to watch the ballet while we performed at home in Paris. He always had a front-row seat. He had a way of managing to catch my eye as I was taking my final bows before the curtain closed.

“Finally, one day he waited for me outside the theater. He came over to my ballerina friends and me and introduced himself. Henri Montserrat was his name. He walked me home and, after that night, he always made sure to do so when I had a performance in Paris. Soon, he began taking me out with my aunt's permission. Henri seemed to be the perfect gentleman: well-bred, wealthy—he owned a perfume factory—and impeccably polite. Needless to say I fell in love immediately, and I thought he was in love with me, too.” Mari's voice caught.

Rosalia cringed, anticipating what Mari would say next.

Mari picked up two of the trays holding the
Cuscinetti
and placed them into the oven. Rosalia followed her with the other two trays. She could see in her peripheral vision that Mari was fighting back tears. Her heart went out to her.

“Mari, you don't need to tell me any more if you don't want to.”

“I want to. For too many years, I have been holding on to this pain, Rosalia. It's time I let it go. And I sense my story might help you with your suffering. And if it does, that would make me happy. You are still so young, Rosalia, and I don't want to see you put yourself through the same ordeal I put myself through my whole life.”

Rosalia followed Mari back to the worktable. She waited patiently until Mari was ready. Mari began mixing another batch of dough to make more
Cuscinetti
even though they already had a lot. Rosalia didn't say a word. She understood, for she had recently begun to do the same thing whenever she was upset—she had begun to use the making of the pastries as a form of healing. When she kneaded dough or prepared the shapes of the marzipan fruit or braided rows of biscotti, she felt her sadness and anxiety lift for the moment.