Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “I was hoping that I could ask a few of the shopkeepers here if they had seen my family, especially at the store where my father purchased his fabric for his tailor shop. I want to know if my father has been back recently. Who knows? Maybe my family decided to move to Messina, and perhaps a few of the other shopkeepers might’ve seen them.”

  “I see. We can do that, Rosalia. That’s fine. But . . .” Antonio’s voice trailed off. He was about to continue, but stopped again. “I’m sorry, Rosalia, but I must ask again. What happened to your family? How is it that you’re separated from them? Wouldn’t they be looking for you?”

  Rosalia’s eyes quickly filled with tears. She turned. Her gaze met Antonio’s for a brief moment before she glanced away again, trying to fight back the tears, but it was no use. The thought that her family had stopped looking for her and had been able to move away so soon after receiving Marco’s ugly letter was too much for her to bear in this moment.

  “I’m sorry, Rosalia. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Antonio placed his hand on her shoulder, and before Rosalia could think better about what she was doing, she leaned into him, letting him cradle her as she surrendered herself to her emotions. Antonio waited patiently until she stopped crying. He pulled a handkerchief out of his trousers pocket and patted her tears dry before placing the handkerchief in her hand. Again, she couldn’t believe how tender he was with her.

  “You didn’t upset me, Antonio. It’s hard for me still to accept that they’re gone. I have to find them. I just have to.”

  Antonio nodded his head thoughtfully. She could see he still wanted to ask her more questions, but didn’t want to upset her any further.

  “I want to tell you, Antonio, what happened to me, but I’m not ready yet. All I will say is that I was separated from my family, and they were led to believe something false about me. They went through a very difficult time and had no choice but to leave my hometown. They . . . they thought I was gone and would not be returning. It’s not like they abandoned me, Antonio.”

  He patted her shoulder and said, “Of course not. How could anyone abandon you? You’re an angel.”

  She glanced down at the handkerchief he’d given her, twisting it around her index finger.

  “Rosalia, you don’t have to tell me everything that happened. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Like I said before, you can trust me.”

  “Grazie, Antonio.”

  “Let’s go make a few of those inquiries. Do you remember how to get to the fabric store where your father used to shop?”

  “Si. I’m sure the owner will remember me. I came to Messina with my father earlier this year.”

  They walked toward Via Garibaldi; in this neighborhood, many shops lined the streets. Rosalia felt like she was going back in time, imagining she was walking the streets with her father instead of Antonio. For a moment, she wished she were having a bad dream and that everything that had happened to her during the past few months wasn’t real. She then remembered what Madre Carmela had told her. She must place her trust in God and ask Him to help her through this difficult period. Silently, she prayed.

  Please, God, give me the strength to go on without my family while we are separated, and give me the strength to never give up the hope of being reunited with them again.

  “There’s a fabric store right there. Is that the one your father shopped at, Rosalia?”

  Rosalia looked to where Antonio pointed. Merceria Mandanici.

  “Si, that’s it.” She stopped walking as a cold shiver washed over her. Her heart began to race. She closed her eyes and prayed to God once more. Please, God, let me find out something.

  “Are you all right, Rosalia?” Antonio looked at her with concern.

  She nodded her head. “I’m just a little nervous and hoping Signore Mandanici, the owner of the shop, can tell me something about my family—though I know the odds are slim.”

  “It’s a start. If he has no information for you, don’t be discouraged.” Antonio grabbed her hand and gave it a tight squeeze before leading her to the shop.

  They stepped into the store and saw Signore Mandanici was finishing up a sale. While they waited to talk to him, Rosalia inhaled deeply the scents of all the fabrics lining the shelves. They were comforting scents, for she was reminded of the times she had come here with her father, when they had discussed which fabrics to buy. They had also purchased their fabrics here for the clothes Rosalia’s mother would sew for the family. Rosalia remembered buying a beautiful bolt of lavender cotton once for a summer dress her mother had made for her. Rosalia took a deep breath before the memories consumed her.

  “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 re
gister. 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

  December 27, 1955

  Rosalia 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.”