Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  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 pat
iently 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.

  “As I was saying, I thought Henri was in love with me, too, but I was wrong. I was convinced he would propose to me.”

  “Did he tell you he would?” Rosalia asked.

  “No. And he never told me he loved me even though I had told him so several times.”

  “Then why—” Rosalia caught herself, but it was too late.

  “That’s all right. You were going to ask why I thought he loved me and that he was going to propose, even though he never uttered a word to express his feelings for me or his intentions. I was foolish, and I made excuses for him: He isn’t comfortable talking about his emotions.... He’s too busy at the perfume factory to get married to me at this moment, but when the time is right he will. My aunt was beginning to get nervous as well and questioned his motives, but I staunchly defended him—until one day when I was enjoying a beautiful day in the park with my friends and saw him. He was having a picnic with a woman, closer to his age. Did I mention to you he was a dozen years my senior?”

  Rosalia shook her head. “But I gathered he was older.”

  “The woman was beautiful—the complete opposite of me. She was very petite with reddish-brown curls that were pinned to the back of her head. Her face held this very wise expression. I don’t know how else to put it. She had this confidence about her. Though I was becoming a celebrated ballerina, I still had insecurities and, looking back now, I’m sure they were apparent, especially to Henri.

  “So I assumed she was his mistress. I was sickened at the thought, especially since I had given him my virginity. That was another reason why I thought he would marry me. I thought Henri was too honorable to persuade me to sleep with him and then not do the proper thing by marrying me.”

  Mari let out a wicked laugh, which startled Rosalia. She almost sounded mad, and for the first time since Rosalia had met Mari, there was a malicious glint in her eyes.

  “I was such a fool. What good was all that fine education my aunt had given me if I knew nothing about life and the ways of the world? I would’ve learned more if I had stayed home with my poor parents on our little farm in Sicily.”

  “You were young, Mari. I don’t think it matters where a person is brought up; we often make poor choices when we’re young and inexperienced.”

  “I suppose. I’m sorry if I sound bitter. All these years, and I can still feel his betrayal as if it happened a moment ago.” Mari closed her eyes for a moment before continuing her story. “I was about to walk away. I couldn’t take watching Henri any longer in the company of this woman. But just as I was about to turn around, a breeze blew in from the Seine. It was quite a gusty day, and all the people having picnics were constantly chasing after their belongings that were getting blown away. The breeze blew up the woman’s dress, revealing that she was quite pregnant. I couldn’t tell before since she was seated and her dress was loose, but there was no mistaking the size of her stomach when her dress blew.

  “Fortunately, my friends hadn’t noticed Henri, and I told them I wanted to take a walk to the village to buy pastries. They took my suggestion, and we left. The next day when Henri came by the theater to walk me home, I confronted him with what I’d seen. And Henri confirmed what I had suspected once I’d seen that the woman with him was pregnant. She was his wife. But what twisted the knife deeper into my heart was when he told me he already had another child.

  “I couldn’t believe he had been unfaithful to his wife—a wife who was about to have his second child. The honorable man I thought I knew was a fraud. He told me he loved his wife, but marriage didn’t suit him, and then he had the nerve to tell me that when he had first laid eyes on me he had known he had to have me. He finally told me he cared about me. Naturally, he didn’t utter the word love, but his even saying he cared about me was the most he’d ever revealed about how he felt about me.

  “I told him I could not be with a married man, and that he had betrayed me in addition to his wife. He tried in vain to convince me to change my mind, but I would not be swayed. Zia Santa didn’t press me to reveal the reasons why we were no longer together. I think she had begun to suspect anyway that he was not suitable for me, and perhaps she was relieved we had ended it.

  “I was beyond heartbroken and threw myself even more into my dancing. About two months after I stopped seeing Henri, I received an offer to go dance with the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow. They wanted me to be their prima ballerina. My aunt was so proud of me. I had finally arrived. I no longer cared about finding the man of my dreams and falling in love. Henri had shattered that illusion for me, and I decided I would completely devote myself to my dancing—even more than I had before.

  “I had been in Moscow for a month when I discovered I was three months pregnant. I was shocked, but not as shocked as my zia Santa, who was staying with me until I was settled. But more than shocked, she was enraged that I had let this happen, as she constantly reminded me. I’d never seen her that angry. She screamed at me and told me all of her hard work and money had gone down the drain. I wanted to lash out at her as well and remind her I was the one breaking my toes while I rehearsed constantly. I was the one constantly pressuring myself to do my best and make her proud.

  “I had to resign from the dance position with the Bolshoi. I returned to Paris with my aunt, but she barely paid me any notice, and I knew it was just a matter of time before she would tell me I was no longer welcome there. I felt like such a fool, for I had misjudged both Henri and my aunt. After my ballet career was over, she no longer wanted anything to do with me. I wrote to my mother and told her what had happened. I asked if I could come back home. When I received my mother’s letter, I feared she was going to turn her back on me, but she didn’t.” Mari wiped tears from her eyes with her apron. “The mother I had abandoned was still welcoming me with open arms. And to think I had felt awkward around her all those times I had come home to visit.”

  “What about your father?” Rosalia’s voice sounded grave, for she was remembering how her father had believed the lies in Marco’s letter.

  “He wasn’t happy that I was pregnant, but he didn’t turn me away. I had quite a bit of money from my work as a ballerina. I gave it all to my parents when I returned home. It was the least I could do given what they were doing for me, and besides, they would need it since now I would be living with them, as would my baby once she was born.

  “But it wasn’t to be. I had a miscarriage in my sixth month. It was a girl. I almost died as well.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mari.” Rosalia reached out and placed her hand on Mari’s arm.

  “Grazie, Rosalia. I think about her every day.”

  They remained quiet for a few moments while Rosalia waited for Mari to compose herself and continue.

  “So now you know about my other life as a ballerina, living in Paris and even in Russia briefly.” Mari managed a small smile for Rosalia.

  “May I ask how you ended up here? At the convent?”

  “I needed to find work. I couldn’t keep relying on my parents to provide for me, and I wanted to be able to help them. I had heard about the pastry shop here and thought I could help with whatever was needed. I didn’t live here at first. My father died about twenty years ago, and then my mother passed away a decade later. The farm was too much for me to care for, and my younger brothers had married and moved far away, so they couldn’t help. I sold the farm. Madre Carmela told me I could come here to live. I gave her a generous donation after I sold the farm and insisted she take it even though she was reluctant.”

  Rosalia nodded thoughtfully. She was still wondering how Anun
ziata had known there was a scandal in Mari’s past. Now, after hearing Mari’s story, Rosalia saw Anunziata had been right.

  “Have you told anyone else about what happened to you when you were young?”

  “Only Madre Carmela. She has helped me find peace, although I still struggle at times. But I suppose the good thing to come out of what happened to me was that I was reunited with my parents. I should have never left them, and I know they grew to regret letting me move to Paris.”

  “And you never fell in love again?”

  “No. There was someone—a young man whom I had gone to grade school with. We spent some time together when I returned home, but I just couldn’t allow myself to trust again.”

  Mari placed her hands on either side of Rosalia’s shoulders.

  “Don’t make the same mistake I made, Rosalia. Don’t let that horrible man who kidnapped you and took you to that cave make you lose faith in others. You must learn to trust again.”

  Rosalia was taken aback. How had Mari known she had been kidnapped? She had only told Madre Carmela. But then Rosalia remembered what she had looked like when the nuns had found her by the cave. She had been bruised; her clothes had been torn. Her cheeks burned as she remembered she hadn’t been wearing any undergarments. And in that moment, Rosalia realized they all knew. Everyone at the convent knew she’d been raped. Shame filled every pore in her body. Though Madre told her repeatedly she had nothing to be ashamed of, and that it was Marco who needed to be ashamed, Rosalia couldn’t help it. She felt exposed, much as she had been on that day when she had been lying like an animal outside that cave, near death.

  If the sisters and the lay workers knew that Rosalia had been raped, did that mean Antonio knew as well? She hoped not. For she was beginning to think of him as a friend, and she couldn’t bear the thought of his thinking anything bad about her.

  15