“Hello. How may I help you?” The souvlaki vendor smiles.
“Hi. I’d like one souvlaki stick.”
“With lemon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Bread?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ve never seen you in the neighborhood before. Did you just move here?”
“I’m staying with my aunt for the summer. I just flew in this past weekend.”
“Who is your aunt?”
I hesitate for a moment, fearful that the souvlaki vendor will run into Zia and tell her of my betrayal of Italian food. It’s no use. I have to tell her the truth. She’ll find out soon enough who I am, especially since her stand is just a block away from the bakery.
“Antoniella.”
“From the bakery?”
I nod my head.
“My name is Ella. I hope you enjoy your summer in Astoria.”
“Thank you. My name is Pia.”
Ella wraps my souvlaki in foil with one hand as another hand whips open a brown paper bag.
I hold up my hand. “You don’t need to wrap it up. I’ll be eating it here on the street.”
“As you wish, but take one home to Antoniella. On the house. If Antoniella knew you were here and I didn’t give you a souvlaki for her, she’d be mad.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. Since when has Zia started eating souvlakis? I’ll have to tease her about it. So maybe then she won’t mind that I’m eating one? I can say I was feeling faint and didn’t think I’d make it home in time. I know. That’s lame. Her house is only two blocks away.
I eat my souvlaki as I walk toward Zia’s home. There’s no sense in hiding it since I have a second souvlaki for Zia. I can’t eat both. Well, I could, but then I’d have no room left for any food that Zia has cooked. And that would really infuriate her.
As I pass the bakery, I peer into the window to check if Zia is still there. I don’t spot her. Megan and another salesgirl are behind the counter, chatting. Megan sees me and waves. I wave back. I want to go in and talk to her, but I’m really not in the mood to possibly have to defend my choice in buying a souvlaki if Zia hasn’t gone home yet. So I keep walking. Zia takes a break in the middle of the afternoon and goes home to cook. This way all she has to do when she gets home at night is reheat the food—in a pot on the stove, of course. Zia would never use a microwave for anything. She doesn’t even own one.
The few times I’ve talked to Megan, I’ve found myself really liking her. So far, she’s the only person around my age I’ve met who seems real; she isn’t trying to be anything but herself. I think about the inane conversations I’ve had so far with my coworkers at Profile. It’s going to be a long summer.
Thinking about my internship is bringing back the knot I felt in my shoulder on the subway. All Colin has had me do this week is proofread. Oh, I almost forgot the few business e-mails I had to draft for him. Maybe he’s just easing me in before he gives me an actual writing or editing assignment? It is after all just my first week. But I remember the stories from my college friends who had interned and complained that they were treated like nothing more than secretaries and given work that had no substance to it. Internships are supposed to be instructive; they’re supposed to give you an idea of the field so you’ll know if it’s a career path you want to pursue after graduating from college. But of course that’s what the ideal, cloistered university world has you believe. Now that I’m in the real world, I see it’s far from that way.
I savor every bite of the marinated lamb melting on my tongue. Before I know it, I’m down to the last piece of meat on my stick and halfway down the block. The crowd in front of the Mussolini Mansion is still there, as it has been ever since the day of my arrival in Astoria. When I walk to the subway station in the morning, only a few people are waiting. But by the evening, there’s always a larger crowd. And it’s growing every day. It amazes me how much people are fascinated by celebrities, that they can do nothing better with their time than just wait idly for the chance at a glimpse of their beloved star.
I’ve been walking by every night without stopping. Zia was probably right that whoever Ciggy saw was not Francesca Donata. But for some reason tonight, my curiosity gets the better of me. I wonder if any new developments have occurred.
I notice a woman whom I’ve seen at Zia’s bakery every morning this week—Olivia DeLuca. Olivia owns the bridal boutique Sposa Rosa that is just a few doors down from Antoniella’s Bakery. I walk over to her and tap her shoulder. Olivia jumps as if Francesca Donata is the one tapping her shoulder. She relaxes when she sees me. “Oh, Pia. You startled me.”
“I’m sorry, Signora DeLuca. I didn’t know how else to get your attention. You seemed really preoccupied.” Then again, all of the neighbors standing there appear distracted, their gazes locked on Signora Tesca’s home as if they possess X-ray vision and can see right through the bricks.
“Please, Pia. Call me Olivia. Everyone else does.”
I feel weird calling a woman who could be my mother by her first name. That’s not the way my parents brought me up. Everyone is either Mr. or Mrs., signore or signora if they’re Italian. I just nod my head at Olivia’s request. It will take some getting used to.
“So, any luck? Have you spotted La Sposa Pazza?”
“She’s not crazy, Pia. That poor woman. Imagine coming close to getting married and having it not work out five times! Why must everyone always blame the woman? Because men are saints? Ha!” Olivia flicks the back of her hand under her throat—a famous Sicilian gesture of telling someone to go screw themselves. I laugh really hard. I haven’t seen anyone do that since I was a child and witnessed my father making the gesture.
“See, you agree with me, vero?” Olivia nods her head emphatically.
“So, you’re a big fan of La Sposa—I mean Francesca Donata.” I quickly correct myself. My sixth sense tells me Olivia is probably also prone to mercurial mood swings like Zia.
“Yes. I’ve loved her since her first movie. She’s a paesana. How can I not?”
“Francesca Donata is Sicilian? I thought she was from Rome.”
“She moved to Rome after she was discovered and still lives there. But she is from Sicily. She even owns a villa in Taormina, which is not far from Messina, where I am from.”
“I guess there haven’t been more sightings of her, huh?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Pia. I never answered your question. Beady Eyes saw her!”
Zia was right. All the neighbors did call Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman Beady Eyes behind their backs.
“Both of them saw Francesca Donata?”
“No, it was just Mr. Beady Eyes. He was opening his blinds at around ten this morning when he saw Francesca come out from the back with her bodyguards and quickly get into her Maserati. He ran out onto his stoop even though he was still in his pajamas, but of course the car had already gone down the street. He then rang all of our doorbells to tell us. We have been waiting all this time for her to return, but still no sign.”
“What? You’ve all been standing here since ten a.m.? It’s past six in the evening now!”
“Well, I’ve gone back and forth to my shop. I haven’t waited the entire time here, but I heard Paulie hasn’t left.”
I look over to where Paulie Parlatone is standing. He’s still wearing the same longshoreman’s cap he had on the other day when I met him. Of course, his signature accessory—his toothpick—is sticking out of his mouth as he twirls it from left to right. He’s average height, around 5’8”, and very slim. He wears his trousers a little on the baggy side. His Members Only black jacket almost makes him look slick, if it weren’t for the fact that the jackets haven’t been in style since the eighties. His hands are inside his jacket’s pockets, and I can tell they’re curled into fists by the way his knuckles protrude through the fabric. Though it’s June, we’re having unseasonably chilly weather this week, and the temperature has only gone up to the high fifties today. I notice a few o
f the other older men are also wearing Members Only jackets.
Over dinner the other night, I had asked Zia about Paulie.
“THAT one!” Zia huffed. I was beginning to wonder if there was anyone on the block she did like. “His name says it all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Parlatone. His last name. ‘Parla’ means ‘talk,’ and Dio mio, can he talk! We were lucky the other night, Pia, that he didn’t chew our ears off. He was too preoccupied with seeing if Francesca Donata was really in Signora Tesca’s home. When he sees you on the street, or even when he comes into the bakery, he can talk for up to an hour, sometimes more! He knows I’m busy, but that doesn’t stop him. He waits until I am done with a customer, and then he always remembers exactly where he left off in the discussion. The neighbors have a secret nickname for him too—‘Il Sindaco.’” Zia dipped her Italian bread into the bowl of minestrone soup she’d cooked.
I tried to remember my high school Italian to figure out what sindaco meant. Mayor? No, that couldn’t be right, but I decided to give it a shot. “Does ‘sindaco’ mean ‘mayor’?”
“Brava! Yes, it means ‘mayor.’ We call Paulie that because he knows everyone’s business in Astoria, and if he doesn’t know someone’s business, he makes it his business. And just like a mayor, he also tries to solve people’s problems.”
“How so?”
“He has the nerve of dropping in on people in their homes. Cretino ! Poo!” Zia imitated spitting. “Cafone! That’s what he also is—a boor with no manners. When he sees a problem in someone’s home, he offers advice. I suppose he thinks he’s helping, but all he does is make these people suffer with humiliation. Who wants him to see their dirty laundry? And then they know once he sees it, he’ll waste no time in airing it to the entire neighborhood.” Zia ripped off a huge hunk of bread with her hands and chewed it anxiously. To say she looked angry was a huge understatement. I couldn’t help wondering if Paulie had seen some of her dirty laundry and exposed it to the public. But I was too afraid to ask.
A cry from the crowd snaps me out of my thoughts. It’s Mrs. Beady Eyes. She’s yelling, “She’s here! She’s here!” and is pointing at a shiny black Maserati that’s slowly pulling up in front of the Mussolini Mansion. The windows are lightly tinted, but I’m able to make out a woman wearing a silk scarf over her head, seated in the back. Now my heart is racing. Could it really be her?
The Maserati stops. The small crowd, which totals about twelve people, begins getting hysterical when the driver gets out of the car.
“Signora Tesca’s driver,” Olivia DeLuca whispers to me. Zia had told me that Signora Tesca was rich, but I’m still surprised she’s rich enough to have her own personal driver.
The crowd inches closer to the car, but amazingly does not swarm it, leaving enough room should Francesca step out of the car. I find it interesting that their manners are replacing their baser instincts to get close up to their beloved celebrity.
The passenger-side door swings open. A beefy bodyguard-looking type steps out, holding a black satin drape. The driver comes around the car and helps the bodyguard unfold the drape. Then they stand on either end of the Maserati and hold the drape up, covering the rear passenger door. Two other bodyguards, even beefier than the first, get out from the opposite rear passenger door and start waving the crowd away. The neighbors have no choice but to back up as they strain their necks to see over the bodyguards’ shoulders.
Something shiny catches my peripheral vision. I look to my left and spot a pair of pointy-toed, red patent-leather shoes sticking out from beneath the black drape the bodyguards hold. The dainty shoes tap-tap quickly along with the hurried movements of the bodyguards. It’s the most bizarre sight I’ve ever seen.
The crowd goes wild, screaming several of the names she’s known by as well as other made-up ones. “Carissima! Sposa Pazza! Bella Donna!”
Olivia breaks out in Italian, “È davvero lei! È davvero lei!”
My Italian high school lessons are coming in handy as my brain translates what Olivia says. “It’s really her!”
Suddenly, Paulie’s voice booms over the rest of the crowd, “Carissima! I love you! I love you, Carissima!” And again, just in case his voice hasn’t already pierced her ears, “I L-UH-UH-UH-V you!”
A few of the neighbors clap their hands and jump up and down as if their favorite football team has won the Super Bowl. Olivia is wiping tears from her eyes and saying over and over, “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!”
I’m amazed by the reaction celebrities elicit in people. Though I’m nowhere near as overcome as everyone else, I can’t help feeling the excitement pulsing through me. You’d think I’d be used to seeing celebrities since I’m from southern California. I have seen a few of today’s stars like Jennifer Aniston, Pink, Hugh Jackman, and a few others. But I’ve never seen one of the silver-screen legends. I don’t know why, but to me, silver-screen stars seem to exude a different kind of aura from the younger generation of stars.
What am I thinking? I need to take a photo—even if it’s just of Francesca’s feet. I take out my iPhone, quickly set it to the camera mode, and begin snapping away at Francesca’s pumps. The driver opens the gate that leads to the back of the Mussolini Mansion. One of the bodyguards ushering Francesca through the gate drops his end of the drape, and for a few seconds the star’s back is exposed to the crowd. The scarf I had seen through the Maserati’s tinted windows is a red and white Gucci silk scarf. Francesca is wearing a tight pencil skirt in an ivory hue that complements her bronzed skin. Though her face is hidden, and I’m sure she has to be wearing sunglasses to further hide her identity, there’s no doubt that the woman is indeed La Sposa Pazza. For her snug skirt shows off one of Francesca’s signature traits—a trait that has received as much recognition as her movies and beauty have: her well-shaped derrière.
I continue snapping away with my camera, feeling like a pervert taking photos of a woman’s ass. But almost as soon as Francesca’s derrière comes into view, it disappears again in the darkness of the drape that her bodyguards have now wrapped around her back.
“Whoo-whoo!” Ciggy whistles in a low, husky voice. “Did you get a load of that, Paulie?” Ciggy’s raspy voice, no doubt from smoking too many cigars, just makes him sound more like a creepy sexual predator.
“Of course I did! You think I would’ve missed a fine work of art like that?” Paulie slaps Ciggy hard on the back, causing him to cough, as they snicker.
Paulie has taken his toothpick out from between his lips and is waving it around dramatically in the air, probably flicking the crud that was recently dislodged from his teeth onto everyone, and says, “Pia, you can tell your aunt that we were right all along! We know for certain now that Francesca Donata is here. We all saw her backside. And no woman in the world possesses what Francesca has!” He flourishes the toothpick one last time before popping it back into his mouth.
I take a good two steps back should he decide to begin waving his wand again. At least he’d been polite enough when addressing me to say “backside” as opposed to the cruder “ass.” But soon I hear him, Ciggy, and a few of the other men bandy around the word “ass” several times. I’m sure they’ll all be dreaming about Francesca’s well-endowed butt tonight. I shiver at the thought and quickly erase the image.
“Fanno schifo! Disgusting old men!” Olivia is by my side again, her eyebrows joined furiously together. She looks like she’s going to throttle Paulie and his cronies.
“Are you happy you saw her, Olivia?” I hope to distract her from whatever punishment she is no doubt doling out in her mind for the old men.
“Yes and no. I will not be satisfied until I see her face.”
“You don’t think that was her?”
“Si, si. It was her. As Paulie pointed out, no one has a culo like that in the world!” Olivia laughs at her use of the Italian word for “ass.” I laugh with her, glad to see that she has a sense of humor after all.
My zia also watches La Reina del Sur. Though La Reina del Sur is a Spanish soap opera on the Telemundo channel, many of the older Italian women also love to watch it. Since Spanish is so similar to Italian, they’re able to understand most of the soap.
“I should get going, too. Zia is probably wondering why I’m so late for dinner. I’m surprised she hasn’t come out looking for me.”
“Come back, Pia. We’ll keep each other company.” Olivia smiles warmly at me. I don’t know why she needs my company since I’ve already heard a few of the other neighbors saying they’re also going to continue staking out the Mussolini Mansion.
“Maybe I will. Thank you.” I wave to Olivia as she leaves for her shop.
My stomach grumbles. I guess it needs more than the souvlaki I devoured earlier. At least now I can eat the huge dinner Zia has cooked. Sighing, I think about all the pounds that I’ll definitely pack on over the summer living with my aunt. Between her large home-cooked meals and the sweets from the bakery she brings home every night, I don’t stand a chance.
I glance one last time over my shoulder at the Mussolini Mansion as I walk down the block. One neighbor points to the bal-conette in the Italianate-style house and actually says, “Maybe she’ll come out there later and wave to us?”
I roll my eyes. These people are living in a fantasy world.
My thoughts return to my photos. Pulling my iPhone out of my purse, I scan through the few pics I shot. A crazy idea enters my mind. No, it’s too ridiculous. He won’t go for it. Then again . . . isn’t that how success comes about? From taking chances no matter how far-flung they might seem?
I quicken my pace to Zia’s house, feeling more confident in what I need to do next.
Carissima Page 5
