This last plan brought tears to Olivia’s eyes. To think that she would no longer have to struggle taming her own thick, unruly curls brought such a feeling of elation over her.
“And then, of course, every morning and night, I will wash my face with . . .”
“NOXZEMA!” Olivia’s five sisters cried out in unison. Their eyes glowed as they imagined this wonderful world that their sister was about to enter.
Olivia smiled and shook her head, remembering her sisters back home. How she missed them even after all these years. She sighed. It was time to go to bed.
She slipped under the covers, fluffed and propped up her pillows, and reached over for her Bible that lay on her nightstand. She removed her rosary beads, which hung on her bed’s head post for easy access. First she prayed, fingering over each rosary bead, ensuring she hadn’t missed one. Then she opened up her Bible to where she had left off the last time. She was up to the Book of Psalms, one of her favorite books in the Bible. The verses read like music, and sometimes she even sang the words to herself in her head.
After reading a few more psalms, she closed her Bible and placed it back on her night table. Olivia stared at the small framed photo of Nicola that sat adjacent to her Bible. Nicola was standing alone on the shores of the beach in her town in Tindari—at the foot of the cliffs where the cathedral of the Black Madonna of Tindari was perched. In the background of the photo, a tiny image of the cathedral could be made out at the top of the cliff. And the sand formations in the ocean, where the Black Madonna was said to have performed her miracle many years ago, could also be seen.
Since Olivia was a child she had loved the story of the pilgrim who had gone to Tindari to see the statue of the Virgin. The pilgrim’s baby fell into the ocean below the craggy cliffs. The Madonna was believed to have performed a miracle by raising the land from beneath the ocean to save the baby, who was found playing on the sand formations, which were in the shape of the Madonna’s profile.
Pulling open her night table drawer, Olivia took out a red leather-bound journal. Feeling along the side panel of the drawer, where the contact paper she’d used to line it was becoming loose, Olivia wedged her pinky finger beneath the lining and pulled out a tiny key.
She inserted the key into the diary’s lock and unfastened the latch holding the covers together. Olivia had loved keeping a journal when she was young. She wondered why she had stopped doing so. Maybe because as a married woman, she hadn’t had many secrets worth recording—although one did come to mind.
Flipping toward the back of the diary, she came to the part where she’d first met Nicola.
Dear Diary,
My sisters and I were at the beach below Tindari this morning, walking along the shore, when we came upon a group of fishermen casting their nets. The sun was still making her ascent in the sky, and the sunlight cast a glow on the shimmering fish that were flipping out of the water and into the nets. A group gathered along the shoreline. Though it was early, the villagers never tire of coming to this spectacle. They often know which days the fishermen will be out.
The sardines are abundant in the waters surrounding Sicily. The sight of so many fish mesmerized me as their graceful bodies leaped into the air before plunging to their deaths. It was beautiful, magical, and terrible all at once. But the magic of that moment penetrated me the most. It wasn’t the first time I had seen fishermen at work, but for some reason, I had never really looked before as I did now. The sight was breathtaking.
“Olivia, vieni.”
My sister Lucia called to me as she and my other two sisters walked ahead. I tore my gaze away and reluctantly followed.
“Scusa, signorina.”
I looked over my shoulder. It was one of the fishermen from the boat. He was one of the younger ones, close to my age.
“Prendi.”
He offered a few of the fish to me wrapped in a bundle of newspaper.
“Grazie. Grazie, molto.” I smiled at the fisherman.
“My pleasure. Do you like watching the sardines being caught?”
He motioned to the fishermen, who were now putting their nets back into the boat. They were slapping each other on the backs. They were no doubt congratulating themselves over a good day’s catch.
“Yes, I liked watching.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful and sad.”
“Ahhh! You feel sorry for the fish, don’t you?”
I smiled. “A little.”
“My name is Nicola.”
“Olivia.”
“Do you come here a lot?”
“A few mornings a week. My sisters and I like to take a quick walk before we begin our chores. This is the only time of the day that we have to ourselves until we go to bed.”
“Sometimes I come out with my friends. I love to catch fish, but I wouldn’t want to do it every day of my life.”
“So you are not a fisherman?”
“No, I’m an apprentice to a tailor.”
“Da vero? I love to sew. I make clothes for my mother and sisters—and of course, for myself.” I gave Nicola a shy smile. He returned my smile.
“I’m coming out with my friends to fish on Friday. I hope to see you again. Buon giorno, Olivia.”
“Buon giorno.”
Nicola hurried back to his boat. I watched him as he ran away. He had gentle eyes.
Olivia closed her diary and put it back in her night table’s drawer. As she reached over to turn off her lamp, her eyes rested on the photograph of Nicola. She picked up the frame and stared at her deceased husband. She brought the frame to her lips and kissed the picture. This was something she did with the frames that held photos of her parents, who had also died quite some time ago. Olivia felt some comfort when she did this—a gesture that she was still sharing her love for them. She shut off the light and nestled down into bed. But she could not fall asleep. Her thoughts wandered to those early days when she and Nicola had first arrived in America.
Upon arrival at Ellis Island, she and the thousands of other immigrants were forced to wait in excruciatingly long lines. The worst was the medical examinations forced upon them. Olivia was terrified when she was detained after the health inspectors thought she had tuberculosis because of a spot they’d seen on her chest X-ray. Olivia had explained to the Italian translator that the spot was from a bout with pleurisy she’d had when she was fourteen. The doctors looked skeptically at Olivia, their eyes accusing her of lying. But upon further examination, they were able to rule out that she had tuberculosis, and she was allowed entry into the country.
Instead of getting a job as a tailor at a department store, the only work Nicola found was as a dishwasher in Sutton’s Restaurant on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. Olivia did some tailoring at home after Nicola mentioned to Raquel Sutton, the restaurant owner’s wife, that he and his wife were tailors. The owner’s wife gave him clothes she and her friends owned that needed to be tailored. One day, Raquel asked Nicola if his wife could make her a dress for a party she was attending.
Olivia went to the restaurant to take Raquel’s measurements. She never forgot how kind Raquel was and how she had first offered her a drink and asked if she’d eaten, insisting she have lunch with her before going to work. When Raquel showed Olivia the pattern she wanted, Olivia was not shy to tell her, “This is a beautiful dress design, but I think it can be even better with a few minor adjustments. But if you want this design copied exactly, I’ll do that.”
Raquel decided to trust Olivia’s judgment, and she was very pleased with the dress once it was completed. She continued asking Olivia to make clothes for her, and their friendship grew. In addition to providing her with a steady income and being her friend, Raquel, who was fluent in Italian and French, had also helped Olivia with her English. The daytime soaps Olivia watched also came in handy for learning the language.
Raquel’s friends had seen the gorgeous dresses Olivia had sewn. It wasn’t long before she was bringing i
n quite a bit of money from all her seamstress work. She prayed that she and Nicola would be able to soon move into a nicer apartment than the rat-infested slum tenement they now lived in on the Lower East Side. Nicola had even taken a second job as a bricklayer.
“Don’t worry. This life we now have won’t be for long. Once we have enough money, we’ll get a larger apartment, maybe even a small house. And we’ll even open our own tailor shop !”
Nicola always seemed to know when Olivia was feeling especially beaten by all the difficult adjustments they’d had to make since they left Sicily.
Her sisters kept writing to her, asking if she’d forgotten about them and her promise to send jars of Noxzema. She couldn’t blame them, though. They were like most other Europeans who thought the streets were paved with gold in America and all they had to do was move to her shores. Olivia was too embarrassed to tell them how different her life actually was in New York from the glamorous life she had bragged to her sisters she’d have once she got there. But she did admit to them that they weren’t making enough money yet for her to send the Noxzema. She told them she was still waiting to buy her first jar. They probably didn’t believe her.
And then with Raquel Sutton’s help, Nicola landed a job altering men’s suits at Lord & Taylor. Before she met her husband, John, Raquel had worked as a cosmetics sales consultant at Lord & Taylor and had become good friends with the store’s president. So when she made a few inquiries and learned they indeed could use another talented tailor in the men’s alterations department, Raquel immediately referred Nicola.
Now Olivia and Nicola were able to move into a larger apartment in Astoria, Queens, right by Astoria Park. And it was perfect timing since Olivia was pregnant with Valentina, and she couldn’t imagine bringing a baby home to stay in the shabby tenement apartment they lived in. Though she was sad to leave Manhattan, which she’d grown to love, she was happier to have a much nicer apartment where she wouldn’t have to worry that the rats had entered her pantry once again. Best of all, they would no longer have to share the communal bathroom in the hallway with the rest of the building, as they had in their former apartment.
The first night in their new home, Olivia had cooked a special dinner for Nicola. She made veal saltimbocca. It was a Neapolitan recipe her neighbor from the Lower East Side had given her. She also baked a crostata de pomme, knowing how much Nicola loved apple tarts.
Olivia wasn’t the only one with a surprise. When Nicola came home, he held a shopping bag he tried to keep out of Olivia’s view.
“Nicola, what are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing. I just bought a few things for myself.”
Nicola continued walking toward the bedroom.
Olivia decided to let it be. She supposed she’d find out soon enough what he was up to. Nicola wasn’t so good at keeping secrets.
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
“Ave, 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 my
sterious 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.
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