Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  The song is short. When he is finished, I resist the urge to beg him not to stop. Everyone applauds except for me.

  “Have I humiliated myself enough for you now, signorina?”

  His fierce, dark eyes meet mine. I lower my gaze to the ground.

  “Buon giorno, signorine.”

  “Buon giorno, signore,” the choir echoes in unison.

  He walks away. I take a step forward but stop. My friends watch me, their eyes imploring me. I break into a run, calling after him:

  “Ritorni, per favore! Ritorni! I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean any harm. Please come back.”

  “È niente. No offense taken, signorina. Don’t worry.” He continues walking toward his motorino. My head throbs. What am I doing? Young ladies don’t run after men, my father always told my sisters and me, but I continue to follow him.

  “Please, come join us in our picnic. We all would like you to stay. My name is Olivia Sera Repetti.”

  He stops but does not turn around. “Sera? Come la sera?”

  “Si, like the evening.”

  He gazes off into the distance for what feels like an eternity. I’m about to walk away when he says, “You should go by your middle name.”

  “Why?”

  “It suits you better. Your mood is brooding and dark like the evening.”

  My anger flares up again. I’m about to lash at him when I see his smirk. That is exactly what he wants—for me to lose my temper so he will be right.

  “And your name is?” I force a smile, hoping to belie my true feelings of wanting to slap him.

  “Salvatore Corvo.”

  “Salvatore? What are you the savior of? Fools?”

  I can’t resist my sharp retort.

  Salvatore frowns and is about to say something, but doesn’t. Ha! I got the better of him.

  “Well, signorina. I should be on my way and see where my friends are. I’m sorry again that we disrupted you and your prayers. Buon giorno.”

  “Please. Won’t you join us—even just for a little while?”

  “No, grazie.” Salvatore walks away.

  My heart sinks when I realize he is not going to accept my apology. I am such a silly, stupid girl. I turn around and begin walking back to my friends, who are still watching us.

  “You know what? My friends will find me when they’re ready. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I joined you and your friends just for a few minutes. That is, if you are sure I wouldn’t be interrupting? I’ve already created a distraction from your singing and praying.”

  “No, it would be my . . . our pleasure. We were going to break soon for a picnic. We have more than enough wine and food.”

  “Grazie.”

  Salvatore walks by my side.

  “Aspetta.”

  I wait for him as he walks over to a jasmine bush. He breaks off a cluster of the sweet flowers.

  “For you. I know you are already wearing flowers in your hair, but I wanted to offer a peace gesture after my bad behavior earlier.”

  I smile as I take the flowers. “Grazie.”

  “And you know, I was only joking about your name. It’s beautiful. Nighttime happens to be my favorite time of the day. Would you mind if I called you Sera instead of Olivia?”

  No one has ever called me by my middle name before. The thought of having Salvatore call me Sera intrigues me. It is almost as if I have another identity.

  “Yes, you may call me Sera. I was only joking about your name, too.”

  Salvatore smiles at me. We join my friends and lay out our picnic. Salvatore has not left my side, and instead of staying for only a few minutes, he is with us for the remainder of the afternoon. He asks me where I am from and how long have I been singing. We also talk about our love of music. Salvatore’s friends eventually return and join our picnic. They seem nice, but from this moment on, there is only one man who exists for me—Salvatore.

  Olivia awoke from her sleep with a start. Sighing deeply, she reached over to turn on her lamp and noticed the time on her alarm clock—five o’clock in the morning. Nicola’s photograph caught her attention once again. Olivia picked up the frame and stared at her deceased husband. She remembered her dream, which was really a memory of the first time she’d met Salvatore. Very little was different in her dream from the actual meeting. How odd that she should have a dream that mirrored an event that had taken place in her life. She always dreamed of her youth and spending time with her family and friends in Sicily, but it had never been an actual recording of events as it had been tonight.

  Though Olivia never told Nicola about Salvatore, she sensed he knew that she had loved before and had suffered. For he took his time with her, letting their friendship deepen before wooing her. And when Olivia was finally able to close the chapter on Salvatore, she gave her heart fully to Nicola. So every once in a while when she had a dream about Salvatore, she always felt extremely guilty. Nicola was her husband, after all. Salvatore was just a part of her past.

  Perhaps she still dreamed of Salvatore from time to time because she never had—what did the Americans call it? Closure? Salvatore had disappeared from her life as abruptly as he had entered it. But none of that mattered now after all these years. She’d moved on and had met Nicola two years after she’d last heard from Salvatore.

  Olivia noticed some light coming in through her curtains. Glancing at her clock, she couldn’t believe it was already almost six in the morning. There was no way she’d be able to go back to sleep. She pulled the covers off herself and got out of bed. Walking over to the window, Olivia stared at the sky. Dawn was her favorite time of the day, for it reminded her of those magical mornings on the beach in Tindari and of Nicola.

  9

  Mussolini Mansion

  May 14, 2010—just one month before my wedding. Almost all of the plans are complete. I still can’t believe it. The day I’ve been waiting for is almost here.

  “Come on, get out of bed, we’re going shopping for your honeymoon !”

  Connie opens the blinds to my bedroom, and Rita opens my closet and throws a few of my clothes onto the bed.

  “Today? Weren’t we going to do that next week? I was going to pack a picnic and surprise Michael at his office, try to lure him to the park.”

  “What’s up with him, anyway? Working on a Saturday? Total workaholic!”

  Rita’s voice sounds disgusted.

  “He’s ambitious.”

  “Well, you’d better get him in line. You don’t want to be spending every Saturday without your husband. What’s the point in getting married then?”

  Rita’s words affect me. Even though I’ve had more time since I finished sewing my dress and the wedding plans are all taken care of, I’m still not seeing Michael much. His hours at the office have only increased, especially after he’d received a promotion. He’s managed to keep Saturday nights free for me and has promised he’ll be able to come home earlier after we get married. But it still doesn’t feel like enough.

  “Sorry, Vee. That was harsh. But you know I call it how I see it. Someone’s got to look out for you. I know how much he loves you, but he’s got to make you his number-one priority, especially after you become his wife.”

  “I know. I know. I hate to admit it, but it’s been bothering me, too. He’s just thinking about our future. He wants to make sure he’ll be able to provide for me.”

  “All I’m saying, Vee, is don’t be afraid to ask for what you want and need.”

  “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about your big sis. Let’s go do some serious shopping!”

  For my honeymoon shopping, Rita and Connie want to go all out and decide they want to take me to Manhasset’s Miracle Mile on Long Island. We’ve only window-shopped there before, but since business has been good, we can now afford to splurge at the pricier boutiques and department stores that line this boulevard. As one of their wedding gifts to me, Rita and Connie will be picking up the tab for my honeymoon clothes.

  Rita is driving down our
street when suddenly she stops.

  “Oh, crap! Vee, I just remembered that Signora Tesca told me she wanted you to see her today. She had something important to tell you.”

  “What? Signora Tesca? What could she have to tell me that’s so important? Did you ask her what it was?”

  “No, of course not! I mean, I got the feeling it was private. I didn’t want to intrude or have her think I was being nosy.”

  “Since when have you been afraid of being blunt, Rita?”

  “You don’t want to anger Signora Tesca. Maybe she’s left some of her riches to you in her will,” Connie chimes in.

  “Well, it can wait. I can talk to her when we get back from shopping.”

  “Oh, it’s too late, Vee. Signora Tesca just opened her door. She’s waving for you to go over.”

  Connie nods her head at Signora Tesca as if she’s being summoned.

  “Okay, okay. This is really weird.”

  Rita parks the car in a spot that’s just opened up one house down from the Mussolini Mansion. That’s what my sisters and I call Signora Tesca’s home. Designed like an Italian villa, the house also sports a large yard that is seen from the street. Greco-Roman statues are scattered throughout the grassy yard. Remember, this is Astoria, Queens, and not some palatial estate on Long Island’s Gold Coast. So this house really stands out among the semidetached row houses that are typical for a Queens neighborhood. Of course, the Mussolini Mansion is not attached to any of its mediocre counterparts.

  When my sisters and I were kids, we used to like to walk by the Mussolini Mansion just before dusk. We’d pretend the statues were haunted and were staring and whispering at us. One night, as our parents hung out with our neighbors on our stoop, Rita, Connie, and I walked arm in arm to see if Signora Tesca’s statues would come to life. We stood in front of the gate and waited.

  “I just saw the statue of the lady holding grapes turn and look at me,” Rita whispered excitedly.

  “She’s eating a grape now!” Connie pointed to the statue.

  I was the only one who knew the statues were really not staring at us or eating grapes. But I played along for my younger sisters.

  “The statue of the man in the back is waving to us. He wants us to go in. He must have something to tell us,” I said with as much terror in my voice as I could muster.

  I felt my sisters’ grip on my arms tighten.

  “We can’t go in there. That’s stress-passing.” Connie looked at me, hoping her argument would persuade me not to go in.

  “It’s ‘trespassing,’ Connie, not ‘stress-passing.’ I don’t think Signora Tesca would call the cops on us. She knows us, after all. She might just yell at us if she catches us, but she’s probably asleep by now.”

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move in the shadows of the yard. We all screamed as we saw three pairs of bright yellow eyes staring back at us. Rita and Connie broke free of me and ran back toward my parents, screaming, “They’re alive! They’re alive!”

  I was too afraid to move. Two of the creatures moved into the light that was cast from the street lamps. They stared at me with as much fear as I’m sure was written all over my face. I noticed they were raccoons! Opening my eyes wider to make sure I was seeing correctly, I took a step closer to the gate. Yes, they were definitely raccoons, and they were huge. What were raccoons doing in urban Queens? Where did they come from? They stared at me for another second, then turned away and munched on the grass in Signora Tesca’s yard.

  Signora Tesca added to the macabre nature of her property, since she was often seen staring through her blinds. She had small weasel-like eyes, penny-red wavy hair, which was cut in a pixie style, and she always wore a navy-blue polyester dress. Her shoulders were slightly stooped forward. Signora Tesca liked to walk up and down our street with her hands interlocked behind her back. She kept her gaze lowered to the concrete as if she were contemplating the universe’s mysteries.

  I was afraid of Signora Tesca until one day she talked to me. I was twelve years old at the time, and I was surprised she was being so nice to me since I thought she’d never forgive me for riding by her house on my bike and pulling the daisies that grew from her front lawn. She caught me once and asked me why I always did that. From that day forward, I never even glanced at the daisies. I was bummed since I loved flowers, and part of me couldn’t see what the big deal was in taking a daisy or two once a week or so. There were so many of them. But deep down, I knew they weren’t mine to take.

  Signora Tesca told me how her home in Rome was across the street from former Italian dictator Mussolini’s villa. She smiled as she mentioned this fact. I could never understand why Signora Tesca seemed proud of this since I’d heard from my father about the horrors Mussolini and his regime had committed during World War II. From that day on, my sisters and I called her house the Mussolini Mansion.

  I’d never stepped through its doors. I was always curious to see what a rich lady’s house looked like. It bothered me that Signora Tesca never invited me since I had done her a couple of favors and she would talk to me when she’d see me alone sitting on my stoop. She even showed me the locket that hung around her neck and the tiny photo of the baby girl inside it. Signora Tesca told me about the baby she’d had for just three months before she became very sick and died. Sometimes her words still haunted me. “Even though forty years have passed since she died, I think about her every day.”

  I never looked at Signora Tesca the same way again. Instead of seeing a creepy, stingy old lady who didn’t even want a kid picking her daisies, I saw a mother whose heart was broken when her baby girl died; a very lonely woman who took my sisters and me to the beach on weekends in the summer and who treated us to pizza afterward; a sad woman whose son only visited once every few months.

  “Vieni, Valentina. Vieni.”

  Signora Tesca motions for me to follow her into her home as I step out of Rita’s car.

  Oh my God! She’s finally going to let me in, I think. I am finally going to see what the Mussolini Mansion looks like on the inside!

  “I want to show you something, Valentina. Come in.”

  My heart races in delight. When I walk in, the first thing I notice is the sitting room to the right with the huge Steinway piano in it. Statues of dogs sit along the foyer. Two capodimonte vases stuffed with peacock feathers stand on either side of the foyer before the entrance to what must be the living room. Paintings from the Italian Renaissance era hang on the walls. One painting looks like a Titian that I had written a paper on for my Venetian Renaissance art history class in college. With Signora Tesca’s fortune, I know it has to be the real deal.

  I follow Signora Tesca into the living room, which is closed off by French doors. I stretch my neck, anxious to see what other riches lie in her house, when I hear, “SURPRISE!”

  I barely have enough time to register what’s going on before a swarm of people come rushing toward me. My mother is at the front of the crowd and crushes me to her chest, hugging the life force out of me.

  Streamers with the words Showers of Happiness are strewn across the room. My shower? At Signora Tesca’s? Signora Tesca is smiling, a sight I rarely see. I suddenly realize how much she cares about me to have the shower at her home—a home which few people enter. This woman is fiercely protective of her privacy. I look at Signora Tesca, who is staring at me much the way my own mother does—with pride and a glow in her eyes. And I know in that moment she’s probably thinking of her baby girl and what might have been.

  After I greet everyone and sit down, two of Signora Tesca’s housekeepers begin taking everyone’s orders for dinner. I take this opportunity to excuse myself and go to the bathroom.

  “Valentina?”

  I only make it to the foyer when I hear Mrs. Carello’s voice. I turn around.

  “May I talk to you alone for a moment?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Carello.”

  “Come, let’s go in here.”

  She walks
through Signora Tesca’s foyer and into a room that’s on the opposite side from where the shower is being held. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls. A chocolate-brown leather couch and armchairs are situated in the middle of the room. Ever since I was a kid, I’d dreamed about having a house one day with my own library.

  We sit down on the couch.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Carello?”

  “Yes, of course. I just wanted to tell you that Michael told me about the argument the two of you had over your wedding dress.”

  “Oh.” I’m taken aback. I can’t believe Michael has told her.

  “Yes, it’s okay, honey. I’m sure you must know how close Michael and I are. He confides in me a lot.”

  Now I’m wondering what else he’s told her about. I can feel the trademark DeLuca temper simmering my blood.

  “So you know how he accidentally walked in on my dress fitting ?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry he saw the dress.”

  “Well, he didn’t see all of it.”

  “He’s probably forgotten what the dress looks like already. Don’t worry.”

  “He hasn’t forgotten about the shorter hem of the dress. Since he told you about our fight, I’m sure he mentioned that.”

  “Yes, he did. He’s like his father, worried over what people might think.”

  Like his father? I think. More like you!

  “So you’re not concerned about it?”

  “I’ve known you, Valentina, since you were a little girl. You have a good head on your shoulders. I’m sure your dress is tasteful. You’re not about to become someone you’re not.”

  She pats my hand and smiles. I am shocked. Maybe I’ve misread her.

  “You’re not going to try and talk me into a conservative gown that covers every inch of my body?”

  Mrs. Carello laughs. “Oh, no! It’s not my place.”

  “What about Mr. Carello? You said he cares about what people think.”

  “He’ll be fine. It’s a different time. Joseph does worry about making a good impression. But again, he’ll be fine. I don’t know why Michael is being so old-fashioned about this. I told him to trust you.”