Juliette looked at the street signs and studied the map. She had thought she was on track, and couldn’t figure out where she had gone wrong. She took her bag off of her shoulder and set it down next to her while she leaned against a building to try and sort it out.
She finally saw where she had missed a turn so she started walking again, but decided to pick up the pace.
Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket to check the time, Juliette willed herself to remain calm.
What’s the worst thing that could happen? she asked herself. She might be late, but it wouldn’t be the first time and she would live through it.
Turning the corner, she saw the sign ahead for the street she was looking for and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. One more turn and then she would be there. Checking her phone again, she realized she had seven minutes left before class started, so she slowed her pace to a casual stroll to give herself time to stop panting before entering the classroom.
As she passed through the front door she was dazzled by a gleaming industrial kitchen with two long tables—one per side, set at angles, and surrounded by stools. The cooktop was set into a counter between the two tables and had a huge mirror hanging above it, so students could easily see the techniques being demonstrated. In addition, there were a few rows of stadium-type seats facing the kitchen, to allow for larger groups to view the cooking exhibitions. It was decidedly different from the old-fashioned kitchen she had expected, but she was delighted with it. If the instruction was as stellar as the equipment, she knew she was in for a treat.
Others had already arrived, so she followed suit and chose a seat next to a woman who looked about her age. She presumed she was a fellow student and nodded to her.
As soon as she settled into her seat, the door opened again and the teacher entered. Juliette immediately recognized him as the man whom she had seen in the cheese stall at the market the day before.
She surreptitiously snuck another peek, wondering how old he was. She had a difficult time determining the age of Italians. They all seemed more sophisticated and somehow more worldly than Americans, which she associated with being older.
“Buon giorno, il mio nome è Roman Capello, e saro il vostro insegnante,” he said in brisk Italian.
Juliette’s pulse raced. She realized that she understood less than she anticipated. In an instant, she feared that the language was going to be more difficult than she had expected. She picked up the fact that his name was Roman Capello and that he was the teacher, but mostly because it was obvious from his actions.
“Per cominiciare, ognuno mi dica che cosa voule imparare in questa classe.” Let’s begin by everyone telling me what they would like to get out of the class, he continued—again speaking rapidly. He gestured for a young man two seats away from Juliette to begin. Juliette felt the same blind panic she used to get when she was in high-school geometry and was about to be called on to solve a mathematical problem when she only had a vague sense of how to do it. As the student answered, she worked hard to concentrate on what he was saying and was relieved she understood most of it. She took a deep breath as he finished and all eyes moved on to the student who was next to her. Juliette could feel her face getting hot and cursed herself for the hateful blushing trait. It was the bane of the fair skinned, and she had inherited it from her father’s side. Her mother’s Italian genes would never have betrayed her so brutally.
Juliette was able to glean that the woman she was seated next to was saying something about taking the class because she worked in the family restaurant and wanted to expand her skills. Or at least something close to that.
When she finished, all eyes turned to Juliette and there was nothing to do but to dive in, so she took a deep breath and did just that.
“Buon giorno,” she began slowly, thinking about each word and pronouncing it carefully. “Il mio nome è Juliette Brice e mi sono trasferita qui per migliorare la mia conoscenza dell’arte culinaria italiana.” Hello, she said. My name is Juliette Brice and I moved here to improve my Italian cooking. She wished she knew how to say she was on an extended visit, but that was beyond her, so “moved” would have to do. At least that’s what she hoped she said—although she wasn’t entirely sure she had used the correct tenses and wondered if there were different verbs for “to move an object or move residences.” She used to feel so confident in her ability to speak Italian and hoped desperately that it would come back quickly.
She decided not to worry about it and was just happy her turn was over. It must not have been too off base because a quick peek around the room told her that the other students didn’t think she had said anything strange and the next student began to speak about why he was in the class.
She ventured another peek at Roman, and was startled to find him looking at her. On closer inspection, she guessed that he must be in his early thirties. He was tall for an Italian man, and had a slim build. He had dark, slightly shaggy hair, dark eyes and elegant features that seemed intelligent and serious. She smiled when she saw that his jeans were ironed so crisply that there was a perfectly straight line down the middle of each pant leg.
She wondered why he was still looking at her. Had she said something odd after all?
He gave her a slight smile and a nod, and she felt immediately relieved.
There were only about ten students so the introductions were quickly completed and the instructor began to explain the structure of the class. This time he spoke more slowly, she gratefully assumed, for her benefit.
She was listening intently with one part of her brain, while the other part was wondering about her teacher.
What had Odessa said about him? She searched her brain.
“Signorina Brice?”
Juliette looked up, suddenly aware that she had been caught thinking her own thoughts.
“Si, Signor Capello?” she tried to act as if she had been paying attention but was just confused by the language.
“Will you please answer the question I’ve asked the class?” he looked at her expectantly, but with slight humor because he realized he had unwittingly caught her mind wandering.
“I’m sorry,” she replied in her slow Italian. “Could you please repeat the question for me once again? I didn’t quite understand all of it.”
“Certamente,” he said, and then elaborated, “How do you know if a gorgonzola is ripe?”
“Um,” she stammered. She could answer in English no problem, but it wasn’t so easy in Italian. It took three to five months after the cheese mold was added and the cheese was pierced to increase circulation, but saying “pierced” was beyond her skills in the language and she didn’t think “poked” would do. Nonetheless, she took a deep breath and tried. She was pretty sure the class understood that the stabbing motions she made with her pencil were supposed to represent the piercing of the cheese rounds rather than the possibility that she had a violent streak.
From the encouraging look on her teacher’s face, she guessed he understood what she meant, and soon she was so absorbed in the conversation that she was no longer embarrassed about being caught daydreaming and lacking in fluency.
By the end of the day, she was exhausted yet exhilarated. Thinking in and speaking Italian all day was tiring enough, but add standing while chopping, dicing, grating, crumbling and sautéing and she was ready to relax. Juliette was proud, though. She had made it through her first day, and aside from a few language mishaps and a misconstrued gesture or two, it had gone well. The polenta with gorgonzola they made was superb. It never failed to amaze her when simple foods transcended the everyday and became sublime. She didn’t even like polenta much, but what they had made today was truly delicious.
She was almost to the door, trailing a couple of the other students, when she heard her name called.
“Signorina Brice? Un momento, per favore.” Roman called to her from where he was standing in the kitchen, so she turned back to see what he wanted. Her pulse quickened when she
realized he was keeping her to chat a moment.
“How was your first day?” he asked her in English, not looking at her, but gathering printed recipes to put back in his leather satchel.
“Meraviglioso, grazie,” she answered in Italian. Wonderful, thank you. She smiled at him, wondering what else he would say. Roman was the perfect name for him, she thought, because his features were, in fact, classically Roman.
“Keep working on your Italian,” he looked up at her and smiled, “and if there’s something you don’t understand, ask me in English. I can try to make it more clear for you. My English is far from perfect, but between the two of us, we should be able to stumble through.”
“Oh, ok,” she stammered, surprised at the generous offer and the unexpected breadth of his ability to speak English. “Thank you. A domani,” she said. See you tomorrow, and she smiled and waved as she walked out into the cool Italian afternoon.
Chapter 7
CATARINA, THE ANGUISH OF SAYING GOODBYE, AND A STEAM SHIP DEPARTURE
Catarina looked into the rickety wooden chest and then up at her sister.
“How am I supposed to fit everything I want to bring with me in this one trunk plus a suitcase?” she asked. “Babbo said he reinforced it, but it looks like this chest is going to fall to pieces.”
“How practical you are, Catarina. Who cares about what you bring or whether this trunk becomes kindling wood. I’m more worried about what it’s going to be like to kiss a stranger than how you’re going to fit your things into this old trunk. And what about trying to make a baby with him? You don’t even know him.”
“Aurulia, don’t talk of such things!” Catarina focused on the empty trunk, so she didn’t have to look at her sister’s face. She was shocked that her sister would bring up such a subject. But in truth, it was something she, too, had thought about many times. She could put it aside during the day, while she kept herself busy, but at night when she lay in bed trying to sleep, she couldn’t put it out of her mind. She was terrified about it all. She was marrying a man who might as well be a stranger to her and leaving her home for an unfamiliar country. What if she couldn’t stand him once she met him again? What if he had oozing sores on his face and bad breath all the time? There had to be some terrible reason he had to ask for a bride who couldn’t remember what he looked like. She felt desperate, but she wasn’t sure what she was desperate for. Desperate to know exactly what she was getting herself into? Desperate to stay? Desperate to get out of a promise she had made out of fear?
It had seemed unreal at first. They had written a letter to send to the Brunellis accepting the proposal. And then they waited. They decided to tell no one about it until it became official with the return post—which would take weeks. And then, as those weeks of waiting passed, Catarina was almost able to forget that it was happening at all. She labored in the garden, helped her father with the vines, and worked in the house alongside her mother, all the while staying far from the Carlucci house. She had no idea what lie her mother told her father about why she hadn’t gone back to her job, but he never brought it up with her, so she let the subject alone. The only people who knew the whole story were her mother and her two best friends, who would never tell a soul. But, looking back, the moment of terror with Signor Carlucci had sealed her fate. She knew she would move to America and marry Franco.
The one noticeable difference in her routine was the sewing they did at night. Catarina and her mother began sewing things she would need for the marriage. Her mother put Catarina to work on a simple, white linen nightgown that was to be covered in white embroidery, while her sisters began to stitch a quilt for the marriage bed. Celestina set to work on Catarina’s undergarments. No daughter of hers would be sent off for marriage in old, faded underthings.
Several weeks after they posted the letter, they began wondering when they would receive the awaited response. The daily trip to the post office became agony, and because she was no longer working for the Carluccis, the task had been given to Catarina. The pimple-faced boy who delivered the mail to the general store trudged to the village each day around three o’clock in the afternoon, a beat-up leather satchel over his shoulder. He was surly and rude—filled with self-importance—but at least he was punctual.
Catarina didn’t want to appear to be waiting for something important, so she made sure to arrive just before the store closed each day—as if it were an unwanted burden to collect any letters that arrived for the family. When she stepped up to the counter, she made sure to put a bored expression on her face. The last thing she wanted was talk from the village. And then, when there was no letter, she made sure to hide her disappointment. It took six weeks of daily agony from the day they mailed the letter to the Brunellis until the response was finally placed in her hand. Remaining calm was almost impossible, but Catarina forced herself to reply with a simple “Grazie” when she saw the Brunelli name on the thick envelope. She walked at a restrained pace through the square, the letter gripped in her suddenly clammy hand.
“Mama, it’s here!” she yelled as she opened the front door.
Celestina came bustling from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. When they tore open the envelope, they found two missives: one letter for Catarina’s parents and another for herself.
Catarina wanted to take the letter upstairs to her room to read in private but she knew her mother would never allow it. She felt her heart beating nervously. She watched until Celestina became engrossed in the first letter before she began reading the one to her alone. The writing was small and gently sloped. It was written in blue ink. The vague vision she had of Franco came to her mind. She could almost see him sitting at a desk, composing the words. She wished she could remember his voice and his face more clearly.
Cara Catarina,
May I call you Cara? It’s presumptuous, I know, but I feel that it follows the presumption of asking you to marry me based on my memory of a girl. How shall I begin this letter? By telling you first of all how pleased I am that you said “yes.” Are you wondering why I chose you to ask? I can easily tell you. It’s because of a certain memory I have of you and your brother, Mateo. You two were sitting at the table in your kitchen when my family was there for a visit. You were working on learning your sums. Mateo couldn’t remember how to work one of the sums and you not only reminded him how to do it, but looked over at me with a fierce expression while you did so—daring me to say something that would slight your older brother. I wouldn’t have, but I admired your nerve, as I was much older than you. That image stuck with me. Your intelligent blue eyes and the fierce expression on your face. When I decided it was time to marry, I didn’t want to marry a girl from America. I wanted to marry a girl who would remind me of Italy. Who would speak my language and understand what it means to be Italian. My father said he would ask your babbo if there was a suitable girl in the village. While we were talking about it, your face flashed through my mind. I asked my father how old you would be now, and once I knew you were of marrying age, I asked him to talk to your father about it. I know it’s strange that we don’t know each other well—that we haven’t seen each other for years. But then again, my parents met only days before they were due to be married, and it has worked well for them.
My family has booked passage for you on a ship. The letter to your parents contains the details of your departure. I want to assure you of some things myself, though. The first is that I promise to take good care of you. My family has a successful jewelry business and soon we will have an apartment of our own. Until then, we will live at my family home.
I will come to New York to meet your ship and travel with you by train to San Francisco. We will be married there in a cathedral near our home. It has a beautiful glass window made of different colors, so when the sun shines through, it’s like looking at a rainbow. I know it sounds like make-believe, but wait until you see it.
I will write more later, but for now, please know that I look forward to our marriage.
Franco
That had been more than a month ago. Now Catarina had a small bundle of letters from Franco tied up with a ribbon. It was the first thing she placed in the wooden chest.
She was due to leave in a matter of days. The plan was to travel with Babbo by cart to Salerno, where she would board a ship to cross the Atlantic Ocean. The most important thing, Franco had said, was to stay healthy on the ship if she could, because they were very strict about whom they let into the United States. She would have to go through a place he called Ellis Island, where those who wanted to immigrate had to be checked over and cleared before they could enter the country. He wrote that even when she arrived in the United States, there would still be a risk that she could be sent back, even with a fiancé waiting for her. She hoped that wouldn’t happen. It would be humiliating to be found unfit and have to return home after telling everyone that she was going to America to be married.
He had booked her into a berth she would share with one other girl. She hoped she liked her, because they would be spending a long time together aboard the ship.
The next item Catarina placed in the wooden trunk was the quilt her sisters had made for her. It was the color of the old bricks that made up the oven where they baked their bread. A deep, rich brownish red that they trimmed in cream-colored crochet. The fabric was heavy and the feathers they filled it with were thick and fluffy. Franco told her that the evenings were cold and foggy in San Francisco, and her sisters wanted her to stay warm. She couldn’t imagine living somewhere where the evenings, even in the summer, were cool. Summer evenings at home were the best part of the day—after the heat had receded to sultry warmth. Would she have to wear a coat in the summer there? She couldn’t imagine that. She looked over at her thin, old coat. It had been tight on her last winter and she knew she had grown more since then. She decided to leave it at home for her sisters. Even if that meant she was cold during the voyage, at least her coat would be something she could leave behind to help. Even though Catarina was petite, they were even shorter, so she knew it would go to good use.
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