Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  An hour later when the cake was done, Sorella Agata poked holes throughout the top of the cake with a wooden skewer. She smiled as she did so, remembering how Mamma used to let her and Luca perform this task. Then when they were done, she poured the lemon glaze—which simply consisted of lemon juice, sugar, and water that was heated on the stove—over the cake. The final touch was to sprinkle a few strands of lemon zest over the cake.

  “Buongiorno, Sorella Agata. Look whom I found strolling around the corridor upstairs.”

  Madre Carmela entered the kitchen with none other than Mamma. Though she held onto Madre’s arm, she looked better than she had last night. Her eyes held a glow, and she didn’t seem as shy of Madre Carmela anymore.

  Sorella Agata rushed to her mother’s side and embraced her. “Mamma, you are already looking much better this morning. Did you sleep well?”

  Signora DiSanta patted her daughter’s cheek. “I did, Rosalia. But I must admit, when I woke up, it took a moment for me to realize where I was and that I hadn’t been dreaming last night that I’d finally found you.”

  “It’s all right, Mamma. I barely got any sleep. I kept staring at you throughout the night to make sure I hadn’t been dreaming as well.” Sorella Agata laughed.

  “Ah, I’m sorry you did not sleep well because of me.”

  “Don’t be silly. I am fine. Look, I even baked something special for you. This is my small Christmas gift for you, Mamma. Naturally, I had no idea I would be seeing you for Christmas this year, so I could not get you something more.”

  Sorella Agata picked up the plate with the cake. Her mother placed a hand over her mouth and smiled as she looked at her daughter. She had remembered, as Sorella Agata had known she would. But a tiny part of Sorella Agata had feared that perhaps her mother might have forgotten.

  “My Torta al Limone! Rosalia, you remembered how to make it?”

  “Of course. Since you last saw me, Mamma, I have become an expert pastry chef under the guidance of Madre Carmela. The convent operates a pastry shop, and we do quite well.”

  Sorella Agata rarely boasted about her work since she was accustomed to remaining humble as a servant of Christ. But she couldn’t help displaying her talent and passion for pastry making to her mother. Overnight, she had reverted to the young girl she once was, seeking her mother’s approval and praise.

  “She’s an extraordinary pastry chef, Signora DiSanta. Her pastries are talked about all over our village.”

  “It makes me happy to see you have done so well, Rosalia, in spite . . . in spite of everything that’s happened to you.”

  Signora DiSanta began to cry.

  “Mamma, please don’t be sad. Not today. It’s Christmas, and we have so much to be grateful for, now that we’re together.”

  Madre Carmela handed a handkerchief to Signora DiSanta and rubbed her back. Sorella Agata could see tears in Madre’s eyes.

  “I know what will make you feel better. A slice of your Torta al Limone. You can go sit down with Madre at the dining table while I cut the cake.”

  “It is your Torta al Limone now, Rosalia, since you made it.” Signora DiSanta smiled.

  “Mamma, it will always be your cake. Do you remember how you used to let Luca and me poke holes throughout the cake with toothpicks?” Sorella Agata laughed.

  But instead of her mother’s joining in her laughter, she looked once more like she was going to cry.

  “What is it, Mamma?”

  “Let us eat the cake and relax for a bit, and then we will have the talk we promised each other last night.”

  “Si. You must be hungry, Signora DiSanta. Let’s go wait for Rosalia in the dining room.”

  Madre Carmela led her out of the kitchen. Sorella Agata noticed how Madre had called her Rosalia instead of Sorella Agata. It was strange to hear Madre call her that after all these years, but she knew the mother superior was doing her best to make her mother feel as comfortable as possible. Dread began to fill her heart. She didn’t know if she was ready to find out what fate had befallen the rest of her family since she last saw them.

  Sighing deeply, she cut three thick slices of cake for herself, Madre Carmela, and Mamma. She placed the plates of cake on a tray and then poured a pot of freshly brewed espresso into three cups. As she poured the espresso, she glanced out the kitchen window and was startled to see a bluethroat perched on the ledge. But this couldn’t be the same bluethroat who had visited her for so many years. She hadn’t seen her friend in so long. Sorella Agata wasn’t quite sure when she had last seen the bird. But then a memory returned to her. It had been the morning when she was about to take her vows to become a nun. Not only had the bird stood outside her window as she got ready for the ceremony, but she remembered seeing it flying nearby as she left the convent grounds to make her way to the church where she would be taking her vows. With the distractions her new life had presented to her after she became Sorella Agata, she hadn’t realized until many months later that the bird had stopped visiting her. She had assumed it must have died, or perhaps it had finally flown to another home. She had felt sad not to see the bird that had become a welcome sight ever since that day she first saw it sitting on the tree branch that hung outside her window; that day, it had been almost as if it were urging her to leave her room and live again. And that was exactly what she’d done. Sorella Agata had also felt some guilt that she hadn’t even noticed the bird’s absence for months. But then she’d felt foolish for feeling that way. Now, the bird glanced at her. She was about to open the window to feed it a few crumbs that had fallen off the lemon cake, but it flew away. Opening the window anyway, she looked out, hoping to see where the bluethroat had flown to, but it was nowhere in sight.

  After Sorella Agata, Madre, and Signora DiSanta had eaten their lemon cake, Madre Carmela excused herself. Sorella Agata felt the same dread she had felt earlier when her mother had told her they would have the talk they’d promised each other. Perhaps they should wait until tomorrow? It was, after all, Christmas. But she knew her mother was anxious to tell her what she needed to.

  “Mamma, perhaps we can put off until tomorrow your telling me everything that has happened since I last saw you and our family. Let’s just enjoy the holiday.”

  Sorella Agata reached for her mother’s hand and held it. Her mother placed her own hand over her daughter’s.

  “Rosalia, telling you what I have to tell you tomorrow won’t make it any easier. Si, today is Christmas, but I don’t think I can wait any longer. Once you know everything, we can move forward and try to be as happy as we can for the time God has decided we will be together.”

  “Va bene, Mamma. It is your story to tell after all.”

  “As you told me, Rosalia, you know already about how we were forced to leave Terme Vigliatore once your father began losing patrons at his tailor shop. And you know we went as far as Marsala, and Papà went to America temporarily to make some extra money.”

  “Si, Mamma. L’ispettore Franco told me once Papà returned, the vineyard owners could no longer afford to keep you on as laborers and provide room and board, so you headed east. I hoped you were returning to Messina, and we would soon be reunited.”

  “As did I, my daughter. I will get to that soon. I thought perhaps you might’ve known more, since L’ispettore Franco had learned we were in Marsala as well as that your father had gone to America. But I could see from what you said last night, the inspector had no knowledge of what I’m about to tell you.”

  Signora DiSanta paused, taking a sip of her espresso. She then squeezed Sorella Agata’s hand tightly.

  “Rosalia, Luca is no longer with us. He caught the flu shortly after we moved to Marsala and died.”

  Even though her mother’s grip on her hand was very warm, Sorella Agata felt herself go cold all over. Tears silently dropped from her eyes into her espresso cup. She had known it. She had known Mamma had bad news to relay. Naturally, Sorella Agata had suspected that perhaps her father was no longer alive. He was
the oldest of them, after all. But to hear her dear brother Luca was the one who had passed away, and at such a young age. It was just too cruel. He had such high dreams. Worthy dreams of serving the Lord and living by His example, as Sorella Agata was now doing. She shook her head as she began to sob uncontrollably. Her mother stood up and went to her side, cradling her daughter.

  “Oh, Mamma! It is so unfair! Why? Why has everything that’s happened to our family happened? Though I am a woman of faith, I still struggle to this day to understand it all. And while I feel God had a purpose for me with the work I have done here at the convent and in our village, I still grapple with the pain and suffering we all went through. And now I will never see my brother again!”

  “Rosalia, I’m sorry to be delivering this pain to you. We all grieved terribly for Luca, especially your father. I think that was also why he decided to go to America. He needed some time to be alone and get away from all that had happened to our family in such a short amount of time. And I know exactly how you are feeling. My faith has been tested many times, especially when I thought I had lost you forever and then when I lost Luca. But somehow I continued to pray to God and place my trust in Him that I would at least get news someday of what had happened to you. Rosalia, can you ever forgive me for having left Terme Vigliatore without waiting longer to see if you would return home? I never should have left with your father. You don’t know how much I have hated myself for that decision. And I have felt that it was my fault as well that Luca died. I felt that if we had remained in Terme Vigliatore, he never would have gotten sick.”

  “You don’t know that, Mamma. People get the flu everywhere.”

  “True. But that was how I felt. A mother strives to protect her children, and when something terrible happens to one of them, she feels she has failed.”

  Sorella Agata pulled herself out of her mother’s embrace. Madre Carmela’s words from the previous night came back to her. She needed to be strong for Mamma. While Sorella Agata was stunned to learn of Luca’s death and to realize she truly would never see him again, she couldn’t completely collapse. Her mother needed her. She noticed her mother wiping her brow with a linen napkin. She seemed to be sweating profusely.

  “Has your fever returned?”

  Sorella Agata quickly placed the back of her hand against her mother’s forehead. While it was warm, it wasn’t burning.

  “It’s just the anxiety over having to tell you about your brother’s death. I’m fine, Rosalia. Please, don’t worry.”

  Sorella Agata went over to the windows and opened one to let in some air. A bird flew through the window and landed on the chair where Sorella Agata had been sitting a moment ago. It was the bluethroat she’d seen earlier.

  “Dio mio!” Signora DiSanta cried out.

  “It is just a bird, Mamma. Don’t be afraid.”

  Sorella Agata walked over to the chair where the bluethroat sat. It looked expectantly at her mother. When Sorella Agata reached the chair, it glanced at her for a moment before flying back out the window it had flown through. But instead of flying away completely, it stayed on the window ledge.

  When Sorella Agata turned toward her mother, she was frightened to see how pale she looked.

  “Mamma, are you feeling all right? You don’t look well. Let me get you a glass of water.”

  “No, Rosalia, I don’t need water. It’s that bird. The only time I’ve seen a bird like that—with those colorful stripes on its chest—was when your brother was ill. You see, when Luca was sick, we saw a bird that looked just like this one.”

  “It is a bluethroat. The bird has that name because of the blue on its chest, although I never understood why they chose to call it a bluethroat since there are several colors. I remember seeing them in our yard when we lived in Terme Vigliatore. Don’t you remember?”

  Signora DiSanta shook her head. “No. I don’t. I only remember seeing one when Luca was sick. You see, Rosalia, that bird visited him every day.”

  A shiver ran down Sorella Agata’s spine as she remembered how the bluethroat had visited her regularly once she learned her family was no longer living in Terme Vigliatore.

  “The bird sat on the windowsill of the bedroom Luca shared with Cecilia at the vineyard in Marsala where we were staying. It was as if the bird were watching over him. At first, I found it endearing, almost as if Luca had a guardian angel. But then when I could see he was dying, I became angry and saw the bird as an omen of his impending death. But then one day . . .” Her voice trailed off as tears filled her eyes. “It was the day before Luca died. He opened his eyes and, though he was so weak, he managed to slightly lift his head and look around the room. Once he saw the bird, he whispered to me that it was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Luca said to me, ‘Mamma, look. You know who that is, don’t you? It’s our Rosalia. She’s been visiting me every day. She is watching over me and letting me know I am not alone, and that I won’t be alone once I am gone. Remember that, Mamma. And never lose hope that you will see Rosalia again.’ ”

  Mamma shook her head and placed her hands over her face as she cried.

  It was now Sorella Agata’s turn to hold her mother and console her. She closed her eyes tightly as she hugged her mother and whispered words of comfort. When she opened them again, she saw the bluethroat was still sitting on the window ledge. It lifted its head up, and as had always happened with the bluethroat who had visited her all those years ago, its gaze met hers. Instead of feeling a shiver as she always did when the bird looked at her, Sorella Agata instead felt her heart wince. It couldn’t be. The thought she was entertaining was crazy. Could this bluethroat who had visited her regularly all those years ago be the spirit of her dead brother?

  She then remembered it had been December when she had first seen the bird. It had been just a few weeks before Christmas, and she had fed the bird Buccellati, the popular fig cookies the pastry shop made for the holiday. Mamma had said Luca had died not that long after they had arrived in Marsala. She knew they had left Terme Vigliatore in November. She then remembered how seeing the bluethroat had motivated her to finally leave her bedroom and chase after it in the convent’s courtyard. And Antonio. The bird had led her to Antonio, for it was that day when she first met him. Did her brother’s spirit live on in the bluethroat? Had he been the one to spark a drive in her to live again when she had been devastated over discovering her family had left without her? Had he led her to Antonio—her dear friend who had encouraged her as they learned how to make pastries side by side and who had loved her so much and helped her learn to trust again? The bluethroat chirped a few times, looked at her for a moment, and then flew away.

  Silently, she thanked her brother for looking after her all those years ago and giving her the courage to live again.

  30

  Taralli all’Uovo

  SWEET PASTRY RINGS

  Evening of November 11, 2004

  Siesta was almost over, but Claudia had not been able to sleep. All she could think about was how Sorella Agata had been faced with sadness once again after her initial joy of finding her mother. Sorella Agata had stopped narrating her story after revealing her brother Luca had died. It had been time to get lunch ready, but she had promised she would pick up where she had left off after siesta. Claudia glanced up at the cross that hung above her bed. The nun still had not said who had given her the cross. Just when Claudia had thought Sorella Agata’s story finally had a happy ending after she’d found her mother, she learned the poor woman only had more heartache. Claudia reached for a tissue from the box that sat on her night table and wiped her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time since she’d arrived in Sicily.

  “I’m sorry, Claudia. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  Claudia looked up to see Sorella Agata standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Though Sorella Agata also looked sad, she wasn’t crying for once. Of course, she held a bowl filled with some sweet. Once again, Claudia marveled that the nuns and everyo
ne else at the convent weren’t enormous.

  “It’s all right, Sister. I’ve always cried easily. I just can’t help reflecting on all that you’ve been through. I don’t know if I would’ve survived everything you have gone through.”

  “You would have. I can tell you’re a strong woman.” Sorella Agata smiled.

  She came over to Claudia and patted her shoulder before sitting next to her on the bed. She held the bowl of sweets out to Claudia. Taralli all’Uovo—sweet pastry rings braided into a circle—filled the bowl. The convent always had Taralli on hand. They were often what the nuns and the other pastry workers ate for breakfast since they were perfect for dunking into coffee. Claudia bit into a Taralli, and for a moment she forgot about her sadness. The sweets at the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela truly were a panacea for any sorrow.

  “Did you ever see the bluethroat again after that day your mother told you Luca had died?”

  Sorella Agata shook her head. “Whenever I am outside, I am always looking for my little friend.”

  Claudia paused, wondering if she should say anything.

  “What is it, Claudia?”

  “I saw a bluethroat about a month after I arrived here.”

  “You did?”

  Claudia nodded.

  “Are you sure it was a bluethroat?”

  “I’m positive. My father is a birdwatcher and, when I was a little girl, he always pointed out pictures of birds in the books he collected on the subject. The bluethroat was one of my favorite birds. It’s quite stunning with all the colors that are displayed on its breast. I’ve never seen one in person since they are mainly found in Europe and Asia, but I know without a doubt the bird I saw was a bluethroat. My father used to make color Xeroxes of the photographs of the birds I liked from his books, and he hung them in my room. The bluethroat was in one of those photos that hung in my room. The day I saw the bluethroat in the courtyard, I remember thinking it was odd that the bird seemed to be staring right at me. And then you mentioned feeling as if the bluethroat that visited you would also look right into your eyes.”