Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “You thought of me often?” Antonio sounded surprised.

  “I have. I hoped you were well and happy. I hoped in your heart you knew that I never meant to hurt you all those years ago. I truly am sorry, Antonio. I never should have told you that you were the same as Marco. How could I have made such a comparison? You were always kind to me and patient. I wasn’t in my right mind when I said those words, but mostly, I was scared. You see, I’ve come to realize, Antonio, that the reason I said those terrible things to you and pushed you away is that I was afraid of letting go of my family—letting go of the idea of finding them. I think part of me thought if I married you and moved to Paris, I would in essence be starting this new life without them. I know you told me the move would’ve been temporary, and I know you are a man of your word, but it was easier for me to believe you would not have moved back to Sicily. Please know, Antonio, I did care about you, and in my own way, I loved you, too. But I came to see I was nowhere near ready to commit to any man. It was still too soon after what Marco had done to me. You deserved to be with someone who could give you so much more than I could.”

  “Grazie for telling me all of this, Rosalia, I mean, Sorella Agata. Forgive me, but it is still hard to get used to calling you by a different name.”

  “I’m sure it must have been a shock for you to learn that I had become a nun.” Sorella Agata smiled.

  “It was at first. But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I often thought about you, too, and only wanted you to be happy as well. I can see, from the way you talk about the work you’ve accomplished in the shop and at the shelter, you have found peace and contentment in your life. But as your old friend, I must also be frank with you. I can see there is still a sadness in your eyes that has been there since I first met you that day, out here in the courtyard, when you were chasing that bluethroat. And now that you have told me how you still long to be reunited with your father and sister, I know that is where your sadness stems from.”

  “You always were able to read me so well. The ache was much less when Mamma was here with me. I am so grateful to God that I had that time with her. But enough about me. Please. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Did you become a great chef? And naturally, you must’ve married since you have a granddaughter.”

  Antonio’s eyes narrowed.

  “Paris was wonderful. It was everything I had imagined it to be and more. I did complete my studies at Le Cordon Bleu, and I was head chef at three renowned restaurants in Paris. So like you, I have been very successful and am proud of my accomplishments. I did meet a very nice French woman whom I married. Her name was Claudette. I met her three years after I moved to Paris. Believe it or not, I was pining for you all that time and would not allow myself to date anyone. The naïve young man I once was believed you would have a change of heart.”

  Sorella Agata blushed.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that. I don’t want you to feel bad. As you said, God has His plans for us, and He didn’t think we would be a good fit. We probably would’ve killed each other, each trying to best the other with our baking!” Antonio laughed.

  Sorella Agata joined him. “That is true! We were quite competitive!”

  “As I was saying, I met Claudette three years after I moved to Paris. We got married two years later. She was a dear woman, very sweet and patient. Eventually, I opened up my own restaurant in Paris. Claudette helped me manage it. We had only one child—a son we named Giovanni. He was all that a father could hope for in a son—kind, honest, hardworking. Giovanni followed in my footsteps and was training to become a chef. He worked at my restaurant in the evenings, and during the day he was in culinary school. When he was twenty-one, he began dating Noelle, one of the waitresses at my restaurant, and then the following year they were married. They had Veronique a year later. We were all so happy, working together at the restaurant, helping Giovanni and Noelle raise Veronique. Our restaurant was doing well, too. But then two years after Veronique was born, there was a fire at the restaurant. It was during the afternoon. Giovanni was prepping for the night’s dinner, and Claudette and Noelle were there helping him. I had a meeting with a vendor, so I wasn’t there. Fortunately, Noelle’s parents were watching Veronique that day. I’m not sure what happened, how the fire got started, but it destroyed the entire restaurant and killed my wife, son, and daughter-in-law. So Veronique was left orphaned at only two years old. I have raised her since. Noelle’s parents wanted to raise her, but I was quite staunch in my insistence that I raise her. I think they didn’t have the heart to take her away from me after I had lost my wife and son.”

  “Oh, Antonio! I am so, so sorry! Now I understand what you meant when you said your faith has been tested.”

  Antonio took a sip of his espresso. “There’s more. Although I was upset with God for taking away my wife and only son and making my granddaughter an orphan, I still went to church and prayed. It is what happened later that has made me greatly question my faith.

  “After the fire, I took a job working as a chef in a restaurant. I didn’t have the energy or the heart to open another restaurant without my wife and son to help me. I also had to think about Veronique. She needed me, and the hours that would’ve been required had I started another business would’ve made it nearly impossible for me to be an adequate caretaker. Noelle’s parents watched her while I worked at the restaurant in the evenings. They were a godsend.

  “But a few months ago, Veronique and I decided to move back to Sicily.”

  “How old is she? Eighteen?”

  “She’s only fifteen, but she is often mistaken for being older, even as old as her early twenties. She’s very beautiful, as you noticed.”

  “I did. But I also couldn’t help but notice how sad she is, Antonio.”

  Pain flashed through his eyes.

  “I am getting to that. So as I was saying, we moved back to Sicily a few months ago. I bought a small trattoria, just outside of Santa Lucia del Mela.”

  “You have been here for a few months, and you’ve only come by to visit now?”

  “At first, I was busy getting the restaurant up and running. And once that happened, I wanted to come see you, but I must admit I couldn’t help remembering how upset you had been with me when we argued, not long before I moved to Paris. I was afraid that maybe you would not receive me so well, even after all these years. Though I knew you didn’t mean what you said that day, I didn’t want to upset you, and I had no idea where your life had taken you or even if you were still here. So I needed some time to gather the strength to come back here to find out what had happened to you, and, if you were still here, to confront you. But I should’ve known all along that we would still be the good friends we were all those years ago.”

  Antonio smiled before continuing. “I thought about leaving Paris and coming back home to Sicily after I lost Claudette and Giovanni in the fire, but I didn’t want to take Veronique away from her maternal grandparents, and, as I said, they helped me raise her when I was working. But something happened in Paris that made me realize we could no longer stay there. Veronique is fifteen now, and both her maternal grandparents passed away in the past couple of years. So we made the move.

  “One day while I was in my trattoria, I overheard the conversation at one of the tables of patrons who were dining there. They were talking about the shelter for abused women that you had founded in town. But I had no idea you were the one who had started the shelter, since they were referring to you as Sorella Agata, and naturally, I didn’t know you had become a nun.

  “So finally, one day, I had time and decided I would work up the courage to go to the pastry shop to see if you were still there. This was a week ago. I asked one of the nuns behind the seller’s window if you still worked there, and she told me you no longer went by Rosalia, but instead were now Sorella Agata. I thought she was mistaken and gave her your full name—Rosalia DiSanta—but she told me that you were the only Rosalia to have worked at the
shop. I was quite shocked that you had become a nun, but, as I mentioned before, the more I thought about it, the less I was surprised. After all, you hadn’t allowed yourself to be loved by me because of what had happened to you in that horrible cave. So I realized it had been hard for you to trust men, and if you weren’t able to fully trust me, then there was a good chance you would never feel completely comfortable trusting another man.”

  “That is true, Antonio, but my becoming a nun was about so much more than that. I truly received a calling and wanted to serve God to the fullest.”

  “I can see that now, especially after learning about the women’s shelter and the work you’ve done. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I am just being honest about what my thoughts were when I found out you had become a nun.”

  “Go on.”

  “After getting over my initial shock, I asked the nun behind the pastry shop window if you were there and if I could talk to you. She told me you were at the shelter. I then remembered the people at my restaurant talking about the shelter and saying that a Sorella Agata ran it. I couldn’t believe the irony of all of this and wondered if God had sent Veronique and me back to Sicily for this reason.”

  “Irony? I’m sorry, Antonio, I’m not following you.”

  “You were right in noting earlier that Veronique looks sad. She has been through hell. You see, Rosalia, like you were all those years ago when you were just a teenager, my granddaughter was raped.”

  Sorella Agata once again felt the shiver she had felt when she first saw the haunted look in Veronique’s eyes while she stood next to Antonio in the pastry shop. Now, Sorella Agata knew why she had sensed something was very wrong. For Veronique had the same vacant, dark stare Sorella Agata had had when she looked at herself in the mirror for weeks after Madre Carmela had rescued her from the cave. Tears came to her eyes.

  “Oh, Antonio, you and your family have been through so much as well. May I ask when it happened?”

  “It happened last year. As with you, it was someone she knew, a boy from her school. He followed her as she was coming home one evening. It was winter, so the streets were already dark as she was making her way home on her bicycle. He came up from behind her, caused her to fall off her bicycle, and then he clapped his hand over her mouth as he carried her to an alleyway. I don’t know how she was able to pull herself together and make her way back home afterward.”

  Antonio ran his hand through his hair. Then, he began sobbing.

  Sorella Agata stood up and went over to him. She knelt by his side and spoke to him.

  “There was nothing you could have done, Antonio. It was not your fault. I, of all people, know about blaming oneself, and it took me a very long time to realize there was nothing I or anyone else could have done to prevent what Marco did to me. And it is the same with what happened to Veronique. Do you hear me?”

  “I should have known you would know I was feeling guilty. I shouldn’t have let her come home by herself once the sun went down earlier in the winter.”

  “You can’t watch her all the time. Please, don’t blame yourself any longer. It will do little good in helping Veronique get the help she needs, and it will only hinder both of you.”

  “Oh, Rosalia, she still screams at night from the nightmares she has. I’ve tried to get her therapy, but the therapist told me she refuses to say a word during their sessions together. I don’t know what to do to get through to her. I was hoping these last few months, being here in Sicily, would help—the change of scenery and all—but she still seems unreachable. At least she does help me in the restaurant. I think that is a bit of a distraction for her. But I’m afraid it’s not much. She has nightmares several times a week. Will you try to help her, Rosalia? Please. She’s all I have left, and I’m afraid of what will happen to her once I’m gone someday if she hasn’t found a way to come to terms with what happened to her.”

  “Of course, I will help her, my friend. And I promise you, she will get better.”

  32

  Fior di Pistacchio

  CHEWY PISTACHIO COOKIES

  Night of November 11, 2004–Morning of November 12, 2004

  Claudia looked around at the interior of the small abandoned chapel. The only features remaining that gave any indication it had once been a chapel were a few stained-glass windows and a life-size statue of the Madonna that stood in the entryway. The other saints’ statues that had once surrounded its interior had been moved to the active chapel where the nuns went to Mass. After the chapel had been renovated to provide a safe haven for the women Sorella Agata had first rescued from the streets, the furnishings were kept simple, but there were a few touches that gave it a cozier sense of home like the ceramic vases holding silk flowers that adorned the night tables. Claudia was almost certain Sorella Agata’s mother had made these silk flowers. Small paintings depicting Sicilian landscapes such as Mount Etna and the beaches of Taormina hung on the walls. Claudia couldn’t help but see the irony in Sorella Agata’s relaying the story of her reunion with Antonio here in the chapel where he had lived while staying at the convent and where he had first told her he was in love with her.

  “So your apprentice, Veronique, is Antonio’s granddaughter.”

  Claudia said this more as a statement than a question, since it would have been too much of a coincidence that there would be another woman with the name of Veronique, which was uncommon in Italy. She then remembered how she had noticed that Veronique’s accent wasn’t completely Italian. And, of course, her name was French.

  “Si. She is Antonio’s granddaughter.”

  “Does she live here now?”

  “Not permanently. She still lives with her grandfather for half of the week, and the other half, including weekends, she lives here. Antonio’s home and trattoria are just outside of town, and it is easier for Veronique to sleep here while she is studying to become a pastry chef.”

  “She doesn’t seem at all like the young girl you described when you first met her four years ago. I didn’t detect any sadness in her; rather she seemed like any other happy teenager who was inquisitive about the world.”

  “Now, she is like this, and Antonio tells me she was like this before she was raped. Thankfully, she has made enormous strides in healing from her ordeal, and she has learned to put it as much as possible behind her.”

  “So you were able to help her, then.”

  “I was. But I must say, for a time, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep my promise to Antonio that she would get better. It took Veronique even longer than it took me to engage with the world. I even tried the tactics Madre Carmela had used with me, introducing her to a new sweet every time I spoke to her. In the beginning, Antonio was only bringing her here on his days off from the restaurant, which usually only amounted to one or two days a week. He couldn’t spare more time away since the restaurant was still new, and he was trying to keep it afloat to make a new life for himself and Veronique here. He didn’t want to leave her full-time with a bunch of strangers either. She was still very mistrustful of everyone, even women. After a month, I could see she seemed to relax more when she came here. She liked going to our sitting room and reading a few of the books we keep in the bookshelves there. I sensed that if she didn’t spend more time with me, I would not be able to get through to her. So one day, I asked her if she would feel comfortable staying here for a few days, so I could show her how to bake. I told her this way she could prepare the desserts in her grandfather’s trattoria, and how wonderful that would be if the desserts the restaurant’s patrons were eating were made by her own hands. That was the first time that I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. She said she would like that.

  “We started off slowly, and she only stayed for the weekends at first. I began by teaching her the simpler desserts so she wouldn’t get frustrated immediately and possibly give up. But I had no cause to worry. She was a rapid learner and eager to move on to the next pastry once she had mastered the previous one. She reminded me so
much of myself in those early days when I was getting over my own ordeal and becoming more enraptured with pastry making. After a few months, she agreed to stay half of the week, and I offered her the opportunity to be one of our apprentices. She readily accepted.

  “Six months later, I felt that perhaps she might be ready to hear the story of how Marco had kidnapped and violated me. She listened, but said nothing once I was done. I never asked her outright to talk to me about what had happened to her. I knew she had to want to talk about it, and she had to come to me of her own will. A few weeks after I’d told her what had happened to me, she surprised me one evening as I was getting ready for bed. She told me all about her classmate following her on her way home and how he had raped her in that alleyway. She then told me that she had felt different from other girls her age after that had happened to her, and she had hated herself for it. But when she heard I had also been raped and she saw how I had managed to survive and have the life I have, she realized there was hope for her. She cried and told me she wanted to get better and try to move on.

  “With her permission, I referred her to a counselor at the shelter I’d founded. I told her I could be present for the first few sessions until she felt more comfortable with the counselor. She was scared, but she decided to trust me. After the first session, she told me she would be fine meeting with the counselor alone. And from that day forward, she continued to get better.”

  “You gave her something to live for, Sorella Agata, just as Madre Carmela had given you something to live for by teaching you how to make pastries.”

  “I didn’t realize until I became a nun how brilliant Madre’s strategies for helping me to heal were. But isn’t that what most of us want and need out of life—a sense of purpose, a chance to feel that we have something to give back to the world? Veronique and I both felt like we were no good after what had happened to us. For a brief time, we let the men who had violated us take away our dignity and sense of self-worth. Besides providing the women at the shelter with a safe haven, I and the other volunteers there work with them to help them realize they still have so much of themselves to give back to the world.”