Stella Mia (7 page)

Suddenly, bursts of color erupt through the night sky, showering prisms of light so close I almost believe I can actually touch them.

“Veloce! Spegnere le torce elettriche.”
Luigi tells us to hurry and turn off our flashlights.

We all stand in silence, staring up at the dazzling display before us. I allow myself a few seconds to take in the beauty. But it is hard for me to relax. Usually, this is my favorite part of any saint's feast. I love watching the fireworks from Luigi's roof since from this height the fireworks appear so near. It feels very magical, and when you've had a life that is filled with as much hardship as mine, you stop believing that there is any magic or wonder left in the world.

A sharp elbow nudges my arm.

“Ora!”
Agata whispers “now” loudly to me.

Glancing nervously at our families, I'm relieved they haven't heard her. But they'd have to be standing close to us to hear with the din of the fireworks.

“Be careful.”

Agata nods her head and is about to walk off when I grab her arm. She gives me a frustrated look. I stare into her eyes, knowing this will probably be the last time I ever see her. I then let go. She disappears at the perfect time since there is a short pause before more fireworks erupt, allowing the darkness to completely cloak her before anyone notices her exit. I know from all the years that my family and I have watched the fireworks from Luigi's roof that there are at least three pauses throughout the show. It seems to be taking longer than I remember for the second interval to come.

“Guardate questo! È bellissimo!”
My father is holding Enzo up, imploring him to look at an exceptionally beautiful shower of fireworks. Papá's face is lit up momentarily in the fireworks' glow. He is smiling, and if you didn't know him, you'd never suspect there was so much evil inside him. I cannot help but think back to when I was Enzo's age and the few times Papá was kind to me, like when he talked to me about all the fish he'd caught, and I wonder how long it will be until he begins hitting Enzo. Sometimes, I think he takes pleasure out of beating Mama and me. Does he ever realize how horrible he is toward us? Something tells me he has no idea, and even if he did, I am almost certain he would have no remorse.

“Ooh! Mama!
Guarda!
” Carlotta is standing on the ledge of the roof, but my mother's arm is wrapped tightly around her tiny form. They are completely transfixed by the fireworks. My gaze then falls on Pietro, who is in his carriage and is somehow able to sleep even with all the noise from the fireworks.

I turn away. I cannot wait any longer lest I lose my nerve. Edging slowly to the stairs that lead back down to Luigi's house, I continue to watch my family. Taking one last look at their huddled forms, I quickly turn around and run down the stairs. Tears are racing down my face. As I walk through Luigi's living room, I freeze in my tracks at the sound of voices. I see an open window and realize the voices are coming from outside. It then dawns on me that the shadows I can barely make out are Agata and Giuseppe. Afraid someone will come down and hear them, I rush over to the window and close it quietly. I can't resist peeking out, but I make sure to stay out of their sight. Giuseppe has his hands around Agata's waist, and he is kissing her. Her eyes are closed, yet I can still detect a glow of happiness in her face.

I smile and whisper, “Good-bye, my dear cousin.” I then tiptoe to the front door, closing it gently behind me. Once outside, I begin running. The crowds are too preoccupied with the fireworks spectacle to pay me any heed. I keep running until I know I am a good twenty blocks away from Luigi's.

I head over to the Duomo of Saint Sebastian, which is the largest church in Barcellona. I pray that her doors are kept open this late at night. As I approach the cathedral, I see light streaming through the stained-glass windows. I climb the steps and breathe a sigh of relief after pulling open the heavy wooden door. Thankfully, no one is inside. I step into the last pew and pull up the knee rest. Then I crouch down and sit on the floor. This will be where I will sleep for the night. Once morning comes, I will make my way to the bus station. I will not fully let down my guard until I am on the bus and out of Barcellona. I am nearly drenched in sweat. Taking off the top layer of my clothes, I roll them into a makeshift pillow. Sighing deeply, I stretch out underneath the pew and close my eyes. But sleep eludes me. The faces of my little brothers, sister, and mother haunt me. Will I ever see them again? Forcing these thoughts out of my mind, I focus instead on what lies ahead of me and the new life that I am about to embark upon.

Gioiello del Mediterraneo

 

 

JEWEL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN

 

 

 

 

I
am on my way to Taormina. I woke up at dawn and was able to sneak out of the Duomo of Saint Sebastian without being noticed. Fortunately, the streets were nearly deserted that early in the morning, since most of the residents were sleeping in after staying up late to watch the fireworks. Once I left the cathedral, I quickly headed over to the bus station. There, a bus would take me from Barcellona to the city of Messina, where I would transfer for Taormina.

As soon as my bus gets on the highway, cutting through the mountain tunnels, I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I can relax. My heart races in excitement. My escape worked! I'm finally free and far away from my father's clutches. I will never suffer another of his beatings. But as soon as I feel joy, guilt immediately washes over me for leaving Mama and the children behind. They are on their own now. They will not have me to protect them from Papá's wrath.

Though I have been surrounded by Sicily's vibrant landscape my whole life, I feel like I am only now truly seeing her. Suddenly, something my teacher once said comes to mind. She described Sicily as
“il gioiello del Mediterraneo”
—the jewel of the Mediterranean. Looking out my bus's window, I can see why. The verdant mountains . . . the azure waters of the Mediterranean Sea . . . abundant sunshine that graces the island for most of the year . . . towering palm trees lining the streets . . . farms that thrive because of the island's rich soil that allows almost any crop to be grown . . . orchards full of fig, olive, and citrus trees . . . prickly cactus pear plants. This is my beautiful home.

The bus slows down as it comes to a road that has been made narrower because of construction. We pass under a rain cloud, and rivulets of water quickly pellet the driver's windshield. The driver does not even bother turning his windshield wipers on, for within seconds we've cleared the clouds and are cloaked in sunshine again. I see a rainbow and smile, feeling like it is a good omen. For me, rainbows have always been proof of God's existence. Every time I see one, I feel God's presence even more.

Though I am elated to be heading toward a new adventure and home in Taormina, I'm also terrified. I try not to think about the possibility that it could take some time to secure work. If I am very meager with my meals and skip breakfast and just allow myself a little bread and cheese or a piece of fruit, I can make my money last a couple of extra weeks. I am not ashamed to beg, but I will offer people something for their money. I am prepared to sing on the streets and the beaches of Taormina. But surely, with all of the hotels and resorts that line the beach, I will be able to secure work as a maid in one of them. Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I pray to St. Anthony, asking him to help me find my way.

I open my eyes in time to see the highway sign pointing to Taormina. Her beauty has been written about for centuries. I wonder if she will live up to her fame. My stomach growls, reminding me I have not had anything to eat since the
zeppola
I nibbled on last night. I saved two of the
zeppole
for my trip. I take them out and pop one in my mouth, chewing ravenously. Something catches my peripheral view. I see a dirty boy with disheveled clothes leaning forward, staring at the
zeppola
I'm holding that I haven't eaten yet. His mother is asleep beside him, and she has the same ragged appearance. I try to ignore the boy watching me, but my conscience won't allow it. Suddenly, it's not this strange boy's face before me, but the face of one of my younger brothers. I hold out my hand, offering my last
zeppola
to him.

“Take it.”

The boy casts one nervous glance at his mother, who still remains sound asleep, and turns back around, quickly snatching the
zeppola
. He nods his head in thanks to me. I smile and turn my attention back out the window. My eyes feel heavy, and I want to sleep, especially since I only slept in spurts the night before. The hard floor and cramped space beneath the church's bench made it hard to sleep through the night. My anxiety also kept awakening me. My dreams mingled with both happy images of what my new life promised me and images of my father chasing me, dragging me back home. Sometimes it was a monster chasing me, but then the image transformed into my father. While I would like nothing more than to take a quick nap on the bus, I must be on my guard. Pickpockets are notorious for riding buses, and I have already seen a few of the men watching me. Traveling alone as a female is one of the risks I am prepared to take. I forgot to steal my father's knife that he uses to skin the rabbits he kills and prepares for dinner. I just pray that no one bothers me until I reach Taormina and can steal a knife from a merchant's shop or even from a table at one of the many restaurants in the coastal town.

I take out my rosary beads and begin praying, fingering each bead as I go through the Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Hopefully, this will help me pass the time as well as keep my nerves at bay.

An hour later, the bus driver announces that we are entering Taormina. His voice startles me out of sleep, much to my dismay. I quickly feel my pelvis, making sure the lumps are still there. Of course, it would be next to impossible for anyone to steal my money without waking me up since I've hidden it in the pockets I sewed in my underwear. A thief would have to rip my clothes off to find out. I shudder at that thought, once again becoming aware of the fact that I am a woman traveling alone who could be subject to attacks.

We make our way along hairpin turns, taking us higher into the hills of Taormina. Soon, her coastline comes into view. I gasp. I've never seen such a vivid shade of blue water. I always thought the beach where I lived was beautiful, but it pales in comparison. The turquoise shade of the Ionian Sea truly looks celestial. Though this is all that I've seen so far of Taormina, I can already tell her famed beauty that has been written about is well-deserved.

The bus finally comes to a stop. I cannot wait to descend and explore the town. Putting my rosary beads around my neck, I stand up. My body is still sore from sleeping on the church floor as well as from sitting for so long on the bus. The bus driver's eyes meet mine as I am about to descend the stairs exiting the bus. He winks at me. I quickly turn my head and climb down the stairs as fast as I can, thankful that there are more people behind me.

Many of the bus's passengers have heavy luggage and are lining up to take taxis up the hill to their hotels. Since I cannot afford to spend any additional money, I begin walking up the hill. I'm glad I was not able to take more than my meager belongings and can easily make the ascent. Throngs of tourists, mostly young ones who don't mind the hike, are walking up as well. The women mostly wear sundresses over their bathing suits. A few wear only skirts over their bathing suits, letting their cleavages remain exposed in their swimsuits. Many of the men do not wear shirts and a few are just in their swimming trunks. I blush when a teenage boy catches me staring and smiles at me. I look away. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious in my long ruffled skirt and my blouse, which is now sticking to my back from all my sweat. I realize that my clothes are too heavy for being by the beach. I thought since they were linen, I would be fine, but aside from standing out from the rest of the people here, I will be sweltering every day. Perhaps I can get my hands on a pair of scissors and cut the sleeves off my shirt. Of course, the only way I will be able to do that is if I pilfer the scissors. Shame fills my heart that I will have to sin by stealing until I have the means to purchase what I need. I say a silent prayer to God, asking him ahead of time to forgive me and to understand I must steal out of necessity.

By the time I reach the top of the hill, I sense a headache coming on, no doubt from being dehydrated. My stomach is grumbling once more. Walking to the shade of an immense palm tree, I use my skirt's hem to wipe the perspiration from my forehead. I then notice a drinking fountain that's built into the wall of one of the hotels. A lion's head is carved into the stone wall, and the lion's mouth is open, revealing the bubbling fountain. A man stops in front of it to let his dog drink. Once they leave, I head over. When I reach the fountain, I bend over and cup some water with my hands, wetting my face. Then, I take a long drink from the fountain. Immediately, I feel much better.

“That's my fountain!”

I look up, startled to see a girl about ten years old giving me the meanest scowl. She is dressed in a Sicilian folk costume and even wears a scarf over her head. And I thought I was overdressed in this heat. Black curls peek out from either side of her kerchief. Her hands are clenched into fists and rest on her hips. She is beyond adorable, and I cannot help but laugh out loud.

“What's so funny? And didn't you hear me? That's my fountain. Go!” The girl stomps over to me, pointing her index finger into the distance.

“
Va bene!
All right.” I hold my hands up in resignation. “No need to get so upset. I thought this was a public fountain and anyone could drink from it. I'm new to town.”

“Well, no one is supposed to drink from it. It belongs to this hotel. I would get in trouble too if they caught me drinking from it or filling my pitcher.” She pulls out from a deep pocket in her skirt a terra-cotta pitcher, much like the ones that are sold as typical Sicilian souvenirs. She then looks around her, making sure no one has seen her, before she puts the pitcher back into her pocket. I can't help but think that those extra deep pockets were sewn that way for a reason and wonder what else she is concealing in them.

I don't believe her claims that the hotel does not want anyone drinking from the fountain, but for her sake, I play along.

“It's our secret.” I press my lips tightly together and with my right hand gesture as if I'm locking them. I then put my imaginary key into my cleavage, which causes the girl to erupt in giggles.

“You're funny—and pretty.” She stares up at me.

“
Grazie.
You're pretty too. Do you live near here?”

“Si.
On the beach.”

She doesn't look like she comes from a wealthy family. I cannot imagine how they would be able to afford to live in one of the houses that overlook the beach, which is what she must be alluding to.

“You must have a nice big house.” I smile.

“No. We live
on
the beach in a tent.”

I suddenly feel bad for having made the nice house comment, but she doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact that her home is in a tent.

“Is that where your family is now? Why aren't you with them?”

“They're out working. I'm supposed to be working, too, but it's so hot today that I needed a break and wanted to fill my pitcher with water. That's when I saw you drinking from my fountain.”

“Wow! Your family must be very proud of you for working and helping them with money.”

She nods her head.

“So what work do you do?”

Her face grows serious, and she looks down at her feet. “Different things.”

Even though I'm dying to know exactly what kind of work this little girl is doing, her sudden sad expression along with the deep pockets in her skirt confirm my suspicions that she must be a pickpocket. Not wishing to make her feel any more uncomfortable, I change the subject.

“My name is Sarina. What's yours?”

“Isabella. I'm named after one of the Spanish queens. My family says our ancestors came from Spain, and there's a good chance we are even royalty. Someday, I'm going to be a queen.” She is kicking up the pebbles on the ground, and her face glows now, no doubt from her dream of becoming queen someday.

“You will make a good queen. I can tell by how you stood your ground and had no problem telling me this fountain was yours.”

Isabella nods her head.

“I should get going. You wouldn't happen to know of any hotels that are hiring maids, would you, Isabella?”

She ponders my question for a moment, then shakes her head no. I'm tempted to ask her what her parents do, but if they are also professional pickpockets I don't want her to feel ashamed again.

“Come to the beach some time. You can help me make the castle I will live in when I'm queen.”

It takes a moment for me to realize she means a sand castle.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Our tent is red. It's the only red one of the tents on the beach.”

“There are more?”

“Yes.”

I'm surprised that the town police or even some of the hotel proprietors with hotels on the beach don't kick them out. Even though the beach isn't private property, I could still see the hotel owners being concerned that the squatters could turn off their guests. It's obvious Isabella and her family are vagrants.

“Red. I'll remember that. You have a nice day, Isabella, and be careful.” I pat her head.

“Of what?”

“It's always good to be careful.”

“Okay. Bye, Sarina.”

I wave and begin walking away.

“Sarina, wait!” Isabella runs after me.

“If you can't find any other fountains, it's okay if you drink from mine. Just don't tell anyone else.”

I touch the side of her face. “That's sweet of you, Isabella.
Grazie mille!
”

Isabella returns my smile, then skips away. I can hear her singing a popular nursery rhyme. I can't help thinking that while she is still a child, she has been forced to be an adult by stealing for her family. I had thought I wouldn't encounter poverty in a place as wealthy and beautiful as Taormina, but I see now how foolish I was for entertaining such an idea.