“Ciao, Domenica.” Silvio, having expressed himself so intimately to his best friend, was overwhelmed by what he had done. “I must go.” He climbed down the steps; when he reached the street, he looked up at her and smiled, holding the side of his face where the rock had landed because it still hurt. “I will return for you someday,” he said, so softly only the moon heard him.
Domenica waved goodbye before she pulled the shutters closed, lowered the window, and secured the latch. Through the slats, she watched Silvio Birtolini walk away.
It would be so much easier to fall asleep now that her belly was full. What would she ever do without Silvio Birtolini’s friendship? The old people said that every person was replaceable, but in her young life, that wasn’t true. There was no replacing Silvio Birtolini, because if there were, she would have already done it. He was the only friend she had whom she trusted with her secrets and her dreams. Silvio had the cunning to hunt for the buried treasure, and he was the only friend she liked enough to share the loot with once they found it. A true friend would steal for you.
There was a chance Silvio was right, that the pirates didn’t bury the riches in the dunes as she imagined, but instead hid the jewels in one of the churches. It was also possible the pirates had buried the treasure in the pine groves or found a spot up on Pania della Croce. She thought about this long enough to eliminate some localities that carried ancient lore. The pirates couldn’t have gotten as far as Monte Tambura, because they made it back to the ship docked in Viareggio in the same day. It was possible that they hiked up to Rifugio Rossi, left their things in the hut, and went farther up the trail to bury the valuables, retrieving their essentials on the way back down to the ship. There were so many options, so many places the pirates might have hidden the treasure. She doubted she could find it without Silvio.
Domenica had lost her partner, and when it came to finding buried treasure, she knew she needed one. The obvious choice for a replacement was her brother, but Aldo wasn’t bright, and he was lousy at following instructions, especially when they came from her, so it was unlikely she could bring him in on her plan.
The thought of going up the mountain alone made her uneasy. Domenica had heard the stories of Uomo Morto, the rock formation on the crest of the ridge on the mountaintop that looked like the face of a dead man. Only God could see his expression, she’d heard the boys in the village say. It was a massive image, one that was so startling, travelers had fallen off the edge of a nearby mountain when they came upon it. It must be a horrible thing! It must be avoided. If she ever had to travel north to Milano or Bergamo or Cremona, she would not go over the mountain; instead, she would stay close to the water, following the sea all the way north. She would not climb the marble hills, because she did not want to see the face of death.
Domenica turned over onto her side to sleep. She couldn’t hold her eyes open any longer to think. She licked her lips. Lingering there was the sugar from the bomboloni. She licked them again as her head nestled into the pillow. She was drifting off to sleep when she realized it wasn’t the sugar from the pastry that remained on her lips; it was something else entirely. It was the sweet taste of Silvio Birtolini’s kiss.
* * *
“Domenica!” her mother, Netta, called down to the street from the window. “Take two pails. One for Signora Pascarelli and one for me.”
Domenica looked up and waved to her mother. “Yes, Mama.” Domenica was glad her mother was speaking to her after the trouble with Aniballi, even if it was just to send her down the promenade for fresh water.
“I’ll make the eggs when you get back,” her mother promised before closing the shutters.
Instead of grabbing the pails, Domenica darted back into the house and up the stairs at a clip. Domenica found her mother in the kitchen, ran to her, and embraced her. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
Netta held her daughter close and kissed her on her head. “Now go,” she told her.
Domenica flew back down the stairs. Outside the gate, Domenica unhooked the wooden pails from the post. She had turned to take the empty pails down the promenade when she saw a bundle on the step.
She placed the pails on the ground and picked up the bundle. It was addressed to her! Signorina Cabrelli. She opened the accompanying envelope carefully.
Cara Domenica,
You are a good friend. Thank you. The regalo was blessed by Don Carini.
Signora Vietro and Silvio
She untied the bundle, wrapped in clean burlap. Domenica lifted her apron out of the cloth. A small regalo wrapped in a bit of cloth was tied to the bundle with a ribbon. She untied the ribbon, setting the gift off to the side.
Domenica unfurled her apron. It was as white as the sun and the pristine clouds that covered it. There was no trace of Silvio’s blood anywhere on the garment! Even the patches were clean! She pulled the apron on over her head and fastened the button behind her neck. She buried her hands in the pockets. The pressed fabric held the scent of lemon and starch. Domenica realized how much she had missed her apron and its pockets when she no longer had one to wear.
Domenica sat down on the steps and opened the package. A small gold medal tumbled out. She examined it closely. Santa Lucia, the patron saint of vision, glittered in the morning light. She carefully wrapped the note and the medal in the cloth and placed it in her apron pocket. She picked up the empty pails and set off to the promenade to fill them with fresh water.