The line was too long for a sandwich, so Domenica stopped at the fig stand. The operator spun the figs on sticks over the fire. The special treats served during the festival almost made the forty days of deprivation that followed worth the sacrifice. Fichi su un bastone, figs stuffed with prosciutto and cheese, were roasted on a stick over a hot coal fire until the skin of the fruit caramelized into a sugary crust. Children savored them because they were sweet, and parents encouraged the children to eat them because there would be no meat consumed until the fast was broken on Easter Sunday. Domenica took a bite of the savory and sweet, closed her eyes, and chewed.
Customers formed a line at the bomboloni stand on the first day of February that did not end until the last day of Carnevale. Enormous tubs of dough were whipped by hand with large wooden spatulas from a combination of flour, yeast, and eggs, and artfully spooned into bubbling vats of hot oil until the globs exploded into weightless puffs of gold. The fried dough was lifted from the vats with open-mesh paddles, dredged in sugar, and served hot.
Down the boardwalk, two stout men pedaled the contraption that mixed the fresh ice cream. Their pedaling powered large metal beaters in a rotund barrel lined with rock salt. The cold custard was made with fresh cream, eggs, and a handful of crushed vanilla beans. Once the gelato was thick, it was ladled into a warm pizzelle cup and drizzled with melted chocolate that froze into delectable spikes as it hit the ice-cold mixture.
Domenica found her parents sitting with their house guests at a café table outside the gelato stand. She greeted the Speranzas da Venezia, Agnese and Romeo, her parents’ lifelong friends. The couple joined their family annually for Carnevale. Cabrelli and Speranza were expert gem cutters who forged a friendship years earlier on a trip to India when they were young apprentices learning their trade.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” Agnese said to Netta. Agnese was a trim redhead who wore a chic navy dress and a red straw hat.
Domenica wished she were wearing the latest fashion and not the village costume. “Thank you, Signora. I love your dress and hat,” she said as she gave Agnese a kiss on each cheek.
“Don’t forget me.” Speranza extended his cheek.
“Who is going to forget you?” Cabrelli joked. “They put your picture in the Vatican newspaper. They called you the greatest gem cutter in Italy.”
“Thanks to you.” Speranza smiled.
“I would never forget you, Signore, whether you were famous or not.” Domenica kissed Speranza on both cheeks.
Netta scooped the gelato with the chocolate that served as a spoon. “Taste,” she said to her daughter.
Domenica took a bite.
“We can’t wait to see you dance,” Agnese said.
“Come see the Bergamasca after I’ve warmed up. Hopefully Mauro Cincotto still has the strength to lift me.” Domenica fluffed her skirts. “Don’t want to waste all your hard work on this costume, Mama. Ciao.”
Domenica loosened her braid as she walked through the crowd back to the stage. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves. She had thought about bobbing her hair, as was the fashion, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“This is how I remember you,” a voice said from behind her.
Carnevale was a magnet for riffraff, parlor snakes, and worse. Domenica quickened her pace to lose the man in the crowd, but he circled in front of her wearing a mask.
He was tall and slim with a head full of black curls. He loosened the ribbons, removed his mask, and revealed his face. “Do you remember me?”
Domenica may not have recognized his nose, his regal forehead, and the planes of his face, but it was his smile that she would know anywhere. “Silvio Birtolini!” She threw her arms around him.
“I didn’t think you’d know me.”
“What happened to you? I was the tall one. By about a foot.”
“You’re not much taller now than you were when I left the village.”
“When you left, I stopped growing,” she joked.
“It was a devastation to lose me, wasn’t it?”
“You’ll never know.”
They laughed.
“Nineteen years. Can you believe it?” Silvio sighed. “I thought for sure you had forgotten me.”
“I would never forget my best friend.”
The cherub face of Silvio’s youth was gone. No longer did he have the round features of the carved putti that decorated the altar of San Paolino; instead, he had the height and athletic build of the statue of Saint Michael, who could hardly be contained in the arch of his shrine. Every girl who ever prayed at San Paolino was in love with Saint Michael, and now Silvio Birtolini had become him. Silvio’s face was angular, his nose strong; the only remnant of the little boy she knew was his eyes. They were the same soft dark brown velvet color, with the same tinge of sadness. Domenica was certain only she could see what his eyes revealed because she knew the source of his pain. “How did you find me?”
“I was looking all over for you.”
“You know where I live.”
“Is there still an orange door?”
“You remember! Papa painted it for Carnevale. Freshened up the whole place.”
“Are there still chestnuts in the garden?”
“There was a big harvest this year.”
“That was going to be my next stop.”
“You only want to see the things that haven’t changed.”
“But everything has. You and I and the stable behind the church. They’ve made our home into a garage for automobiles. Not a horse to be found.”
“They sent the horses to live up on the mountain. At least that’s the word in the village.”
“When we were children, most families had a horse and no one had a motorcar. Automobiles were too expensive. And rare. Soon every family will have a motorcar and no one will be able to afford a horse,” Silvio said.
“You sound like Papa. How long are you here?”
“Just tonight.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Before I leave town, I’d like to meet your husband.”
“So would my mother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not married.”
“Signora Zanella said you—”
“You don’t know? Signora Zanella, poor thing. She makes up stories. She believes she’s a countess that owns the Banca d’Italia.”
“She doesn’t?”
“She doesn’t even have an account.”
“You’re not married?” Silvio took a step back and looked at her.
“I have a profession. I’m a nurse. I work for Dottore Pretucci.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He was close to our age when he sewed you up. He helped me become a nurse.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re not married. Are you a nun?”
“Does this look like a habit?”