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Once we were back on the road Pippo asked me, “How much do you know about Caltabellessa?”
“Only what I heard from my aunt Rosie over the years,” I admitted, slightly ashamed that I hadn’t done more research before coming. “Her father left because there were no jobs and he wanted to make a better life for his family, but he never stopped loving his village. He told Rosie it was the most beautiful place he had ever laid eyes on, that food tasted better there, that the air always smelled of delicious things to eat and to drink. That the streets were always filled with laughter and musicians and the most beautiful women you had ever laid eyes on.”
“What did you think of that?” Pippo asked me.
“I thought it sounded like a fantasy. Like the grass is always greener somewhere you will never be again.”
He rolled his eyes at my cynicism.
“You will have to see for yourself. It is an ancient village, your Caltabellessa, settled by the first people of the island, the Sicani, in one thousand BC.”
“You’re a historian?” I teased.
“I did my research for you. For Rosie. Shall I continue?”
“Please do,” I encouraged him warmly, worried I’d hurt his feelings again.
“It was a special place for the Sicani, a holy place, many say. There are two caves on top of the mountain where ancient rituals were practiced. It was eventually invaded by the Greek peoples. They say it is where the brilliant inventor Daedalus, the one who built the labyrinth, fled after escaping the Minotaur and King Minos. The legend says Daedalus built Caltabellessa like the maze of the labyrinth to be impenetrable to enemies. Because the city was so high on the mountain it felt separate from the rest of the world. But the Romans eventually sacked it and then so did the Byzantines and the Arabs and eventually the Normans came. There is a very large and beautiful castle on the top from when the Normans invaded in the eleventh century. That is the main reason the tourists come.”
“Are there many tourists?”
When he shook his head his jowls jiggled. “We would like to have many more, but we do not get so many on this side of the island. We get the more adventurous ones, also those looking for their ancestors, but most of the tourists visit Taormina on the eastern shore. The cruise ships stop there and give the visitors eight hours of Sicily before heading off to Greece or Amalfi. Though some developers have been buying land and making spas and golf courses for the rich Russians and the Chinese. But I like Americans. I wish more of you would come to the island. You must tell all of your friends.”
“I promise I will.”
“And you will give me a five-star rating on the Tripadvisor?”
“Absolutely. This has been a five-star journey so far.”
I was ready to close my eyes for the last part of the drive, but Pippo started rustling around in his bag and handed me a brown envelope, the same kind that came in the mail two weeks earlier, the same handwriting, except this one was addressed to me, care of Pippo Turturici. I slid my finger beneath the seal and a laminated photograph fell onto my lap. It used to hang in Rosie’s hallway with all of our school pictures. It was the only photograph she had of her mother, one taken in 1925 right before Serafina died. The boys in the picture, Cosimo, Vincenzo, and my grandfather Santo, looked like teenagers, almost as tall as their father. Serafina stared directly into the lens. I’d never thought much about this picture before. Despite knowing she was younger than me when she died, I still always thought of Serafina as old, matronly. But looking at this photo in a new light, I noticed her sharp cheekbones, her smooth skin, almost childlike, though there was nothing innocent about her eyes. Her stare was hard and timeworn. Her lips were full, not unlike my own. They formed a slash across her face. Not a scowl exactly, but more a look of displeased resignation.
I took one final look at the photo, Serafina’s eyes boring into my own, before I read Rosie’s script.
My darling girl. There’s another reason I wanted you to come all the way here. I didn’t want to tell you at first because I know you hate surprises and you’re in no mood for a real adventure. This trip is first and foremost for you. I want you to figure out if you can get any money from this tiny plot of land and use it however you need to solve your problems. More than anything I hope this time away will bring you back to your true self and get you back on your feet. But I’m also a selfish old broad and I have one favor to ask now that you are here.
There’s something that has never sat right with me about how my mother did not join us here in the States. I was always told she got sick, that she died of a flu. But as a girl I heard things I was never supposed to hear. I didn’t dare ask any questions. Children didn’t ask them back then. I know there is more to my mother’s story. I did some research while I’ve been stuck in my damn bed but no one in Sicily will really talk to me while I am still in the US. You gotta be there to get people to open up. I was hoping this would be something we could do together, but if I can’t figure it out for myself I need you to do it for me. I don’t know why it gives me peace now to ask you to do this, but like I said, I’m a selfish old broad.
I want you to find out what really happened to my mother.
FOUR
SERAFINA
1908–1910
Gio kept calling me “Mamma.” He’d never lived with another woman besides his own mother, and he simply didn’t know any other way to be. As the youngest son he’d grown up firmly attached to his mamma’s skirts and he was not ready to tear himself away.
We moved in together, into the small building across the back alley from my parents, the week of our wedding. The dirty, stinking space used to house chickens and the goat and it was so small you could clean it with one sweep of the broom. Its gypsum rock walls were covered in the thinnest of plasters, easily penetrated by rains in the winter.
My own mamma had insisted I was old enough to get married. Papa didn’t agree, but this was the one and only time his opinion didn’t matter to anyone but him.
“Chista è a zita,” Mamma said, her voice directed to the floor she was on her knees scrubbing even though it would never look clean. She would scrub that floor until her fingernails fell out. “I was thirteen when I married you. She is almost sixteen. She is a woman.”
Papa shook his head at that, like he didn’t believe I was even a teenager but still five years old, a little girl in lacy dresses baptizing my dolls in the town fountain with Cetti.
“We can send her away,” he begged. “To my aunt in Catania. She will be discreet. By the Holy Virgin I swear she will work with the sisters to find a family for the baby.”
“There is no other option, Santo. She is ruined now so she will marry Gio.” One of her babies wailed and Mamma dropped her rag so she could pick him up from the cradle in the corner. She rocked back and forth as she nursed and picked up the rag to wipe crumbs off the table. Papa didn’t lift a finger to help. I saw my future reflected back at me. School in Sciacca was already a distant memory.
