Carissima Read online

  Zia, who had gone into the kitchen while Megan and I were chatting, is back. She hands me a big bakery box. “I packed up a few biscotti and pastries for you to have at home.”

  “Oh. Great. Thanks,” I say with little enthusiasm. I take the box, which feels like it’s filled to the brim. My twenty-six-inch waist is no doubt going to expand while I stay with Zia over the summer. But I don’t want to disappoint her by turning away the sweets, and of course there’s her trademark wrath I’d like to avoid at all costs.

  Zia and I leave the bakery and walk S-L-O-W-L-Y. I know she’s older, but it’s still amazing just how slowly she is walking. Of course, all the shopkeepers who are out sweeping their sidewalks or talking to their deliverymen take the time to say hello to Zia, who repeats to each and every one of them, “This is my sister’s daughter, Pia. Si, si, the one all the way out in California.”

  Granted, California is on the other side of the country, but it amuses me how everyone has to make a point of asking “All the way out in California?” You’d think I had flown in from China. Maybe this is the New Yorker insularity I’ve always heard about. They expect the rest of the country to be like New York and can’t imagine living anywhere else.

  We finally turn onto 35th Street, where Zia lives. I mentally note how much longer it’s going to take for us to reach her home. Zia points out the row houses and reminds me which of her neighbors live where, forgetting that I most likely won’t remember them since I’d been so young when I first met them. She’s about to point out a lemon-colored house when she quickly drops her index finger as if she’s been burned and whispers, “Beady Eyes! They’re always out.” For some reason, she sounds really angered by this fact.

  I strain my neck a little to see whom she’s talking about and am startled to notice two heads turned toward us as their weasel-shaped eyes lock onto ours with great intensity. Their necks lean well past the driveway gate they’re standing behind. They don’t seem to care that we notice they’re ogling us. Suddenly, a third head pops into view—a massive German shepherd. He, too, stares at us. How bizarre! No wonder Zia is so mad. I want to laugh at the freakish scene before me, but the ultra-serious expressions on their faces intimidate me. I glance away, which doesn’t help because I can feel their penetrating gazes.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman.”

  “Hello, Antoniella.”

  The German shepherd barks in greeting and lowers himself back onto the ground, satisfied that it’s not a stranger passing his house. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s never seen me before.

  “Ciao, Gus.” Zia walks over to Gus, patting him on the head. He licks her hand and then looks away as he hears voices coming down the street. Gus’s ears twitch as he raises himself back up and perches his paws onto the gate.

  I wait for Zia to introduce me to the Hoffmans, but she doesn’t. They don’t seem to mind since, like their dog, their attention has been directed to the voices that are approaching.

  After we pass them, I ask Zia, “Why didn’t you introduce me?” “I don’t like them. That’s why. And I don’t want them knowing my business. Besides, I’m sure everyone has heard that my niece from California is coming to stay with me for the summer. Why should I pretend they don’t know when they do nothing but stand in front of their house all day, snooping on everybody? And the way they stare at you! That’s how they earned their nickname ‘Beady Eyes.’ They think they are better than the rest of us. Ahhh!!!” Zia shakes her fist in their direction, but now we’re well out of Beady Eyes’s sight.

  “You seem to like the dog.”

  “Si, si. Gus is different.”

  “But he stares at everyone, too, just like his owners.”

  “What does he know? He’s just a dog. He’s only copying their bad behavior.”

  I smile to myself at Zia’s rationale. She’s funny.

  We’re almost to the end of the street when I see a small crowd of people standing in front of an elaborate Italianate-style house.

  “What is going on at the Mussolini Mansion?” Zia quickens her pace, much to my surprise. All it takes is a bit of drama to make her walk faster.

  “The Mussolini Mansion?”

  “Signora Tesca owns that house. She’s rich and a little strange, but a very nice person. But she doesn’t tell you much about herself. All I know is that she is a widow with a grown son who hardly ever comes to visit. Povera! People are always gossiping about her.” Zia shakes her head and makes a little “tsk, tsk” noise with her lips. “The poor soul.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you call her house the Mussolini Mansion?”

  “Ah! Si, si. She has a villa in Rome that is across the street from where the Italian dictator Mussolini used to live. She’s very proud of this and has told several of the neighbors about it. Pazza!” Zia points to her head. In a flash, she has gone from feeling sorry for Signora Tesca to calling her crazy.

  “Who would be proud to have a house across the street from a dictator? Maybe if it were Sophia Loren’s house or Marcello Mastroianni’s, but Mussolini? Signora Tesca must’ve been a Fascist.” She whispers the word “Fascist” as if we’re still living in World War II times and Zia is afraid her notorious allegiance will be discovered.

  Though I majored in journalism, I also took several art history courses, including Roman Art and Architecture. I learned about Villa Torlonia, which Mussolini had rented from the Torlonia family. From the 1920s to 1943, the villa was Mussolini’s state residence. Now Villa Torlonia is a museum open to the public. I was impressed that Signora Tesca owned a villa across the street from this lavish estate.

  “All of the neighbors call her house the Mussolini Mansion. Of course Signora Tesca does not know this. Look at it. It is the biggest, fanciest house on Thirty-Fifth Street.” With a nod of her head, Zia gestures toward the house.

  She’s right. The Mussolini Mansion has no place among the cookie cutter row houses that line 35th Street and most of the blocks in Astoria. Calling it a mansion is a misnomer since the house is far from one, especially when you look at some of the McMansions that have become the norm of the twenty-first century in some suburbs. It is a beautiful residence despite its standing out like a sore thumb. I can’t help but wonder if the rest of the neighbors are also a little jealous of Signora Tesca’s home and wealth. I suspect even Zia is envious.

  Unlike the other semi-attached houses on the street, the Mussolini Mansion is completely detached. The two-story structure is built in the Italianate architectural style, featuring a flat roof and a small tower that’s reminiscent of the campaniles or belvederes seen in many of the more imposing buildings in Italy. The house is flanked by classical cornices and tall, angled bay windows. I can make out heavy drapery behind all of the windows, which I can’t help thinking is a shame since none of the natural light is entering the home. An elaborate wrought-iron gate wraps majestically around the house, but its beauty is marred by the overgrown grass behind it and the abundance of violet and white daisies leaning forward well past the gate, as if they’re begging to be picked by passersby. From the countless petals that are strewn on the ground below, I can tell many people have plucked the daisies.

  I look toward the backyard, which is clearly visible from the street, and I’m startled to see several stony white faces staring back at me. Marble Greco-Roman statues surround the small yard. A statue of a woman wearing an off-the-shoulder tunic and holding a small platter makes me laugh. Someone has placed an empty can of Budweiser on the platter. It would be easy to jump the low wrought-iron gate. I wouldn’t be surprised if trespassers are the norm in Signora Tesca’s yard. When you call this much attention to your property in a working-class neighborhood, the temptation to explore it is too great. A few broken columns lie on the ground, and even the sculptures that are intact look cracked from years of being exposed to the elements. Unfortunately, the overgrown grass and old statues detract a bit from the elegance of the Mussolini Mansion.

  We finally reach the s
mall crowd standing in front of Signora Tesca’s home. They’re straining their necks as if they even have a chance to catch a glimpse behind the heavily draped windows. A few of the neighbors are leaning over the gate, trying to see up the driveway.

  “Che cosa è successo?” Zia asks a man, who’s wearing a longshoreman’s cap and is nervously picking his teeth with a toothpick, what all the fuss is about in front of the Mussolini Mansion.

  Instead of answering Zia’s question, the man looks over to me and begins checking me out from head to toe, but his eyes never reach past my cleavage. I cross my arms over my chest, blocking his view. He quickly averts his gaze and clears his throat for a good long minute. I step back a few feet, afraid the gunk he’s been picking at between his teeth might come flying out and hit me in the face.

  “Is this your niece who came all the way over from California, Antoniella?”

  I mentally roll my eyes at the mention of the far-flung land of my home state.

  “Si, she just flew in today. Pia, do you remember Paulie Parlatone from when you first visited? He used to bring you and Erica lollipops?”

  I look at Paulie as he returns my stare. This time his eyes don’t wander from my face.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t. That was such a long time ago.”

  “Bahhh! Don’t sweat it!” Paulie waves his hand dismissively. “You were a kid. I wouldn’t expect you to remember. Where’s your sister?”

  The color drains from my face, and I return my gaze to the statue of the woman holding the platter with the Budweiser can. It’s eerie how the statues look as if they’re staring directly at me. I hear Zia mutter under her breath, “Stupido!” but it’s not too low to escape Paulie’s hearing.

  He suddenly remembers, slapping his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Pia. I forgot about Erica. I mean, I didn’t forget—it’s just it has been so many years since I saw the two of you together. Ughhh . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I glance back at Paulie, who’s now the one staring at the statues in Signora Tesca’s yard. He’s resumed picking at his teeth, scraping away nervously with the tiny stick.

  “Thank you,” is all I can manage to say.

  “So, did something happen to Signora Tesca?” Zia deftly changes the subject before Paulie can stick his foot in his mouth once more.

  “Nothing. But you’re not going to believe in a million years who is in her house.”

  “Who?”

  “Francesca Donata!”

  Zia lets out a loud laugh. “That’s what all the fuss is about? Scemo ! La verità, la verità per favore.” She continues laughing so hard, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “I am telling you the truth. Ciggy saw Francesca Donata get out of that Maserati that’s parked in the driveway and enter the house with three men. They must’ve been her bodyguards.”

  “Ciggy! Bah! Don’t tell me you all are taking the word of that ubriaco! Did you ask him how many drinks he’d had yet?” Zia shakes her head. “Come on!”

  Ciggy is one of the neighbors on 35th Street I do remember meeting when I visited Zia as a kid. He was hard to forget. He came into Antoniella’s Bakery every day with a big fat cigar always perched between his lips. He would make faces, causing my sister and me to laugh so hard. His bald, shiny head and boisterous voice only made him funnier in our eyes. He had a bulldog named Grumpy who was just as ugly as Ciggy, but Erica and I loved petting him and secretly feeding him cookies whenever Zia wasn’t looking. This was news to me now that he drank. Besides his visits to the bakery and Anthony’s Salumeria for his favorite heroes filled with prosciutto, capicollo, provolone cheese, and roasted red peppers, he was seen every day planted on his front stoop, smoking his cigars (hence his nickname of Ciggy). I don’t even know what his real name is. Grumpy was always lying by Ciggy’s feet in a comatose state, no doubt from all the cigar smoke fumes he was inhaling. Ciggy was such a permanent fixture on his stoop that when people walked by and didn’t see him in his usual spot, they rang his bell to make sure he hadn’t died. Everyone knew his routine, which only consisted of going to Zia’s bakery and Anthony’s deli as soon as they opened at eight a.m., returning home to eat outside on his porch, taking Grumpy for his late morning walk at eleven a.m., and then reading his newspaper until dinnertime. Dinner was the only meal he ate indoors. As soon as he was done with it, he returned to his stoop. Some nights, he even slept there.

  “You are all fools if you believe Ciggy! A big movie star like Francesca Donata would never be caught dead here! Manhattan, yes. Astoria, no!”

  “Maybe it was just someone who looked like Francesca Donata,” I chime in. Like Zia, I’m also skeptical that Ciggy has seen Francesca Donata. Zia’s right. Italian silver-screen star Francesca Donata is in the Olympian hall of movie gods like Sophia Loren, Liz Taylor, Ava Gardner, and Brigitte Bardot. She’d been the Angelina Jolie of her day, and I can never in a million years see Brangelina coming to Astoria except if they were filming a movie, which actually does happen on occasion since the Kaufman Studios are nearby in Astoria. But I’m sure once the day’s filming is over, Angelina and Brad Pitt take off to Manhattan to stay somewhere trendy like the Hotel Gansevoort in the Meatpacking District.

  “I admit, I didn’t believe it either when Ciggy first told me, but he saw Francesca early in the morning when he was going to your bakery, Antoniella, to buy his espresso. You know he’s had little, if anything, to drink that early in the morning when he first wakes up.”

  “Paulie, don’t be stupid! I’m sure he has a shot of whiskey before he makes his way over to my bakery. I never told anyone this because I don’t like to gossip, and if you repeat this, Paulie, I’ll come after you.” Zia makes a popular Italian gesture with her index finger, running it across her neck to indicate she’ll slice Paulie’s throat if he betrays her.

  Paulie holds his hands up. “Calm down, Antoniella. You know I don’t like gossip either.”

  “Hmmm!” Zia looks at him, knowing he’s probably the one who’s told the rest of the neighbors gathered in front of Signora Tesca’s house that Ciggy had spotted Francesca Donata. I’m surprised she’s decided to trust him with a secret she doesn’t want repeated. Then again, everyone knows Zia is a woman of her word, especially when her wrath has been invoked.

  “Whenever Ciggy comes into the bakery, he takes out those little liquor bottles they give you on the airplane and pours the liquor into his espresso.”

  “A lot of men like a few drops of sambuca in their espresso. So do I, and I’m not a drunk!” Now Paulie is the one laughing and shaking his head at Zia as if she’s overreacting.

  “It wasn’t just a few drops. He emptied both bottles into his cup of espresso. He always asks me to just fill the demitasse cup halfway. And sometimes he even asks for two cups of espresso.”

  Paulie lets out a low whistle. “His drinking must be getting worse. Okay, I give you that. Maybe he was seeing things. And why would Francesca Donata be visiting Signora Tesca, who doesn’t seem like the celebrity type even with all her money.”

  “Paulie, you’re finally starting to sound smart. There is no way Francesca Donata knows a mouse like Signora Tesca.”

  But just as Zia says this, a woman in the crowd yells out, “It’s her! It’s her! I saw her peek from behind the drapes on the second floor.”

  “I saw her, too!” several of the other neighbors yell out. Everyone is now staring up at the windows on the second story. But of course, no one is there.

  “Pazzi! You’re all crazy! Come on, Pia.” Zia stomps off.

  I follow Zia, but I can’t help glancing at the window that supposedly Francesca Donata had looked out from. How cool would that be if the Italian movie star really is here in Astoria?

  As I step off the elevator at Profile’s offices, celebrities who have graced the magazine’s covers greet me: George Clooney, Bono, Hillary Clinton, Michelle Obama, Paul McCartney, and others. Today is the first day of my internship. Though I keep telling my heart to stop its fran
tic racing, it’s not working. Besides my jitters, I’m also really excited. I’m finally going to get a glimpse into the magazine world I’ve dreamed of being a part of for so long. I take a deep breath before I push open the glass doors that lead to the reception area.

  The décor is swanky and ultra modern. Leather chairs in hues of deep plum and silver circle a cube-shaped glass coffee table. Even the receptionist’s desk is made out of glass. More framed Profile covers adorn the walls. I wait for the receptionist to look up and acknowledge my presence, but she doesn’t. After about two minutes, I finally speak up. “Excuse me, I’m—”

  “Andrew! These packages need to be taken to Susan.” The receptionist’s head finally shoots up as she yells at a young man racing by. He can’t be older than maybe twenty-three.

  “Don’t ask me to do it!” Andrew looks completely disgusted, as if she’s just asked him to clean the toilets.

  “Andrew! She’s been waiting for these packages all morning. She’ll have my head if she finds out they’ve been sitting here. I’ve called you twice about them already.”

  Andrew stops dead in his tracks. He makes his way slowly over to the receptionist and gets really close to her face as he says, “I’m no longer an editorial assistant. I’m sure you got the office memo announcing my promotion. If you’re so worried, why don’t you take them to her? You are a receptionist, after all.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, you spoiled brat!”

  “I’m a contributing editor. That’s who I am.” Andrew smirks, then makes eye contact with me as he quickly sizes me up from head to toe before walking away. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve passed his approval test. Something tells me I haven’t.

  “Can you believe that?” The receptionist finally addresses me. “Why, the nerve! I’ve been working for this company a lot longer than he has. Who the hell does he fuckin’ think he is?”

  Clearly, the contributing editor, I fantasize saying to her, but I remain silent even though I’m ready to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I’m also freaked out by what I’ve just witnessed, but I’m not sure what horrifies me more—the receptionist’s cursing in a professional environment or Andrew’s arrogance and lack of respect.