Stella Mia Page 7

  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 povert
y in a place as wealthy and beautiful as Taormina, but I see now how foolish I was for entertaining such an idea.

  Sighing deeply, I smooth out the wrinkles that formed in my clothes from sitting so long on the bus, and make my way into the entrance of the first hotel where I will inquire for work. I wish I could just relax my first day in Taormina and stroll through the town. Maybe even take the aerial tramway that leads to the beaches. But I know it’s more important for me to find a job before my money runs out. There will be time to explore Taormina. After all, this is my home now.

  7

  Gli Zingari

  THE GYPSIES

  June 21, 1969

  A week has passed since I arrived in Taormina, and I still have not been able to find work. I’ve gone to a dozen hotels, but have been told they don’t need any other workers. I even offered to wash dishes or do any job that might be needed. But nothing. I have only been using my money when I feel faint from the little food that I have been able to steal from the many restaurants that have outdoor seating. Often, I take the leftovers before the waiters have cleared the tables.

  Today I have my sights set on the man who sells blood oranges and figs out of his cart. I can almost taste the juicy fruit as I stare longingly at them. My opportunity comes when a customer walks over to the cart and asks the vendor questions about the fruit. Walking quickly over to the cart, I drop a few coins on the ground. As I stoop over to pick them up, I am able to grab two blood oranges. I would have liked a fig too, but didn’t dare waste any more time. Picking up my coins, I quickly walk away.

  “Signorina! Signorina!” I ignore the shouts. Surely, no one is calling to me here. Besides, I have never been referred to as signorina. I am too young. But then I realize I am no longer a child but a young woman. “Signorina! Signorina, per favore, vieni qui.” I dare to glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with a woman standing in the doorway of a bread shop. She nods her head to me and motions with her hand for me to go over. Swallowing hard, I walk over to her.

  “Aspetta un attimo, signorina.” She smiles kindly as she asks me to wait before stepping into the bread shop. I return the smile, wondering what this woman wants from me.

  A few moments later, she comes back and is holding a white paper bag.

  “Per voi.” She hands the bag to me. I look questioningly at her, but she waves her hands in a hurried gesture toward me, indicating I should open the bag now. I peer inside, and the most heavenly aroma of bread reaches my nose. A few brioche rolls are inside the bag. My cheeks grow warm as I realize she must’ve witnessed my stealing the blood oranges from the street vendor.

  “Anytime you are hungry, please feel free to come by. I always have extra rolls.”

  “Grazie, signora. But I cannot take these.” I try handing the rolls to her, but she pushes them back toward me.

  “I know you are hungry. I saw you steal the fruit from the vendor a few minutes ago. And I’ve seen you before, walking by the restaurants and taking whatever food the patrons have left behind on their plates.”

  I’m too embarrassed now to say anything, but for some reason I don’t want this stranger thinking the worst of me. Mustering the courage, I say, “I never have stolen before in my life. But since coming to Taormina, I have not been able to find work. Once I do, I will leave money at all of the places from which I have stolen. I promise. And I will pay you back for your kindness today.”

  “That won’t be necessary, but thank you for the offer. I wish I could give you work in my bread shop, but my husband and I cannot afford to hire anyone at the moment. We do all the baking and selling ourselves. But I want to help you, so please do not feel ashamed to come by anytime you are hungry. How old are you anyway? You should be with your family, not on the streets begging for work and stealing. You must have family?”

  “I cannot go home. And I am not that young. I am seventeen,” I tell her.

  “I see.” The bread shop owner’s eyes convey sympathy. “I did not mean to offend you. I was merely expressing concern. My name is Angela.”

  We talk for a few more minutes, and then I take my leave, promising Angela I will return to visit her. I summon whatever energy I have left and head over to the aerial tramway that takes passengers to the beaches of Taormina. I know there are hotels and restaurants on the beaches. If I am not successful there, I might have to leave Taormina and find some other village where I can possibly find work. The thought saddens me since in the few days I’ve been here I have fallen in love with this beautiful village.

  I’m reluctant to pay the fare to buy a ticket for the tram, but I also do not want to risk getting caught sneaking on. How embarrassing would that be in front of all the wealthy tourists? So I shell out the necessary liras for the tram, cringing as I think about my ever-depleting funds.

  The view from the tram takes my breath away. Mount Etna looks so close. A ring of clouds crown the volcano’s mouth. The sun is glistening off the azure waters of the Ionian Sea. I overhear one of the tourists reading aloud to his wife from his guidebook that Taormina is about 820 feet above the sea. I’m amazed by the fact. At this height, I truly feel like I am in paradise. Tears fill my eyes. Although the past few days have been difficult, I am happy to be here. Somehow, I must find a way to make my new life work.

  Once the tram reaches the station, I descend and begin making my inquiries at the hotels that line the beach. Before stepping through the doors of the first hotel, I pray to God, asking him to let this be my lucky day.

  After several hours of going from hotel to hotel and receiving the same response that no workers are needed, I’m exhausted. It is now almost half past eight in the evening. There are more beachfront hotels, but I don’t think I can handle any more disappointment today. My stomach grumbles. I saved a few of the rolls Angela gave me. I take one out and eat it as I make my way down to the beach. Taking off my sandals, I traipse along the shoreline, staring at the ocean. Closing my eyes, I free my mind from all thoughts and worry and just let the balmy breeze blow through my hair. The water is quite warm, but still feels refreshing beneath the soles of my feet. Hundreds of pebbles are strewn on the sand.

  A fiery orange streaks through the horizon as the sun begins to set. I stop to stare at the vibrant colors. That is when music reaches my ears. I look off to the right and see a group of people dancing in a circle. Drawn to the music, I slowly walk toward the small crowd. As I get closer, I can make out the sounds of il friscaletto, which is an ancient folk flute from Sicily, and even the clashes of several tamburelli, or tambourines. Both are famous instruments in Sicilian folk music. Ever since I was a little girl, I always dreamed of owning a tambourine someday.

  I stand about twenty feet away, not wishing to disturb the group. They are all so busy dancing, singing, and laughing that at first they don’t notice me. I tap my foot in time to the song that is being sung by a woman, who looks to be in her mid to late thirties. She is quite pretty, and her long, thick, wavy hair hangs down to her waist. The song’s lyrics make me smile:

  “Non abbiamo molti soldi. Ma tutti abbiamo bisogno di essere felici sono cibo, riparo, e di amore. Finché abbiamo questi, soprattutto l’amore, siamo davvero i ricchi e saremo felici per sempre.”

  “We don’t have much money. But all we need to be happy are food, shelter, and love. As long as we have these, especially love, we are truly the rich ones and will be happy forever.”

  “Sarina!” A child’s voice startles me. It’s Isabella, the girl I met by the fountain my first day in Taormina.

  “Ciao, Isabella.” I return the hug she gives me. You would think we had known each other for years and are the best of friends.

  Glancing up, I see that the pretty dark-haired woman has stopped singing and is staring at me. In fact, everyone in the group is now looking at me. That is when I notice for the first time the red tents hoisted in the sand. This is Isabella’s family. A few of them are dressed in Sicilian folk clothes like the ones Isabella wore the first time I met her. Tonight,
she is only wearing a long sundress. I notice Isabella and the woman who was singing share the same jet-black hair color and thick, wavy hair. The singer must be Isabella’s mother.

  “Mama, this is the girl I told you about the other day. The one who drank from my fountain.” Isabella leads me to her mother by the hand.

  “How many times do I need to tell you that fountain is not yours?” her mother says sternly. But then she meets my gaze and smiles warmly. “Ciao. You are prettier than Isabella said you were. My name is Maria.”

  “I am Sarina. I’m sorry. I did not wish to disturb you. I merely wanted to hear more of your beautiful singing.”

  “È niente. Please, don’t apologize. Thank you for the compliment. You love music, too?” Maria is now plaiting Isabella’s hair. Suddenly, a memory of when my own mother braided my hair flashes through my mind. My face must register the pain I’m feeling since I see Maria looking at me with concern.

  Trying to keep my tone light, I answer, “Yes, I love music very much. I like to sing, too, but I am not as good as you.”

  “As artists, we are always toughest on ourselves. Let someone else be the judge of your talent. Why don’t you sing for us now?”

  I’m surprised to hear her refer to singers as artists. I never thought of myself, or any singer, that way before. But I guess she is right. There is a certain artistry in singing and when one writes his or her own lyrics. My thoughts keep me from responding to her question.

  “Are you all right, Sarina? Or are you just too embarrassed to tell me you don’t want to sing in front of a group of strangers?”