Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop (5 page)

“And you as well,” Claudia said, smiling warmly. She noticed Veronique had an accent that didn't seem completely Italian, but she couldn't quite place it.

Sorella Agata waited until she was certain Veronique was out of earshot before saying, “You must forgive her . . . How do you say in English . . . enthusiasm?”

“Yes, enthusiasm.”

“You must forgive her abundant enthusiasm. She still has a lot to learn, but she is a bright young woman. I have high hopes for her.”

“I'm sure. You do not mind that I would like to talk to her and a few of the other workers—just to get their experiences as well?”

“No, that's perfectly fine.”

Claudia bit into one of the anise cookies. “Oh, these are to die for! And they just came out of the oven!” She closed her eyes, savoring the cookies' sweet licorice flavor from the anise oil.

Sorella Agata smiled, pleased that her intention of surprising Claudia with the warm cookies had worked.

“I thought you might like these with your espresso. They have an—”

“Anise extract. Yes, I can taste it. They're heavenly.”

“
Grazie.
We actually use anise oil here instead of extract. I feel its essence is purer and imparts a stronger flavor.”

“Anise oil. Interesting.” Claudia scribbled on her pad.

“So I was thinking we could start with the pastries first, then proceed to biscotti and cakes, and cover the specialized desserts like
gelati
and
granite
last. Oh, I forgot my recipe book.” Sorella Agata began to get up, but Claudia stopped her.

“Actually, Sister, I would like to start with your story—the history of the pastry shop, how you fell in love with pastry making, and of course a little about your life.”

“But we have a lot of recipes to cover.”

“Yes, but as I mentioned to you in my e-mails, your story is important for this book, too. I don't want this to just be a straight recipe book. People who know about you and what you have done with this pastry shop are fascinated. I not only want to share with the world your wonderful pastries, but also the inspiration behind them as well as your passion for what you do. I know I've only just arrived here today, but I sense there is a strong familial bond between the sisters and even the lay workers you employ in your kitchen. I want this book to convey the intimate story behind the pastries and the love you all share for them.”

Sorella Agata's face looked pensive. “I see. I am touched you could see all of that since you only just arrived today.”

“I am a writer. It's my job to be observant.” Claudia winked at Sorella Agata before reaching into her messenger bag and producing a tape recorder.

“So if you are ready, Sorella, let's begin.”

Sorella Agata finished the last of her espresso. Folding her hands in her lap, she said, “I am ready whenever you are, Claudia.”

“Where did your inspiration for pastries come from? Naturally, as a nun here I know you would've had no choice but to help with the shop. But what I want to know is your true inspiration for taking this shop and turning it into the success it is today. I want to know when it was that your passion for the art of pastry making began.”

Sorella Agata took a deep breath. “Well, it all started with a young woman by the name of Rosalia. I guess you can say she was my muse.”

3

Lulus

SICILIAN CREAM PUFFS

 

 

 

 

R
osalia was back home. Her family surrounded her: Mamma and Papà, her older brother, Luca, and her little sister, Cecilia. Rosalia hopped up and down while her family held hands and danced the
tarantella,
circling around her first in one direction, and then in the other. Sicilian folk music played, and when the tempo picked up her family danced even faster, closing the circle in on Rosalia—her cue to switch places with another family member. Her eyes locked onto Luca's and in a split second they made the switch. Now her brother was the one they circled around. Rosalia, her parents, and Cecilia could not stop laughing. Whenever Luca was in the center of the
tarantella
circle, he made a spectacle of himself as he contorted his expression into various silly faces and danced like a madman.

Rosalia laughed harder and harder even as a fierce wave of vertigo took hold. But soon her laughter became a piercing shriek as she felt herself pulled out of her family's embrace and sucked into a dark hole.

“Rosalia! Rosalia! Wake up, my dear girl. It is just a dream. You are here at the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela. You are safe now.” Madre Carmela stroked the young woman's long bangs, which were wet with perspiration, off her forehead. Her lush dark locks were braided, reminding Madre Carmela of two shiny pieces of black licorice. Working in the pastry shop for so many years, she had made a habit of comparing everything in life to food.

Rosalia's gaze wandered around the room. Then her eyes met Madre Carmela's. She stared at her for a moment, but once familiarity set in she exhaled a long sigh.

“Are you hungry? I've brought you something very special today.” Madre Carmela left Rosalia's bedside and went over to the dresser, where a bowl covered with a linen napkin sat.

Curious, Rosalia sat up in bed, straining her neck to see what delicacies the good nun had brought her today. These past few weeks, since Madre Carmela and the other sisters had found Rosalia by the cave, her only comfort had been in the daily sweets they brought to her. She had always loved her mother's baked goods, but what the sisters had here was a whole new world of pastries Rosalia had never heard of. It was almost like La Festa dell'Epifania, the Feast of the Epiphany, where La Befana—or the good witch—brought gifts to all the small children. Rosalia remembered that her parents were always careful to save their money lest hard times fall on them. But they always managed to ensure that La Befana brought gifts to their children. The presents ranged from the ripest, largest oranges or pears to pistachios, almonds, and sweet dates to a shiny new red ball for Rosalia and a perfectly chiseled wooden car for Luca to race. One year, little Cecilia even received a porcelain doll that came all the way from Palermo, Sicily's capital. Though Rosalia was no longer a little girl, she still felt that same sense of excitement whenever the nuns unveiled their pastries.

Madre Carmela brought the covered bowl over to Rosalia. A subtle, sweet aroma reached Rosalia's nose. Her mouth watered in anticipation of whatever culinary surprise Madre Carmela had for her today. Instead of waiting for the sister to unfold the napkin, Rosalia pulled it back herself and almost gasped when she saw what delights were in store for her. Puffy clusters of dough in vanilla and chocolate were piled one on top of the other to form a misshapen pyramid. Chocolate and vanilla cream oozed from a few of the pastries.

“Ha-ha! I see you couldn't wait.” Madre Carmela gently teased Rosalia, who quickly looked up, her cheeks turning the same hot pink hue as the sugar roses the nuns had painstakingly created this morning for a wedding cake.

“That's all right, my child. I'm happy to see you are feeling more comfortable here. Go ahead. Have as many as you like.”

Rosalia wondered which one she should try first—the chocolate or the vanilla. She'd always loved anything vanilla, so she opted for one of those first. Instead of taking a small, tentative bite out of the pastry, as she would have done her first few weeks at the convent, she popped the whole sweet at once into her mouth, eliciting another hearty laugh from Madre Carmela. But this time, Rosalia wasn't embarrassed. She closed her eyes, savoring the pastry's airy, flaky crust and the rich sweetness of the vanilla cream. Her sadness over her dream was quickly dissipating.

“What are they called?” Rosalia asked in a soft voice as she took a bite out of one of the chocolate pastries.

Madre Carmela was surprised. The girl had only spoken a few sentences since they found her. She mostly nodded or shook her head whenever Madre Carmela or the other nuns asked her a question. Sometimes, Madre Carmela had been able to coax a small smile out of her, but that was it. This week marked a month since they had rescued Rosalia. Madre Carmela was beginning to worry she might not ever get through to the terrified young woman. Her hope had been in the pastries. Whenever Rosalia ate one of the shop's creations, Madre Carmela detected a flicker of light in her eyes. Now at last it appeared that the sweets had managed to crack through Rosalia's shell.

“They are called
Lulus
.”

“
Lulus?
”

“
Si.
You'll never forget that silly name.” Madre Carmela smiled before continuing. “They are
bignè
or cream puffs, but these are Sicilian cream puffs, and they are baked. When we fry
bignè,
they are known as
sfinci
.”

“I remember my mother used to make
sfinci
.” Rosalia's eyes filled once more with sadness.

Fearful that she would lose her again, Madre Carmela returned to the subject of the
Lulus
. “As you tasted, they're filled with cream—vanilla in the lighter ones, and chocolate hazelnut in the chocolate puffs.”

“They are very delicious.” Rosalia took another chocolate one. As she ate, her brows creased together, and her eyes held the vacant stare Madre Carmela had become accustomed to seeing when she entered Rosalia's room. She couldn't help wondering what thoughts were flashing through the young woman's mind.

“
Si,
Rosalia. They are very delicious. I knew you would love them. I am so overjoyed you are feeling better. If you want, you can come down to the kitchen later and watch me make a few of our pastries.”

Rosalia didn't seem to hear Madre Carmela. She had lost her again. Just as Madre Carmela's spirits began to sink, Rosalia said, “Why hasn't my family come to see me?”

“Your family?”

Rosalia nodded her head. “Where are they?”

“Rosalia, we haven't been able to notify your family. You haven't remembered your surname, and it seems like there are fragments of your memory that are missing. I, and the other sisters, have asked you a few times about your family and where you live. At first, I thought it was just that you weren't feeling well enough to tell us, but later I could see you were struggling to try to remember. You've forgotten all of this?”

The past few weeks were mostly a fog for Rosalia. She did remember the nuns rescuing her by the cave and how weak and sore she had felt. Her body had ached terribly. She remembered Madre Carmela and the wonderful sweets she brought her every day. Suddenly, visions of the nuns sitting at her bedside, sponging her body, and feeding her spoonfuls of minestrone came back to her. They had talked to Rosalia, but their words were a jumble. She even remembered they had prayed aloud for her. Their prayers would often wake her, and at night their prayers would lull her to sleep as she watched the nuns fingering each bead of their rosaries.

“Rosalia, if you remember now your surname and where your family lives, I can let them know right away you are safe.” Madre Carmela looked at Rosalia, concern filling her large, almond-shaped eyes.

Rosalia liked the nun's face. She felt immediately comforted when she saw her, much as she had whenever her mother greeted her every morning. At the memory of her mother, a stab of pain pierced her heart. She had to return home right away. Her family must be worried sick about her.

“I live in . . .” Rosalia's mind went blank. Of course she knew where she lived. She had known no other home since she was a baby. It was the home she had dreamed of returning to every day since . . . No! She couldn't, wouldn't, let her mind go back to that horrible place. She tried once more. “I live in the town of . . .” Nothing.

“That is all right, my child. It will come to you. Don't worry.”

“How long have I been here now?”

“A month.”

“A month? I need to go home. My family must think the worst has happened to me.” Rosalia pressed her fingers to her forehead as if willing herself to remember her name and her family's town. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. Madre Carmela reached into her pocket and took out a handkerchief. She patted the tears dry, then sat down on the bed. Taking Rosalia's chin in her hand, she gently lifted it, forcing the girl to look her in the eyes.

“Please, don't pressure yourself. You have had a horrible ordeal. Your mind is just tired. Allow it to get more rest. Your memory will return.”

“How can you be so sure, Madre Carmela?”

The mother superior pursed her lips. She began to speak, but then paused. Since that first day when she had found Rosalia, a fierce protectiveness had taken hold of her. But she knew the day would come when she couldn't shield Rosalia from everything.

“Rosalia, when we brought you back to the convent, our first priority was feeding you since you looked so malnourished. I also wanted you to feel safe here, and I did not want to do anything that would cause you alarm. But by the end of the first week, I knew I had to have a doctor examine you, especially when Sorella Giovanna found a large bump on your scalp while she was washing your hair. Upon closer inspection, I saw your scalp was swollen, and it was badly bruised. So I asked the local doctor to come and examine you. Do you remember that?”

Rosalia shook her head.

Madre Carmela wasn't surprised that Rosalia had forgotten the doctor. At first, she had refused to let the doctor anywhere near her, though Madre Carmela and the other nuns had repeatedly assured the young woman he would not hurt her. But she had become like a wild beast, shrieking and trying to evade capture by its predators. She had run from one corner of the room to the next, looking for an escape. The doctor had been forced to tranquilize her with a sedative. Once she was unconscious, he had examined her. Madre Carmela had remained in the room, but had asked the other nuns to leave. Though she had already seen the bruises and cuts that covered Rosalia's entire body, she had still winced when the doctor removed her nightgown so that he could fully examine her.

The doctor had confirmed Madre Carmela's suspicions. Rosalia had been severely beaten, and her head injury was most likely the result of being hit with a blunt object. Rosalia had a concussion, and he believed that was the cause of her memory loss. He had assured Madre Carmela that Rosalia's memory would return.

“Rosalia, the doctor confirmed for us that you were badly beaten. Someone hit you in the head, and you suffered a concussion. That is why you are having problems now with your memory. But the doctor believes your memory loss is temporary.”

“So I will have my memory back?”

“He believes so.”

“Is that why I have been so dizzy?”

“You have been dizzy?”

“It comes and goes.”

“
Si,
the concussion must be causing the vertigo as well.”

“What will happen to me if I don't remember where my family lives?”

“You will. Please, Rosalia. Place your trust in God.”

“But what will happen to me?”

“You will live here with the sisters and me.”

Madre Carmela's words seemed to calm Rosalia for the moment.

“All I want you to focus on now is getting stronger. And I think you are ready to leave your room and explore the grounds of our convent. We have a vast library. I'm sure you can find a few books you will enjoy reading. And our courtyard is beautiful. I have been bringing you flowers from our gardens every day.” Madre Carmela gestured to a simple white vase filled with miniature pink rosebuds. “I thought you might like roses since your name begins with Rosa.”

A memory suddenly returned to Rosalia. Her father brought her roses from her mother's garden every year for her birthday. He would tie them with a purple ribbon. Purple was her favorite color. That she remembered. And there was something her father used to say when he presented the flowers to her. What was it? “Beautiful roses for my beautiful rose.”

“I remember. My father always gave me roses for my birthday.”

“See. Your memory
is
coming back. Now just rest.” Madre Carmela placed a kiss on Rosalia's forehead and turned to leave.

“
Grazie,
Madre Carmela.”

“You don't need to thank me, Rosalia.”

“Madre, you mentioned earlier that I might be able to come to the kitchen and watch you bake. If you are not too busy now, I would very much like to see how you make your pastries.”

Madre Carmela's face beamed. “Now would be the perfect time.”

With the help of Madre Carmela, Rosalia carefully stepped out of bed. It felt strange to have her bare feet touch the cold floor. She had been lying in that bed for so many weeks now. Letting Madre Carmela wrap her arm protectively around her back, Rosalia slowly stood up. Though her legs felt shaky, she knew she had to push herself to regain her strength, and that wasn't going to happen if all she continued to do was lie in bed. Her family was waiting for her, and she was not going to let them down.