Stella Mia (8 page)

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.

Gli Zingari

 

 

THE GYPSIES

 

 

 

 

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:

“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?”

“I'm sorry. I did not hear you.
Si, si. Sto bene.
I am fine.
Grazie.
I am too tired to sing tonight, but perhaps another time?”

“
Va bene.
But you must come back. I am now curious to hear if your voice is as lovely as your features.” Maria pushes my hair back off my shoulders before she kisses me on either cheek. “Isabella told me you were looking for work at the hotels. Were you able to find any?”

I can't believe Isabella told her mother so much about me. Then again, she is just a child and was probably excited about meeting someone new.

“No, I have not been able to. I've been to almost twenty hotels now between the ones near the piazza and a few on the beach. But I have not finished inquiring at all of the beachfront hotels yet.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Sarina, but you look very pale. Have you eaten tonight?” Maria places her hands on my arms and forces me to meet her gaze.

“I ate at lunch, but I'm afraid to say I lost track of time and did not have a proper meal this evening. I ate a roll a little while ago, so I'm fine.” I feel my face flush slightly. I know Maria knows I'm pretending not to be hungry.

“Please, eat with us. There is plenty.” Maria takes my hand and leads me to a bonfire.

A man who looks to be around Maria's age and three teenage boys sit around the fire, holding skewers of fish over the flames. They are talking animatedly and laughing. The smell of the roasting fish makes my stomach grumble. They fall silent when they see Maria approaching with me. The teenage boys scan me from head to foot, making me feel more ashamed and uncomfortable. I can only imagine what I must look like. I have not paid much attention to my hair and clothes in the past week. I've been too preoccupied with finding work.

Maria addresses the older man. “Gianni, this is Sarina. She befriended Isabella in the piazza the other day. She is our guest tonight. Please give her one of those skewers of fish as soon as they are ready. Sarina, I will be right back. Please make yourself comfortable.” Maria walks away before I can protest and say I'll follow her wherever she is going.

I cannot believe she's left me here alone with this man and the teenage boys. I look for Isabella, but I see her off in the distance kicking a soccer ball to a boy about her age. Well, we're not completely alone. The other women in the group are just a few feet away. I know I am overreacting, but I have never been alone in the presence of one man, let alone several. As if sensing my unease, Gianni begins talking to me.

“How long have you been in Taormina?” Gianni looks at the teens and, with a slight nod of his head, they all return their gazes back to the fish they're roasting.

Feeling less self-conscious now that I'm not being gawked at, I begin to relax a bit.

“I've only been here for a week.”

“Sit down, Sarina. There's a rock behind me so you don't have to get sand all over your clothes.”

I walk behind Gianni and sit down on the rock. It feels good to be sitting after the long day I've had. He hands me one of the skewers of fish he's roasted.

“Prego.”
Gianni smiles.

One of the teenage boys looks at me and says, “My name is Tonio. I am Isabella's brother, and these are my cousins, Marco and Felice.” Tonio points to his cousins, who each give me a shy smile. I'm glad to know I am not the only one who feels awkward.

“I'm sorry, Sarina. I forgot to tell you who I am in relation to these thieves.” Gianni laughs and winks at the others. “I am Maria's husband and Isabella's father.”

“And my father as well unless you and Mama have been keeping secrets from me all these years.” Tonio nudges his father's arm playfully with his elbow.

“No, no. You are definitely my son. Your brash demeanor attests to that.” Gianni shakes his head, but the grin on his face shows he is just teasing Tonio.

“Do you read cards, too?” Felice asks me.

“Cards?” I ask, confused.

“The tarot,” Felice clarifies.

Of course, they are
zingari
—gypsies. When I met Isabella, the thought that perhaps she and her family were gypsies had not crossed my mind. I just assumed they were pickpockets. But their clothes are not shabby at all, and in addition to the fish that the men no doubt caught themselves, there are several loaves of bread and platters of fruit and vegetables on a blanket that is spread on the sand. Surely, they must have paid for some of this and not stolen it all. Now that I know they are gypsies, I am not surprised by all that they have. They must do fairly well reading people's fortunes.