Matelda squeezed her eyes shut and leaned forward as she gripped the church pew, inhaling the scents of beeswax and frankincense, which seemed to jolt her sense memory. Instead of praying in the silence between the distribution of Holy Communion and the final blessing, she scrolled through the hard drive of her brain back to the days when her parents, grandparents, and baby brother lived in the same house and walked together every Sunday to this church.
Bits and pieces of her grandfather’s India began to shake loose in Matelda’s mind. The miners chewed on honeycomb to stay awake when working long hours in the dark. Pigeon blood rubies were the color of ripe purple grapes. Pink clouds floated in a lapis sky.
At night, after the family ate dinner together, her parents would go for a walk, leaving her grandfather to tell the children a bedtime story. Pietro Cabrelli stacked pillows on the floor to represent the mountain, and wood blocks to represent the rocks from the mine. He would reach into his pocket for his handkerchief and press it against his face to dramatize the sweltering heat. He performed all the parts, using different voices for the characters, like an actor in a play. Cabrelli even became the elephant. He lurched around the room, swinging his arm back and forth to imitate the trunk of the beast.
“Matelda!” her friend Ida Casciacarro whispered as she gave her a gentle shove.
Matelda opened her eyes.
“You fell asleep.”
Matelda whispered back, “I was thinking.”
“You fell asleep.”
No use arguing with Ida. The pair sat together in the same pew for daily Mass, their routine set in stone like the fleur-de-lis tiles embedded in the granite floor of the church. They stood, bowed their heads, and blessed themselves as the priest cut an imaginary cross through the air. They genuflected together as the morning bells of Chiesa San Paolino pealed the same ancient Kyrie that summoned the women to Lauds when they were girls.
You didn’t need a clock to tell time in Viareggio; you lived by the bells and the baker. Umberto Ennico pulled trays of buttery cornetti out of the oven as Don Scarelli began the Mass. By the time the service was over, the puff pastries had cooled and Umberto had brushed them with an apricot glaze so they would be ready for pickup by the devout on their way home.
“Let’s stop for pastry and coffee,” Ida suggested, pulling her scarf over her head and tying it under her chin as the ladies walked together.
“Not today.”
“But it’s your birthday.”
“I’m sorry, Ida. Anina is coming over.”
“Well, another time, then.” Ida tilted her head back and examined her friend through her bifocals. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
Ida reached into her pocket and handed her friend a small parcel tied with a ribbon.
“Why do you do this?”
“Don’t get excited. It’s nothing.” Ida buried her hands in the sleeves of her wool car coat like the priest buried his hands in the sleeves of his cassock when he delivered a sermon. “Go ahead. Open it.”
“What’s this?” Matelda shook the white plastic vial of capsules.
“Probiotics. These will change your life.”
“I like my life.”
“You will like it better on probiotics. Don’t take my word for it. Ask your doctor. It’s all about gut health these days.”
“Why do you spend your money on me?”
“You’re impossible to buy for. You have everything.”
“Ida, if you don’t have everything you want by the time you’re eighty-one years old, you’re probably not going to get it.”
Ida gave her friend a quick kiss on each cheek before turning to hike up the steep cobblestone street to her home. The pink scarf slipped off Ida’s head, and her white hair ruffled in the wind. The Metrione/Casciacarros were hard workers, sturdily built people who worked in the silk mill when it was a big operation. Matelda remembered when her friend had black hair and sprinted up the hill after a long shift. When did we get old? Matelda wondered.
CHAPTER 2
The village of Viareggio was set on the shores of the Ligurian Sea, on the cusp of Il Tirreno Mare, south of the Gulf of Genoa and north of the Amalfi coast. The candy-colored villas with a view of the sea were shaded by a grove of pine trees with tall, spindly trunks topped by bouffants of green foliage. Viareggio Beach unfurled on the west coast of Italy like a rope of emeralds.
The scents of charred eucalyptus wood and sulfur lingered in the air as Matelda climbed the rickety steps to the boardwalk. Carnevale had officially ended the night before when the fireworks turned to ash in the black sky. The last of the tourists had left the beach before sunrise. The pink Ferris wheel was still. The carousel horses were frozen in midair. The only sound she heard was the flap of the tarps over the empty vendor stands.