Domenica quickened her pace to make it to the dance floor on time. A large crowd had formed around the lip of the stage to watch. They wore painted masks decorated with crystals and pearls, a Carnevale tradition. The older folks wore simple velvet masks tied with a satin ribbon, leaving the sparkle to the young.
Domenica tightened the laces on her bodice as she joined the dancers. Her petite figure was shown off to its best advantage in the white blouse with full sleeves and the traditional red skirt cinched tight at the waist.
The Cincotto brothers pulled Domenica into their circle. The whisk of the drums, the lilt of the violin, and the jubilant trills of the horns scurried the dancers into formation. Domenica lifted the sides of her full skirts, and with a simple chassé, she beckoned the Cincottos to follow her in the box step.
“Get ready to fly, Domenica,” the elder Cincotto promised.
Domenica laughed. “Don’t drop me, Mauro.”
A group of men stood on the edge of the dance floor. One of the men was only half listening to the conversation in the group when his eyes fell upon Domenica Cabrelli. The man loosened the ribbons on the back of his mask and let it fall around his neck to get a better look.
Domenica stood center stage. She raised her arms, forming a wedding-ring stance, and spun in a pirouette. The layers of her skirt twirled in a full circle, revealing her shapely legs. Mauro lifted Domenica off the ground. The lone plait of her brown hair snapped like a whip.
The stranger pushed his mask up over his eyes and watched the dancer as she sailed through the night air.
* * *
“Your parents are at the gelato stand,” Amelia LeDonne said as she passed Domenica. “The band is going on break. Next up, Bergamasca. Twenty minutes.” She tapped her wristwatch.
Domenica made her way through the crowd. She had forgotten how hungry she was as she inhaled the scents of sausage, peppers, and onions on the grill.
The line was too long for a sandwich, so Domenica stopped at the fig stand. The operator spun the figs on sticks over the fire. The special treats served during the festival almost made the forty days of deprivation that followed worth the sacrifice. Fichi su un bastone, figs stuffed with prosciutto and cheese, were roasted on a stick over a hot coal fire until the skin of the fruit caramelized into a sugary crust. Children savored them because they were sweet, and parents encouraged the children to eat them because there would be no meat consumed until the fast was broken on Easter Sunday. Domenica took a bite of the savory and sweet, closed her eyes, and chewed.
Customers formed a line at the bomboloni stand on the first day of February that did not end until the last day of Carnevale. Enormous tubs of dough were whipped by hand with large wooden spatulas from a combination of flour, yeast, and eggs, and artfully spooned into bubbling vats of hot oil until the globs exploded into weightless puffs of gold. The fried dough was lifted from the vats with open-mesh paddles, dredged in sugar, and served hot.
Down the boardwalk, two stout men pedaled the contraption that mixed the fresh ice cream. Their pedaling powered large metal beaters in a rotund barrel lined with rock salt. The cold custard was made with fresh cream, eggs, and a handful of crushed vanilla beans. Once the gelato was thick, it was ladled into a warm pizzelle cup and drizzled with melted chocolate that froze into delectable spikes as it hit the ice-cold mixture.
Domenica found her parents sitting with their house guests at a café table outside the gelato stand. She greeted the Speranzas da Venezia, Agnese and Romeo, her parents’ lifelong friends. The couple joined their family annually for Carnevale. Cabrelli and Speranza were expert gem cutters who forged a friendship years earlier on a trip to India when they were young apprentices learning their trade.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” Agnese said to Netta. Agnese was a trim redhead who wore a chic navy dress and a red straw hat.
Domenica wished she were wearing the latest fashion and not the village costume. “Thank you, Signora. I love your dress and hat,” she said as she gave Agnese a kiss on each cheek.
“Don’t forget me.” Speranza extended his cheek.
“Who is going to forget you?” Cabrelli joked. “They put your picture in the Vatican newspaper. They called you the greatest gem cutter in Italy.”
“Thanks to you.” Speranza smiled.
“I would never forget you, Signore, whether you were famous or not.” Domenica kissed Speranza on both cheeks.
Netta scooped the gelato with the chocolate that served as a spoon. “Taste,” she said to her daughter.
Domenica took a bite.