The Good Left Undone(34)
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Domenica pushed the gate of Boncourso’s garden open and picked up a burlap sack full of chestnuts, one of several stacked under the pergola. The garden had changed since Domenica was a girl. The trunks of the chestnut trees had grown so thick over time, Domenica could no longer wrap her arms around them.
In summer, the garden was a hodgepodge of beauty and sustenance; red beach roses and yellow sunflowers grew among neat rows of summer endive, scallions, tomatoes, arugula, and peppers. Vines thick with grapes created a canopy over the pergola that provided shade when the gardeners took their lunch. In winter, the same pergola became a spot to sort dry beans and take in the faraway sun through the open roof of bramble.
Domenica hurried home with the sack of chestnuts. A few fell out onto the cobblestone streets, hitting the stones with a clatter. She didn’t stop to pick them up. She could see the fractured beams of the stage lights pull on through the trees.
Domenica called for her mother and father once she was inside the house, then remembered they were already at Carnevale. She hiked up the stairs quickly, dropped the chestnuts in the kitchen before taking the steps up to her bedroom two at a time. She ran a hot bath. She brushed her teeth as the tub filled. Soon steam rose from the surface of the water, fogging the mirror. Domenica sprinkled lavender oil into the bath before she slipped off her work clothes and eased into the water.
Her body ached. Her shoulders and hands were sore from a long week at the clinic. Her legs were tired from assisting the midwife during a long labor. Slowly Domenica revived as she scrubbed down with goat-milk soap. She rinsed with cold water and stepped out of the tub. She wrapped a towel around herself and went into her bedroom, where her mother had laid out her dance costume on the bed. She began to hum as she dressed, and soon she was singing. She pulled on her stockings, slipped into her dance shoes, and skipped down the stairs.
The village was packed with tourists. The revelers came from up and down the Ligurian coast and from as far north as the Dolomites to be entertained by jugglers, magicians, and music acts. Vendors from Firenze and Milano peddled their silk, straw, and leather goods in stands along the canals. Each Sunday during the month of February, the boulevard was cleared for the parade that featured a flotilla of gigantic papier-maché puppets with the garish faces of politicians, movie stars, and saints. The exaggerated depictions of the famous and notorious, with their googly eyes and oversized red mouths with teeth shaped like enormous piano keys, wearing the candy-color harlequin and stripes of the stock players of la commedia dell’arte, loomed over the crowds like a squall of monsters from a bad dream.
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.