Then Santo asked if we still wanted pizza.
The next morning was bright with the glorious Sicilian sun. It filled our room at the country inn, Donna Giovanna, carrying with it the sounds of country life—sheep bleating, cocks crowing, goat bells tinkling.
The inn, located down the hill from Polizzi, in what centuries ago had been a Jesuit monastery—and, more recently, the home of the nobleman’s daughter after which it was named—is owned by Franca and Franco D’Anna. Franca had grown up in Brooklyn and could speak to Andrea in rusty English. She was sweeping the already immaculate patio as we emerged for breakfast: toasted semolina bread with butter and homemade green tomato preserves. Rich black coffee was served with a pitcher of hot milk.
Franco is a thin, wiry man with dark hair and sharp, handsome features. His serious expression makes him look like a tough guy, but when he smiles his face reveals a gentle soul. He carried two orange plastic baskets into the room, handed one to Andrea, and beckoned him to follow. Andrea did. In a nearby zucchini patch, they picked the largest zucchini flowers I have ever seen. Franco gave instructions, uselessly in Sicilian, more effectively by demonstration. The two laughed as their dance to avoid stepping on delicate shoots turned into a game of hopscotch. Andrea, who had never seen a zucchini patch so lush and large, returned proud of his harvest. Zucchini-flower picking with Franco would become a daily activity for the rest of the trip.
Polizzi Generosa was bustling that morning. Our first stop was the city hall, where I hoped to introduce Andrea to the mayor. His Honor was locked in conference, but we waited for a time in the hall of the grand Renaissance structure. Finally, Andrea needed to use the bathroom. After a few minutes, he did not reappear. Spotting the captain of the three-person Polizzi police force, I said excitedly, “I lost my son!” With a calm, wistful smile, he said, “Vicenzu, here in Polizzi you cannot lose anyone.”
The captain was right. Andrea assumed I had left and went out on the street to find me. He thought I was lost.
We brought flowers to Zia Pasqualina and, after a brief visit, were back on the streets again. At one point Andrea stopped and asked, “Did Bruculinu look like this?” Somehow my stories of Polizzi and the Brooklyn neighborhood of my childhood had become confused. I gently explained the difference, keenly aware of his disappointment at my answer.
By late morning the day was turning hot. We stopped in Gasparinu’s coffee bar for a cold drink, and Andrea sampled a uniquely Sicilian sandwich: his first gelato on brioche. With the hands of an artist, Gasparinu piled hazelnut and chocolate gelato, then whipped cream, into a brioche roll. Andrea and I moved to the grand stairway next to the shop and sat down. We licked around the creamy edges and bit into the cold, sweet-savory piece of heaven.
We wandered the city and I pointed out centuries-old churches and other monuments. We stopped often to chat with paisani, who seemed proud to welcome a fourth-generation American returning to the city of his ancestors. By 1:30 we were back at Donna Giovanna’s crowded dining room for lunch.
Andrea went into the busy kitchen to find Franca. I could hear only bits of their conversation above the clatter:
“… and then we saw the Commenda. You know, it was built by the Knights of Malta a thousand years ago…. And do you know the story of the old abbey and the new abbey?”
“Tell me all about it,” said Franca, assisting Franco in the kitchen.
“Well, once there were these two noblemen, La Matina and Signurino…”
Franco understood not a word of their conversation but seemed respectful of the growing confidence between his wife and the boy. I was gratified to hear how much my son had taken in.
We sat down to a magnificent lunch—in this part of the world the main meal of the day. Franco presented his delicate, ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers and announced to the room that they had been picked that morning by Andrea. Everyone cheered, “Bravo, Andrea!”
When we returned to Polizzi, as we were parking in the piazza in front of the Byzantine fortress, a group of children appeared. Mariangela, the beautiful teen-age daughter of Pino Agliata, master pastry chef, came forward to greet us. I introduced her to Andrea. She spoke to him in her high school English. Mari was a good student. The other children crowded around, eyeing Andrea, and he them. Domenico, Mari’s ten-year-old brother, came through the group holding a soccer ball. His question in Sicilian was obvious in any language, and Andrea’s answer was easy: “Sì.”
Teams were quickly formed, girls against boys. I’m sure Andrea fully expected to be transported with all the others to a nearby soccer field, but Domenico tossed out the ball and the game began, right in the hilly, cobbled piazza. Could it be that Polizzi is more like Brooklyn than I thought?
The children played and screamed until it was too dark to see the ball. Then they played mucciaredda, hide-and-seek. And what places there are to hide in a 2,500-year-old city. I left to go see Santo and returned to find the children laughing, sweaty and rosy-cheeked, enjoying a cold drink at the tables in front of Pino’s pastry shop. Mari asked, “Tomorrow you will bring Andrea?”
The next morning I dropped off Andrea as promised. When I returned at lunchtime, Mariangela said her mother wanted to know if Andrea could have lunch with them. Domenico added, “Andrea is with us now.” And he was. He played with the children every day. I began to hear him speak phrases in Sicilian as he played soccer. When we walked down the main street, always with at least four of his new friends, he greeted people in Sicilian, saying, “Buona sera, che si dice?” (Good evening, what do you say?) I’d never seen Andrea seem so free, or safe, in his life.
Pinterest
