Early one morning we went out on our balcony to greet the dawn. We sat bundled in our bathrobes against the chill, watching Polizzi emerge from silhouette as daylight gathered and the streetlights went out. It was quiet. Then Andrea, in a clear, soft voice said, “You know, Dad, in Los Angeles people have a lot of stuff. Here in Polizzi, people don’t have a lot of stuff. But maybe you don’t need a lot to have a nice life.”
The days passed, and Andrea’s birthday was just a day away. Pino asked Andrea if he would help him in his pastry shop for a little while.
Mariangela dressed Andrea in a white apron and pastry chef’s hat. Andrea, standing at the massive marble work- table, watched attentively as Pino split a large rectangular spongecake in half. Then, with Pino’s guidance, Andrea sprinkled the bottom half of the cake with Strega, an Italian liqueur. As Andrea held the bowl, Pino spread the surface with a sure layer of hazelnut cream. He fitted the other layer on top and plastered the cake with whipped cream.
Using a fine-pointed pastry bag, Pino drew a map of Sicily on top. The island had only one city, Polizzi Generosa. All of us, children and adults, watching the demonstration laughed at this chauvinism. Pino and his new assistant covered Sicily with chopped-hazelnut mountain ranges. Azure-colored whipped cream formed the sea around the island. Then Pino began to write on the surface in Italian: “Welcome to Sicily, Happy Birthday &” The room grew especially silent as he began to spell out the last word, “A N D R E &” Andrea gasped, “It’s my cake!”
The next night, a surprise birthday party at Santo’s was a real surprise and a huge success. More than 30 of our family and friends assembled at a serpentine table in the restaurant courtyard. This time Santo really did prepare pizza—delicious, individual ones, Neapolitan style, with rustic Sicilian toppings.
At one point Gasparinu and five other friends marched into the courtyard playing musical instruments. Some were in traditional costume. The leader played a short, wooden flute to the accompaniment of a drum, two tambourines, a Jew’s harp, and a most extraordinary drone instrument called u cafuddu, whose base is a half-gallon-size sardine tin. The bottom and sides are covered in decorative cloth, and the open ends covered like a goatskin drum; embedded in the center is a long cane shaft. The tin is held under the left arm while the right hand is wet and slides up and down the shaft, emitting a droning sound. I still don’t know if Andrea understood what was making the adults giggle.
Everyone—children, Zia Pasqualina, all of us—danced together into the morning hours. The figures of the local dances were expertly called by Gasparinu, making the traditional steps easy for novice and expert alike. Watching Andrea prance around the courtyard, I thought of his question about Brooklyn from our first day. Holding him close, with my mouth next to his ear, I whispered, “You know, my boy, this is what Bruculinu felt like.”
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