All the Way to Heaven

Chapter 6

The "bomb" blew my mind, as well as my diet. Except that I wasn't on one, because I hated dieting with a passion, and I could never say no to a doughnut, no matter where it was made. This one, though, was like no doughnut I'd ever had before, and was impossible to eat without making a mess. Coated in finely ground sugar and stuffed with cream that was both rich and light at the same time, I had to lean over my plate with every bite. Madalina laughed at me, and shoved a stack of napkins across the table toward me.

For the first few minutes after she returned with my breakfast and commanded me to eat, she sat in silence and smoked another cigarette, one foot propped up on a chair she'd pulled over from another table. She stared off into the distance, eyes narrowed, and I wasn't certain if she was studying her competition down the way, or contemplating how best to enlighten me about Romania. My mouth was busy with its own form of contemplation, so the lack of conversation didn't bother me.

There was something of an earthy quality about the girl sitting across from me, and I found my attention drawn back to her profile again and again. The way her hair was swept up away from her face extended the bold line of cheekbones, and her eyes, outlined in black, reminded me of Sophia Loren's in her younger years. Madalina's mouth, however, was almost too small for her face, but her lips were full and painted bright red, the butt of the cigarette she smoked smeared with the same color. She sipped her own espresso—the red lipstick imprint marked the rim of the white cup as well. A platter of assorted pastries sat on the table between us, and I wondered who was paying for things this morning.

"Pops and Crina, they are my nonno e la nonna. My grandfather. Grandmother." When she finally spoke, she still didn't look at me, but continued to study the busy street beyond the row of potted geraniums at the edge of the patio. "We are Romanian, but here, in Italy, it is not always a good thing. Many people believe we are Romani. Gypsy. Often customers are rude to Crina, and it upsets me." Her accent was heavy, but she spoke slowly, emphatically, and I could almost feel my ears adjusting to the tune of her voice, like it was coming into sharper audible focus the longer I listened to her.

I was humbled that she knew at least three languages fluently enough to converse, while only moments ago, I'd been offended that she expected me to know more than my American English. Although I'd never really thought it through, I suppose I'd simply assumed someone around me on my travels would know enough English to help me if I needed it. I was beginning to see how disrespectful that notion was as I sat with Madalina, who, for whatever reason, had decided to extend a hand of friendship of sorts to me.

Over her painted-on black pants and the black shirt with its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she wore a knee-length white apron that looked like something a butcher might use. It was tied loosely around her neck to accommodate her generous bosom, and tightly around her waist, presumably to accentuate the contrasting curves. With her olive skin, red mouth, and her dramatic flair, I could easily imagine a bit of Gypsy in her, but I didn't say anything because of the way she'd spit out the word, her upper lip curling, almost a sneer. I couldn't tell whether her disdain was her own sentiment, or the sentiment of those who thought the old woman at the counter was Gypsy, so I waited, wondering if she would expound. Perhaps that explained the surliness of the man in the trench coat.

She remained silent, though, so I tried listening to what she wasn't saying, and began to think that perhaps she'd told me about her grandparents in lieu of apologizing for jumping down my throat. "I see," I simply said, nodding.

I was learning that secrets are often whispered in the silences between words. My tendency was to fill up those spaces with unnecessary chatter, especially with the stoic Jacob, who often smiled indulgently and let me ramble on. But in so doing, I'd inadvertently missed out on what was really being communicated. I was now tormented by the knowledge that had I listened more and talked less, had I waited and not rushed on ahead, I would not be standing here today, still trembling in the aftermath of the implosion of my foolish fantasies.