This book plunges deeply into the mind of Valora Bianchi, a quiet and beautiful 27 year old apprentice temporarily studying abroad in the United States from Italy.
She collides with 29 year old Elena Rose, a troubled woman from surburban Seatt...
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IIII.
Churches and Cathedrals of Sicily were known for their exquisite attentiveness to detail and hardiness against the elements of nature. Duomo di Acireale, Cattedrale Maria Santissima Annunziata, the Cathedral built in the gleam of virgin Mary, resilient to the tremors of the earth, stood masterfully in the province of Catania - miles from my residence in Syracuse, Sicily. It had survived earthquakes, thunder, and robustly powerful winds. I spent much of my study sessions in these ecclesiastical Cathedrals absorbing the classical masterpieces of previous craftsmen. They came centuries before our small Bianchi family. I would still hear the low discussions along with the scraping of wooden scaffolds against the floor. They echoed through the massive chapel and spooked anyone occupying the corridors. These locations were often mistaken as good study areas for my academics and any distraction I would consider to be educational.
I was wrong, of course - my equations would go unfinished, my language studies would lack. The corners in my textbooks filled with scribbles of miniature duplicates of the monochromatic glasswork that shelled the walls in such moving architecture. Upon returning home after a day spent in these monoliths, I would crawl through my window shutters and scurry into my bathroom to wash away the residue of my outing. Once in my nightgown, the reposeful and acquainted dining room welcomed me where mother was decorating the table with arancini and dressing my father's lap. She would delicately pour his wine and kiss his hairline, disappearing only to return moments later with his plate.
There had always been a gloom that cloaked between my parents when they dined. It had been this way for quite some time. Mother would clean, there was chatter while she cooked, but both would lapse into a silence once the food was served and grace was said. They never mentioned the reason for this custom until I was old enough to understand. I remembered that night clearly. Only at 13, this night they had decided to explain:
I had taken my usual seat at the table, clasping my hands against my forehead and readying myself to say grace when no words came from either direction. I peaked through the openings between my fingers, observing my parents exchanging vacant looks across from one another. He had turned to me then, his face placid.
"Valora, you're old enough to know now, why your mother and I always eat in silence," my father began mournfully from his side of the table. I exchanged looks between them both, clutching my mother's hand in instinct as her eyes began to glisten.
"What is it?" I asked terrified, my voice slightly rattled by the power of the question.
My throat had constricted and my stomach clenched at the sight of my mother. Her hand had squeezed tighter around mine as she drew her body away from the table in a deep sob, bowing her head to her lap as the drops flowed from her lashes to her dress.
