giddy.
“What do we do?” Cecilia’s brown eyes are wide.
“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Make dinner?”
Cecilia throws a cold stare at the assemblage of dishes as if about to sweep it all aside.
“We should be making Salvadoran food!”
“What is Salvadoran food?”
“You’ve never had pupusas ?” she cries. “Living in Los Angeles? Corn tortillas stuffed with pork? Next time I will cook them for you.”
Our chatter becomes animated as we compare childhoods—what we wore to school, friendships, crushes, restrictions, dating, church. I cut the melon and remove the rind. Cecilia takes a package from a cabinet near the cold stone floor. Sliding the burlap wrapping away, she reveals a dark pink hunk of prosciutto, which she slices with the practiced care of a surgeon. Moments later, crescents of bright orange melon and transparent feathers of prosciutto are arranged on a platter. We lay linen on the table, set the silverware and pasta bowls. She minces garlic, lemon zest, and parsley with precise, aware movements; not hurried, not dismissive, not just throwing something in the microwave, and I try to slow down and follow the rhythm of her lead.
Nicosa returns with Giovanni, who is fresh from the field of battle—pink-cheeked, with muddied legs and reddened knees, his hair as soaking wet as if it had just rained.
“Cosa è sucesso?” Nicosa asks, sensing that something is going on in the kitchen besides pasta with cherry tomatoes.
“We just found out we are sisters,” Cecilia announces.
“ È vero? Really?”
“Half sisters,” I murmur awkwardly, still not used to the idea. “Same father, different mothers. Different countries.”
“We are sisters !” Cecilia declares. “There are no halves.”
Giovanni gives me a sweaty hug. “You are my aunt!” He grins.
“You understand why this happened?” Nicosa demands. “Because it is Palio.”
Giovanni’s cheeks flush. I expect a cynical teenage reply, but instead he cries, “It’s true!”
“They say that in July and August the people of Siena go mad from the heat, and that is when they have the Palio. You must understand the Palio is not just a race,” Nicosa explains, serious as a priest. “It is a time of analysis that arouses deep emotions. You abandon cowardice and embrace action. You defeat death and create life. The city is like a hole in time, every monument and painting in Siena possessing a symbol or a secret code that brings us back into the past. Show your aunt the famous Magic Square.”
Obediently, Giovanni grabs a scratch pad and with dirt-stained fingers spells out the letters:
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
“It’s a Latin puzzle that can be read in every direction,” Giovanni says, excitedly. “See how the word tenet forms a cross? This mystery”—he taps the pad—“is written on the wall of our own church, the Duomo.”
Not for the first time since I have come to the abbey, I feel a chill.
“What does it mean?”
“ ‘God holds the plow, but you turn the furrows,’ ” Giovanni says.
I look quizzically at my new sister, staring at the letters over my new nephew’s shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“There are two types of fate,” Cecilia replies. “The actions of God, and our own responsibility for our lives. Two kinds of fate have brought us together.”
Nicosa pops the cork on a cold bottle of Prosecco. “Welcome to the family. Salute .”
We four touch glasses.
“Congratulations, Giovanni,” I say.
“Why?”
“For holding the flag in the parade. Your mom says it’s a big deal.”
“Oh.” He blushes. “Grazie.”
“It’s not simply that he holds it”—Cecilia begins, but Nicosa stops her by encircling her waist and stage-whispering in her ear.
“Shhh. She will see.”
“Okay, caro. ” Cecilia smiles and lifts her mouth to be kissed.
But now we have a problem.
I am leaning against the pillows on the sweet-pea bed, on the phone with Dennis Rizzio.
“She’s
“What do we do?” Cecilia’s brown eyes are wide.
“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Make dinner?”
Cecilia throws a cold stare at the assemblage of dishes as if about to sweep it all aside.
“We should be making Salvadoran food!”
“What is Salvadoran food?”
“You’ve never had pupusas ?” she cries. “Living in Los Angeles? Corn tortillas stuffed with pork? Next time I will cook them for you.”
Our chatter becomes animated as we compare childhoods—what we wore to school, friendships, crushes, restrictions, dating, church. I cut the melon and remove the rind. Cecilia takes a package from a cabinet near the cold stone floor. Sliding the burlap wrapping away, she reveals a dark pink hunk of prosciutto, which she slices with the practiced care of a surgeon. Moments later, crescents of bright orange melon and transparent feathers of prosciutto are arranged on a platter. We lay linen on the table, set the silverware and pasta bowls. She minces garlic, lemon zest, and parsley with precise, aware movements; not hurried, not dismissive, not just throwing something in the microwave, and I try to slow down and follow the rhythm of her lead.
Nicosa returns with Giovanni, who is fresh from the field of battle—pink-cheeked, with muddied legs and reddened knees, his hair as soaking wet as if it had just rained.
“Cosa è sucesso?” Nicosa asks, sensing that something is going on in the kitchen besides pasta with cherry tomatoes.
“We just found out we are sisters,” Cecilia announces.
“ È vero? Really?”
“Half sisters,” I murmur awkwardly, still not used to the idea. “Same father, different mothers. Different countries.”
“We are sisters !” Cecilia declares. “There are no halves.”
Giovanni gives me a sweaty hug. “You are my aunt!” He grins.
“You understand why this happened?” Nicosa demands. “Because it is Palio.”
Giovanni’s cheeks flush. I expect a cynical teenage reply, but instead he cries, “It’s true!”
“They say that in July and August the people of Siena go mad from the heat, and that is when they have the Palio. You must understand the Palio is not just a race,” Nicosa explains, serious as a priest. “It is a time of analysis that arouses deep emotions. You abandon cowardice and embrace action. You defeat death and create life. The city is like a hole in time, every monument and painting in Siena possessing a symbol or a secret code that brings us back into the past. Show your aunt the famous Magic Square.”
Obediently, Giovanni grabs a scratch pad and with dirt-stained fingers spells out the letters:
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
“It’s a Latin puzzle that can be read in every direction,” Giovanni says, excitedly. “See how the word tenet forms a cross? This mystery”—he taps the pad—“is written on the wall of our own church, the Duomo.”
Not for the first time since I have come to the abbey, I feel a chill.
“What does it mean?”
“ ‘God holds the plow, but you turn the furrows,’ ” Giovanni says.
I look quizzically at my new sister, staring at the letters over my new nephew’s shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“There are two types of fate,” Cecilia replies. “The actions of God, and our own responsibility for our lives. Two kinds of fate have brought us together.”
Nicosa pops the cork on a cold bottle of Prosecco. “Welcome to the family. Salute .”
We four touch glasses.
“Congratulations, Giovanni,” I say.
“Why?”
“For holding the flag in the parade. Your mom says it’s a big deal.”
“Oh.” He blushes. “Grazie.”
“It’s not simply that he holds it”—Cecilia begins, but Nicosa stops her by encircling her waist and stage-whispering in her ear.
“Shhh. She will see.”
“Okay, caro. ” Cecilia smiles and lifts her mouth to be kissed.
But now we have a problem.
I am leaning against the pillows on the sweet-pea bed, on the phone with Dennis Rizzio.
“She’s
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