Pane di Casa

by Brian Silverman

William F. Santos

Maurizio was hiding in one of three places: the back room of the Happy I rum shop on the windward side of the island, his mother-in-law’s house in the hills, or in the Picadilly caves in Montvedin parish in the volcanic center of the island. Knowing Maurizio as I did, my guess would be the Happy I. But I wasn’t guessing. And I wasn’t telling. If Maurizio wanted to hide, that was his business. If he wanted to disappear while his family, his father, mother, and two brothers, their wives and children, came all the way from Bergamo, Italy to see him, that was his matter. I wasn’t going to interfere.

​The thing was, just a few days earlier, Maurizio was telling me he was looking forward to their visit. Though he often mentioned how he was the black sheep of the family — continually disappointing them by straying from the conventional in career and family choices — he was determined to show them the life he had established here on St. Pierre. To show off his young wife, her belly swollen with his child. To have them sample the bread he made and sold. To prove to them that his life was now his own.

​But that was a few days ago. I figured he lost his nerve since then because now he was gone. And they were here, all ten of them arriving on the 2:30 plane from Barbados. He was not there to greet him like he said he would. No one knew where he was. Or no one was telling. Not even his wife, Betta, who dutifully went to the airstrip to meet and tell them that Maurizio had disappeared. Though Betta’s lack of concern over his whereabouts was hardly convincing, they were polite to her, even magnanimous, immediately treating her like family. They didn’t seem concerned about Maurizio either and took his disappearance in stride, as if it were something they had expected.

​I guess he felt, despite what he told me the other night, that they would disapprove. Making bread on a tiny island in the Caribbean, living with an island woman — it would be too much for them. They would work on him, stoke his guilt and break him of whatever self-confidence and dignity he had. They would get him back to Italy. They had their ways. Or so he said.

Maurizio arrived on St. Pierre about ten months earlier, deserting the cruise ship where he was working in the kitchen. His assignment, day after day, was to clean bushels of shrimp, removing the tiny veins and shells in preparation for massive amounts of shrimp cocktails that were served at almost every lunch and dinner. The work was maddening, but it got him out of Italy, away from the scrutiny of his family. And he believed that by taking the job he would have an opportunity to show off his other culinary skills, that after a few weeks he would be promoted to a more creative position in the ship’s kitchen. It didn’t take him long to realize that would never happen and he would be deveining shrimp for as long as the cruise season lasted.

Desertion, however, was never in his thoughts until the day came when he actually did it. He had not been off the boat since it was docked in San Juan almost two weeks earlier. From the deck of the boat, he saw the green rise of the Soufriere, its volcanic peak shrouded in clouds, the rows of palm trees near the shore, and the shimmering turquoise water. They had passed other islands but this one seemed different. It wasn’t just its natural beauty that was breathtaking; there was something about the island that seemed to be summoning him to it.

As soon as he stepped onto solid ground he realized what that something was and asked the first taxi driver to greet him — in this case, Harold Boothe — where he could find a woman. Harold had Maurizio wait near the souvenir stands adjacent to the small cruise boat port, and in about five minutes he returned with Betta.

​Though I wasn’t there, I know what happened. Tall and sturdy with ample, undulating hips and smooth, mahogany skin, wearing a wig of dark braids over her close-cropped hair, 19-year-old Betta gave Maurizo one of her heart-breaking, gap-toothed smiles. Maurizio, of course, couldn’t help but smile back, which wasn’t hard for him, because he was rarely without a smile or, at the least, a very wide grin. His English was adequate, but his hand gestures were even better and he asked Betta where they could go. Betta looked at him demurely and, in her low, sweet creole patois, said, “I hungry.”

I know that’s what she said because she once said the same thing to me.

So Maurizio took her to lunch and fed her whatever she wanted, which was probably a steak, a tenderloin, a filet, something with imported beef, and then, after dessert and watery coffee that made Maurizio grimace, Betta took him to the little room she kept on Front Street, near the turn that leads to the mountains.

​The ship, the Cattedrale del Mare, was scheduled to leave at nine that evening. Maurizio bought Betta another meal, and then Betta cooked one for him, saltfish, onions, hot scotch bonnet peppers with fungi, and a cornmeal and okra mix that, minus the okra, reminded him of his grandmother’s polenta. So impressed was Maurizio with Betta’s talents, sexual and otherwise, that he never considered returning to the ship.

A few days later, Maurizio came into my little, open-air bar, which had an admittedly hideous satellite dish as its centerpiece. Located on the lagoon, just next to the St. Pierre Yacht Club, it was St. Pierre’s only sports bar. Because the satellite dish was such an eyesore, there were protests from the wealthy islanders who belonged to the club, claiming its presence was not consistent with the natural beauty of the island. I agreed, but since most of those same concerned citizens had satellite dishes sprouting from the land around their spacious homes in the hills like fungus, their complaints didn’t carry much weight. The truth was the satellite dish connected my bar to the greater world. Named simply the Sporting Place, my establishment seated thirty, and I drew in tourists and locals for worldwide events. On my four televisions, depending on the season, I had European and South American football, the NFL, NBA, NHL, MLB, college basketball and football, championship fights, both boxing and UFC, and for the locals, cricket matches that went on for days. I also tuned into CNN for assassinations and elections, terrorist attacks, papal visits, civil wars, hurricane news, and other newsworthy catastrophes. But Maurizio didn’t come to the Sporting Place to view a sporting event or a catastrophe. He came for a job.

Word traveled fast on tiny St. Pierre, and though I hadn’t met him until the day he came to my bar, I had heard all about the Italian man who was now taking care of Betta. I expected someone dashing, handsome, and razor-thin, like many of the Italian tourists who visited the island. But Maurizio was nothing like that. He was in his mid-thirties, paunchy, soft, with sparse, wiry hair that was badly in need of a trim, a pink, fleshy face, and thick glasses that obscured what were very bright blue eyes. He was wearing a blue and white pastel short-sleeved dress shirt speckled with numerous food stains, navy blue chinos he had sloppily cut into shorts, and tennis sneakers, sans the socks, of course. So this was the man who was going to take care of Betta, I thought. I liked him at first sight but wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

He explained, gesturing loudly with his hands, that he was a very good cook, that he could make food for the people that would keep them coming back.

I wanted to help him. I wanted to hire him to cook for me. But I couldn’t. That wasn’t what the Sporting Place was about. When I did prepare food, usually for a big event — the World Cup, a major cricket match, the Super Bowl — it was just chicken and ribs on the grill I had in the back. I told him that and he nodded. He didn’t try to change my mind. He didn’t push. I bought him a beer and he stayed at the bar for the rest of the afternoon filling me in on his life.

He had been on the island for almost a week, staying with Betta, who, I was sure, was now beginning to wonder when he was going to work. He had more money than she ever had, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Her man, if he was to remain so, had to work.

Maurizio made the rounds to the hotels. There were only four on the island, but they all had foreign-born chefs. Hiring another foreigner to work in the kitchen instead of someone from the island would have created an uproar. So next he tried helping some of the fishermen, but they sent him away after two miserable attempts with the nets. Maurizio, it seemed, was a man with very limited marketable skills. He seemed eager to work, but just had no experience in anything that might be of use on St. Pierre.

Despite his sunny demeanor, Maurizio was disheartened. He loved St. Pierre. And he loved Betta. He didn’t know what he could do to keep him on this island with his woman.

Then one day, after finishing up a goat stew at Betta’s mother’s house, and staring at the remaining rich, dense, molasses-colored gravy still on his plate, Maurizio had an idea. In Italy he would have mopped that gravy up with a piece of thick, crusty bread; no meal was complete without the ritual. There was fresh bread on the island, but it was either thin-crusted, airy, the gravy overpowering it, or it was deep-fried and greasy. What they needed on St. Pierre, Maurizio decided there and then, was thick, hearty crusty pane di casa: bread rich enough to stand up to gravy from a goat stew or from a pepper pot. He knew how to do this, to make bread.

In one of his attempts at finding a career for himself, he once spent six months working with an accomplished baker, a patient of his father’s named Vignerio. He took to the task better than most. Vignerio liked his work and thought he had a future baking bread, but Maurizio tired of the early hours. The work drained him of his desire to do other things, to meet his friends in the cafes, to pursue women, to read books, listen to jazz, and go to the cinema. Like so many other of his career pursuits, he didn’t stick with it.

But thinking back on his time as Vignerio’s apprentice, he remembered how he felt working the dough with his hands, shaping the round loaves, kneading them like a woman’s soft ass. Baking a good loaf of bread was an art form. And he, the baker, was an artist. Something he always aspired to be.

Why couldn’t he bake bread on this island and make it his business? The hotels would buy from him. So would the rich Americans who came on their yachts and catamarans. And the Europeans with their backpacks. Word would spread of his rustic bread. He would be able to provide for Betta. He would be able to make a living on St. Pierre. And he would finally fulfill his artistic goals.

At the table at Betta’s mother’s house, he suddenly laughed out loud. Both Betta, her mother, and two of her young nephews who were at the table stared at him. Maurizio’s face was pink from his laugh. And he was smiling the smile Betta knew from when he tickled her between her legs with his tongue. In a tone of proclamation, and pounding the table for even more dramatic effect, Maurizio said something Vignerio used to repeat almost daily in the pre-dawn hours as they worked: “Senza il pane tutto divento orfano!”

They were waiting for his translation, but he didn’t bother. They didn’t need to know that what he said was, “Without bread, everyone is an orphan.” It wouldn’t matter to them. But it did to him.

With his savings and credit card advances, Maurizio immediately went to work. Most importantly, to replicate pane di casa, he needed a stone hearth. He had an idea of what he wanted, but building it? He just wasn’t very good at that sort of work. Betta had cousins whom she claimed could build anything, so he explained, as best he could, what he wanted and then hired them to construct it not far from the shanty they shared near the West Road.

​Soon it was done. He had the bottled water. He had the special yeast. He had the cornmeal. And with my help — I had a computer at my bar with internet access — we ordered the right kind of flour. The only thing he didn’t have was his license to operate a bakery, to own a business on the island. He wasn’t a naturalized citizen of St. Pierre and because he was a foreigner, there were fees to be paid. There were forms to be filled. The government on the island didn’t want to appear to give preference to wealthy foreigners. Though Maurizio didn’t have the resources to buy his way around the red tape, there was another way. He became Betta’s husband.

They had a small wedding and immediately following it, Betta applied for the license. The bakery would be in her name.

​He was finally ready, and Maurizio, with Betta as his apprentice, began to bake bread: Italian, thick-crusted, country bread. He had me over to try one of his first loaves. He was wearing only an apron, shorts, and a broad smile. I tried the bread. It was warm, fresh out of the oven. I looked at Maurizio. His face was flush, expectant. “Buono?” he asked.

I nodded. Tasting it I immediately flashed back to Parisi’s on Mott Street, Addeo’s on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, and Moretti’s on Avenue N in Brooklyn. I had my doubts, but Maurizio had done it. The bread he envisioned, the bread I missed since leaving New York for St. Pierre, had been recreated. That afternoon he gave samples to all the restaurants and hotels, and they immediately placed orders. He was in business, a business he named House of Bread.

Soon he was so busy he had to hire members of Betta’s extended family, and he became more of a manager, overseeing their work, training them to bake the bread to his exact specifications. With the profits, Maurizio began to build a home on a plot of land on a hillside overlooking the harbor of Garrison, the island’s capital. Betta became pregnant, which overjoyed Maurizio, and the business continued to boom. On Thursdays, he would invite me to their home-in-progress where he would prepare pasta with a fresh marinara sauce made from tomatoes he grew himself on the little garden he and Betta had planted behind their house. The evenings were memorable, if for nothing else than for the sensation of soaking up the remains of the marinara sauce with a chunk of his hard crusty bread.

When the Loffredo family arrived that day with no sign of Maurizio, I had expected hysterics. I had envisioned Mama Loffredo wailing endlessly about her middle son and the doomed path he had chosen. Or a fierce, disapproving scowl on the face of Papa Loffredo. But there was none of that. The Loffredo family checked into the Tamarind Tree Resort, the island’s largest and most expensive hotel, and did what most families did when they visited St. Pierre: they vacationed.

It wasn’t hard to keep tabs on their activities. The taxi drivers and hotel employees often stopped off at my place for a beer. It was a small island. Secrets were not easily kept.

The first day, I learned, the Loffredo men — Vittorio, the father, Augusto, the oldest son, and Alfonso, the youngest — played golf in the morning at the shabby nine-hole course at the Hibiscus. That afternoon the extended family visited the Botanical Gardens. On the second day, while the children had activities planned and supervised by staff at the hotel, the men and women arranged a hike through the rain forest with Alfred Hodge, St. Pierre’s leading nature guide.

Maurizio had still not resurfaced by the third day, and when the Loffredo men appeared at my establishment, I thought they had come to enlist my help in finding him. Again, I was wrong.

They looked tan and relaxed as they took seats at the bar. Mr. Loffredo had the same sparse, wiry hair as Maurizio. Unlike Maurizio’s, however, his was silver and cut close to the scalp. Maurizio’s brothers, both orthopedic surgeons, were fit and trim with full, thick, dark hair and dark eyes. All of them seemed extremely pleasant.

“They say at the hotel that here we can see the football match,” the elder Loffredo said to me. “AC Milan play.”

“A big match today for the Italian League. They tell us here we can watch all the sporting events,” Augusto, the eldest son, said.

I knew where to find the station that carried European soccer, and I tuned it in for them on the television above the bar. “There you go.”

“Ah, si, fantastico.”

All three of their heads turned up toward the television; their faces had a similar rhapsodic glow. Reluctantly taking his eyes from the screen, Vittorio Loffredo ordered himself and his sons more beer.

I did some paperwork behind the bar while they watched, mostly in silence with occasional eruptions of commentary in Italian. At the intermission, their faces seemed to relax. Vittorio thanked me again for putting on the match. I saw that as a signal that they wanted to engage in my company, so I headed over to them.

“What do you think of our little island,” I asked. It was the mandatory question I asked of all tourists.

“Oh, it is beautiful,” Vittorio said. “Tranquillita. The people, they beautiful.”

“Paradiso,” said Alfonso.

“Si, the sun. The air of the sea. It calms you. Take away all the stressa,” said Augusto.

“You a friend of my son, Maurizio?” Vittorio asked.

I had thought about what I knew was coming and wasn’t sure what I should do. Listening to people talk, having them express their concerns, their problems about life — that I was good at. But actually intervening wasn’t a good idea, I thought. Still, I wasn’t going to deny my friendship. “Yes, Maurizio is a friend.”

“This island, I think is very good for my son,” Papa Loffredo said, surprising me.

He wanted my affirmation. I wasn’t giving it.

“Si, Papa, maybe we all move here,” Alfonso responded with a smile.

“No, no. For us it is just a holiday,” he said. “But for Maurizio, is perfecto. He meet a lovely woman with a good family. My son, he find a good life here. We very happy for him.”

I didn’t know what to say. I never expected any of this. So I said what first came to my mind. I asked if they had tried his bread.

Vittorio threw up his hands. “Superb! Fantastico! Better than what we get in Bergamo.”

“Papa, Maurizio’s pane di casa better than Vignerio’s?” Augusto asked.

Papa Loffredo made a guttural sound. “Many times better,” he said. “Maurizio’s pane is more naturale. More hearty. Vignerio become lazy and do things the easy way now.”

“Si,” Alfonso said with a nod. “Maurizio’s pane more…autentico.”

“Oh,” Augusto blurted and pointed to the television. The match had resumed. There would be no more talk of bread.

I brought them three more beers, knocked on the bar and said, “Enjoy.”

“Grazie, grazie,” Papa Loffredo said, his gaze intent on the action on the screen.

On the fifth day of the Loffredo family holiday, I went to see Maurizio. He was at the Happy I rum shop, as I first suspected. I found out before making the trek over there because Betta had told me so. She had come to see me the previous afternoon. The Loffredos were planning a celebratory dinner later that night to include both extended families. It would go on with or without Maurizio. Betta wanted Maurizio there. She was furious with him. He would not listen to her. He was stubbornly refusing to come out of hiding. He told her it was for her good that he was where he was. That it was for the good of the baby. She thought he was the one acting like a child. They argued, and she left vowing not to plead with him anymore, and threatening to never see him again if he didn’t do what she asked. She did not have much confidence that her threat would work, which was why she came to see me.

With her rounded belly, her eyes bright, and her skin clear and smooth, she looked as beautiful as I could ever remember. We had a brief, torrid history, and at one time I foolishly mistook our sexual passion to mean more than what it was. And beyond the sex and the wide age gap, she respected me and often came to me for guidance and conversation. She just never came to me for love.

I had long reconciled where I stood with her and with some distance knew it was for the best. But when she came to me that afternoon, a tall and dark vision like no other, and asked for my help, I could not refuse her.

I, too, was angry with Maurizio. At first I understood his predicament, and I sympathized with him. But after meeting the Loffredo men and observing them around the island, I could not comprehend Maurizio’s trepidation. I knew family drama could reduce a man to doing things that would seem bizarre to outsiders, but in this situation, I just didn’t see it. What really was his problem?

“That’s how they get me,” Maurizio said. He was in the back room of the Happy I where he had been playing dominoes with Livingston Lockwood, a farmer and occasional carpenter. His favorite disc, Virtuosos of the Jazz Piano, was playing.

“They use psychologica in reversa,” he said, tapping his head for emphasis. “It’s an antica…a very old trick they use.”

“They told me they were happy you are happy. What more can you want?”

Maurizio grinned. “Ah, yes they told you that, Lennie, because they knew you come see me and tell me just that. This a game with them. They very good at this game. I know. This not the first time they try this.”

“So it’s a conspiracy, Maurizio? They’re on a holiday. They’re enjoying themselves here on the island.”

“You think so?” Maurizio shook his head. “They never come to this place for a holiday. They come with a plan.”

I studied him as he sat there, hunched over, sipping his beer.

He looked at me and shook his head. “I am weak man, Lennie. And they know this. I no have the courage. I no have the strength to resista.”

“The bread, Maurizio. You’ve proved yourself here with its success. Your pane di casa…it’s a work of art.” I sat on a stool next to him and got into his face. “Listen to that. Bill Evans, am I right?"

He nodded. “Waltz for Debby,” he said.

“Studied classical musical and then took the unconventional path switching to jazz. It couldn’t have been easy for him to do that. But he was an artist. He walked his own path.”

“Si, an artist,” he looked at me. “A junkie too. And Bud Powell. Magnifico. But the artist also insane.” Maurizio touched his temple for emphasis.

Alright I was reaching, but I didn’t know what else to say to him. He was silent for a moment, brooding, and then he picked up his head. “They really like my pane di casa?”

“Alfonso said it was better than Vignerio’s.”

“Alfonso say that?” Maurizio raised his heavy eyebrows and then shook his head. “Mannagia!”

He didn’t look happy. We sat in silence for a few moments listening now to Monk and his recording of “Honeysuckle Rose.”

After the song, I did something I didn’t often do. I went and got a small bottle of white rum and a pitcher of cold coconut water from Sami, the Hindu who owned the Happy I, and brought it back to the table.

“Betta’s very angry with you,” I said as I poured some of the white rum into juice glasses, one for me and one for Maurizio, and then poured the coconut water into two tall glasses. “She doesn’t think you are much of man hiding from your family like this.”

I drank the white rum quickly and chased it with the coconut water.

Maurizio smiled slyly at me. “I never see you drink the rum before. How come you drink it now?”

I poured more of the powerful rum into my juice glass. “I’m thirsty today, Maurizio.”

“Thirsty?” He laughed and drank his glass down followed by a grimace and a quick, high-pitched shriek.

The rum was so strong I could practically feel the alcohol begin to work on my brain, slowly dismantling my speech and other motor functions.

We just sat there looking at each other as we let the rum take control of us.

After a few moments I was able to speak. “She told me she’s going to go the Obeah man if you don’t do what she says.” I sipped some coconut water. “He’ll put a spell on you. He’ll make you impotent.”

“Too late,” he said, grinning. “I already give her a baby.”

“Betta’s not going to settle for one child. She’ll want a brood of them, you know?”

“Si, we plan to have many babies who will get fat eating the best pane di casa in the Caribbean.”

We listened to the music and stared out at the back of the little rum shop. A family of goats paraded by, the bells on the collars around their necks clanging almost in rhythm with Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage.”

“She’ll leave you for me if you don’t act like a man. Start living up to your responsibilities.”

The rum had now taken full possession of my brain and tongue. “She’ll come straight to me.”

Maurizio laughed, his eyes, behind the thick glasses, sparkling. He shook his head. “Never,” was all he said.

“No? We go back, you know. We had something.”

“Si, she tell me.” Maurizio thought for a moment. “I might lose her. But not to you, Lennie.”

“No? Why not?”

Maurizio took off his glasses and with a grin pointed to his blue eyes. “Occhio azzurro.”

Betta had made it clear many times. Any man of hers had to have blue eyes. She was convinced that a child with blue eyes would have more opportunities in life than one with brown eyes.

“Bullshit,” I mumbled into my drink. “A man is more than the color of his eyes.”

Then both of us started to laugh. We both laughed for a long time, Maurizio turning pink from his rum-fueled giggling. That was the last thing I remember from that night. And that was the last I saw of Maurizio.

Even though I ran a bar, I rarely drank more than a beer or two, or an occasional punch. Like Maurizio said, I never touched the white rum. But I did that night and paid for it. I couldn’t sleep. I could only move from my bed to the hammock out back and then to the bed again. Work was out of the question. I had Tubby Levett, who helped me run the Sporting Place, take over. I wasn’t going in.

I lived in a small house on the northwest coast of the island overlooking the Atlantic and not far from the fishing village of Laurelette. I slept most of the day, took a swim later in the afternoon, which helped with my hangover, and then, with my appetite finally restored, started a fire in the grill I had made out of a hollowed-out oil drum.

I had two chicken legs in the refrigerator. I scored them, rubbed some of Elfreda’s seasonings, a store-bought paste of various local herbs and spices including thyme, scallions, allspice, and peppers, into the incisions and under the skin, and when the fire was ready, tossed them on the grill along with a sliced plantain.

The sun was making its descent into the sea, and I ate my dinner outside to watch the show. Once the sun disappeared, darkness immediately took over. I didn’t feel like going inside and brought out my portable radio. I fiddled with the tuner trying to find something from Barbados or Trinidad, but the airwaves weren’t working in my favor and I had to settle for the local radio station, which, on this evening, featured the gospel hour. I turned it off and instead listened to the usual nighttime symphony of chirping tree frogs, barking dogs, goats, and misinformed roosters.

I stayed outside until the thousands of crawling, flying, buzzing, and biting bugs drove me into my bedroom and under the safety of my mosquito netting. Even after eating, I was still lightheaded from the alcohol of the previous night. I closed my eyes and finally fell asleep.

I was in my jeep, on my way to work the next morning, about a hundred yards past the House of Bread, before I stopped and turned around. I pulled my jeep right up to the small shop Maurizio had transformed into his bread-baking enterprise. There wasn’t a loaf of pane di casa in the window. The window was shuttered, and though I sniffed hard, that best of all smells, that of freshly baked bread, was absent. I sat in my jeep and stared for a long time at the desolate structure. Finally I drove off but didn’t get far before I heard the roar of an airplane. I pulled over again and shut off my jeep. I wasn’t far from the small airstrip that served St. Pierre. I glanced at my watch. The 9:30 CaribExpress to Barbados, I knew, had just taken off. I looked up and saw the small prop plane ascending into the deep blue sky. It circled over the West Road and then swerved back east toward the Atlantic Ocean and Barbados. It was Monday, one of the two days of the week that British Airways had a direct flight to London out of Barbados. From London, there were countless flights to various destinations in Italy. Probably, I imagined, even a direct flight to Milan.

I watched as the plane disappeared, the sound of its loud engine finally fading. I glanced at my watch again. With the time difference, I figured Maurizio would be in Bergamo sometime early the next morning.

I sat in the jeep for a moment and wondered if she would be at their unfinished home in the hills, or if I would find her back in the room she had in the shanty on Front Street. I started up the jeep and proceeded to my little establishment and the ugly satellite dish that was its trademark.

*

Brian Silverman is a travel and food writer based in New York City.