In the Light of the Sun

In the Light of the Sun

1

Rosa

December 1, 1941
Florence, Italy

The room crackles with energy.

Dots of silver glimmer along the princess’s gown, luminescent stars against the midnight dark of the stage curtains. I listen to the mysterious prince’s declarations. Finally, the princess’s heart of ice melts, no match for his love. At the dazzling spectacle of music, drama, and costumes, the crowd erupts into applause.

My ears ring as I applaud, adding to the ovation following the closing notes of Puccini’s Turandot. The tenor’s performance of the “Nessun dorma” captivated every soul in the audience. Hearts, including my own, are bolstered by this rallying cry offering hope to the most unfortunate in love.

“Stunning, yes?” Nonna’s smile is as wide as the stage. I wonder if she is remembering her own past triumphs. She was a prima donna and still is.

She’s right. I’ve never seen anything like this, and I am speechless. This—this is why I came here. Why I left the Philippines and the family I love. To one day perform upon such a great stage and, I hope, to leave listeners enthralled. Exhilaration from hearing the powerful notes sung with such emotion buzzes through me, head to toe.

“Andiamo, come.” She leads me from the box and down the sweeping marble staircase to the lobby where people have gathered for an after-party gala. My grandmother’s sophistication hasn’t faded with age. How many times has she descended these stairs after her own triumphant performance?

“Serafina!” Conductor Signor Gastani greets Nonna like the oldest of friends.

Nonna smiles warmly. “Rocco! Perfezione, as always!”

“Grazie mille! You are too kind. But now, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting this one. Your granddaughter? Rosa, isn’t it?”

“Sì, she is finishing up at conservatory.”

“Your duet at last year’s festival was exceptional. You have your nonna’s gift. I see good things ahead for you, Rosa.”

My cheeks flush. Having a tenth of Nonna’s vocal abilities would be more than enough. In the presence of the illustrious conductor, my nerves twinge, and I’m grateful for the champagne, which, fortunately, stills the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “Grazie, Signor Gastani!”

A woman in an emerald gown beckons to him. “Ah, I must go. But I look forward to hearing you sing again, Rosa Grassi!” He takes my hand and shakes it gently before ducking into the crowd and pursuing a flash of green.

This is more than I could have hoped for—Signor Gastani’s kindness. My head buzzes, and I can’t tell if it’s from the champagne or the excitement. It has been the most extraordinary evening.

Nonna circles the room, greeting friends old and new, and she introduces me to those I haven’t yet met. As the crowd dwindles, we take our leave. I wrap myself in my shawl against the winter chill till all that is seen of my ruby satin gown is the hem. The dress was a bold choice, but its rich hue exudes confidence.

Outside, on the steps of the theater, we wait for Nonna’s car. She continues her goodbyes to a longtime friend, a former violinist. Though I’ve been here three years, it still amazes me. Rarely is there a time we’re out that someone doesn’t offer Nonna a hello and their good wishes.

“Per favore, Signorina. Can you help us?” Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn to find myself face-to-face with a woman who can’t be more than five years my senior. Clutching at her skirts is a young boy, maybe five or six years old. Her son, I presume. Both wear tattered coats. Meager protection against the cold. From the haggard look on their faces, I know they are hungry.

“I . . . I’m sorry, I don’t have any,” I say, wishing I’d brought money. Anything to give to this mother and her child.

“Here,” Nonna’s voice comes from behind me. “This should be of some help.” She hands the woman a few banknotes.

Tears well up in the woman’s eyes as she steps away thanking Nonna profusely for the lira. “Grazie! Grazie! May God bless you for your kindness,” she says, then leads her son across the street.

As our car pulls away, my gaze lingers on the two. Thank goodness Nonna had money to give. No one should live in such distress, especially not a child.

“What did you think, Rosa?” Nonna’s voice breaks me away from my thoughts. She dips her head to the libretto in her hand. I share my thoughts, and she quizzes me about particulars as we break down each singer’s performance. All part of my training. But I love it! I know what a gift it is to be mentored by someone as esteemed as my grandmother.

•

When we return home, it’s nearly ten o’clock. But sitting in the living room is my Uncle Lorenzo. Nonna is as surprised as I am to find him here at such a late hour.

“Lorenzo,” Nonna greets him.

“Mama,” he says, not moving from where he sits. He says nothing to me.

“Why don’t you give us a minute, Rosa.”

“I’ll go change.” I’m relieved to get away from the tension hanging in the air like a suffocating blanket, and I take my time before heading back downstairs twenty minutes later.

“The Duce can make things difficult for you, Mama. There is only so much I can do!” As I enter the living room, Uncle Lorenzo nearly knocks me over. Frustration oozes from him. He pushes past me muttering, “Mezzosangue.”

I inhale sharply as if slapped.

“Lorenzo!” Nonna snaps.

“Bah!” He ignores her, then turns to leave. Heavy footsteps are followed by the thud of the front door slamming.

Half-breed. Mixed race. My stomach curdles in anger. Aside from those insults, my uncle has barely spoken a word to me since I arrived in Italy years ago.

The silence in the room is deafening. Nonna, her face etched with sadness, stands. “Come, Rosa. He is ignorant.” She ushers me into the kitchen.

That Lorenzo could be Nonna’s son is a mystery. He is nothing like her. Nothing like my father, the younger of her two sons.

Nonna makes tea, and we sip oolong before the fire.

“I have something for you.” She makes her way to the cabinet and pulls something from the top drawer. Her eyes brighten as she hands me a bundle in pearlescent paper tied with a navy velvet ribbon. “An early Christmas gift.”

“Nonna, you didn’t need to!”

“Shame on me if I can’t spoil my granddaughter! Open it, darling.”

My breath hitches when I pull the gift from its wrapping. Enveloped in marbleized Florentine paper is a journal covered in peacock swirls in the richest hues of rose and gold.

“It’s gorgeous!”

“You like it? I saw you eyeing it at the stationer’s and thought you might.”

“Grazie! Thank you!” I embrace her. Though she is in her late sixties, I can feel her strength as she holds me tight.

“I know you miss your family. And the post is nearly impossible. I thought, with this, you could write and share your thoughts. And maybe one day, if you choose, you can share it with them.”

I hug her again. To be so loved warms my heart, especially when regular bouts of homesickness arise. “Grazie, Nonna.”

She stands to take our cups, and I stop her. Nonna smiles warmly. “Thank you, Rosa.”

“Buona notte,” I say as she retires for the night. After taking the empty cups to the kitchen, I pluck the journal from the table and head to my room. Excitement pulses through me. I lie back on my bed, reflecting on the night, on Signor Gastani’s words. But I can’t sleep. I carry the journal to my desk, then begin writing.

I want to capture the wonder of the evening in words, knowing Caramina, my youngest sister back home, would have loved the performance. She’ll want to hear every detail. Like me, Cara longs to follow in Nonna’s footsteps. Her plan to voice train in Florence can’t come soon enough for me. But she isn’t old enough yet.

I recount the night’s splendid performances. Crystal flutes with sparkling bubbly. Antipasti served on expertly balanced trays by handsome waiters circling the room. Influential people in opera, even some from the ranks of the Ministry of Popular Culture, attended. Men in their best suits. Ladies in the most exquisite gowns. All lit by the warm glow of chandeliers. Delightful.