Based on the collective memories of Marina A. Stone:
I no longer know the taste of cassata; America has soured my memory. For that matter, I do not recall the taste of a lot of foods. I do, however, remember the euphoria of biting into a fresh pastry at Verdun and knowing that were no artificial fillers or byproducts.
A store of terrible inconvenience, Verdun was never where I needed it to be. If I were in class, for example, Verdun would act lazy and condescendingly distance herself from me. If I were in bed, stomach pains and all, Verdun would never be there for me. No, that ungrateful mass of brick had to play everything by her rules; “Let the Marina come to Verdun”.
And I faithfully did. Day after day, week after week, I stormed down the winding streets that dared keep us apart. In retrospect, I find this habit gravely unhealthy; I now look in the mirror, unhappy with what I see, and can only blame childhood habit. Always aromatic, the store smelled of baked chocolate and burgeoning breads. Upon entrance, I had no preconceived plan of attack; every day featured a distinct option and a new flavor. I was inclined to grab a bread, half for me, half for mother. Let’s just say that mother was often hungry.
Years later, with renewed desperation, I was back. On the eve of my 12th birthday, we had moved out of the apartment we shared with Tusa into a smaller place on the edge of the suburbs. I lived there for 13 years, each and every without a visit to Verdun. I mean, we visited Bucharest, but somehow never found the time to stop by. When I approached the bakery, at 26, time rewound and I tugged at my hair, a habit I had when I was a girl. My hair was considerably longer then and my new, boyish cut made the gesture seem awkward. Verdun was unchanged, unaffected by the social turmoil and civil strife of Romania.
Two years ago, mother passed away. Immediately, I fled America and bolted for Bucharest, where mother had returned in 1989. Mother always joked that she would like to be buried with a baguette from Verdun; I took her words seriously. In place of Verdun stood a drug store. Emotionally barren, I toured its isles, trying to recreate the store of old, the fixture in the chaos, the taste of the forgotten.
