Luca Amsler was a banker in Bern who had not been home in a very long time, but when news came from family members that his ailing mother had requested to see him, he put aside old feelings and returned to the small Swiss town where he’d been born.
Everyone in Malta agreed that Censina Demajo’s deserts were the best in the country. From the moistest pie crusts, to astounding tortes, flans, bonbons, sugar cookies and imbuljita, knives, forks and spoons were said to ascend directly to heaven after slicing – nay, sliding through her creations.
After holding his mother’s hand as she slept, the banker went downstairs, put on his coat and went outside and crossed the road to the woodlot he had spent much time walking in during his youth.
The pinnacle of Censina’s works were her custom cakes, created for any occasion. From succulent layer fillings to decadent cake ingredients, everyone had ordered their occasion cakes from her for decades. And when one spoke of the velvety texture of the fondant, descriptive words became irrelevant. Those who had tasted them simply knew.
The banker had lost track of time; almost in a trance. He had broken trails in the snow in figure eights around the trees, and night had fallen.
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A thousand spotlights illuminated the forest, and Luca looked up, startled, but was blinded for his efforts, and deafened by a sound of a huge glass dome descending from the sky, trapping him inside. His senses became muted and the fugue claimed him again.
News of the missing banker made international news. The latest creation in Censina’s window – a chocolate cake depicting a lone man walking in circles in a beautifully frosted winter forest was quietly delivered to a safety deposit box.
And, on her deathbed, Mrs. Amsler smiled and passed away.
