The Shoemaker's Wife (12 page)

“Was your mother ill?” Enza asked.

“No. My father died, and she couldn’t take care of us anymore.”

“How sad for her,” Enza said.

In all these years, Ciro had never thought about his mother’s feelings. Enza’s observation opened up his heart to think about what his mother had gone through. Maybe she missed her sons as much as they longed for her.

“How did you come to dig my sister’s grave?” Enza asked.

“Iggy Farino sent me. He’s the caretaker at San Nicola. I work for him.” Throughout the long day, Ciro had wondered what had caused Stella’s death. Even though he overheard conversations, little was said when it came to the death of children. “I don’t mean to cause you any further sadness. But I’d like to know what happened to your sister.”

“A fever. And she had terrible bruises. It happened so fast. By the time I carried her from the waterfall back to our house, the fever had consumed her. I kept hoping the doctor could help,” Enza said. “But he couldn’t. We’ll never know.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Ciro said gently.

“There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who want to know the facts, and those who want to make up a nice story to feel better. I wish I was the kind who made up stories,” Enza admitted. “I was taking care of Stella the day before she died.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Ciro said. “Maybe you shouldn’t blame anyone, but accept that this is your sister’s story, and the ending belongs to her.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“If you look around to find meaning in everything that happens, you will end up disappointed. Sometimes there aren’t reasons behind the terrible things that go on. I ask myself, If I knew all the answers, would it help? I lie awake and wonder why I don’t have parents and wonder what will become of my brother and me. But when the morning comes, I realize that there’s nothing to be done about what has already happened. I can only get up and do my chores and push through the day and find the good in it.”

“Stella was a big part of our happiness.” Enza’s voice broke. “I never want to forget her.” Enza stifled her tears.

“You won’t. I know a little about that. When you lose someone, they take a bigger place in your heart, not a smaller one. Every day it grows, because you don’t stop loving them. You wish you could talk to them. You need their advice. But life doesn’t always give us what we need, and it’s difficult. It is for me, anyway.”

“Me too,” Enza said.

As they walked in the twilight, Ciro decided that Enza was more beautiful than Concetta Martocci. Enza was dark, like an inky lake in the moonlight, whereas Concetta was lacy and airy, like columbine in the spring. Ciro decided he preferred the mystery.

Enza had slender limbs and lovely hands. She moved gracefully and was well-spoken. Her cheekbones, straight nose, and strong chin were typically northern Italian. But she had something that Ciro had not seen in any girl before—she was
curious
. Enza was alert; she drank in the details of the world around her, sensitive to the feelings of others and quick to respond to them. He saw this in church that morning, and now, in conversation. In contrast, Concetta Martocci poured her energy into the cultivation of her beauty and the power it brought her.

Ciro had met Enza at her most vulnerable, and he wanted to help her. He felt compelled to do whatever he could for her. He had used his physical power when he worked, but now he wanted to share his emotional strength. There were no awkward moments with Enza; they seemed to have an immediate and comfortable connection. He hoped the walk back to the rectory took longer than he remembered; he wanted more time with this beautiful girl.

“Are you in school?” he asked.

“I’m fifteen. I finished school last year.”

He noted happily that they were the same age. “You help your mother with the house?”

“I help my father in the stable.”

“But you’re a girl.”

Enza shrugged. “I’ve always helped my father.”

“Is your father a blacksmith?”

“He drives a carriage to and from Bergamo. We have an old horse and a pretty nice carriage.”

“You’re lucky to have a carriage.” Ciro smiled. “If I had a carriage and horse, I would go to every village in the Alps. I’d take trips to Bergamo and Milan every chance I got.”

“How about over the border to Switzerland? You look like the Swiss. The light hair.”

“No, I’m Italian. Lazzari is my name.”

“The Swiss have Italian surnames sometimes.”

“You like the Swiss? Then I’ll be Swiss,” Ciro teased.

Enza walked ahead of Ciro, then turned on her heel to him. “Do you flirt with all the girls you meet?”

“Some.” He laughed. “You just ask a question like that?”

“Only when I’m interested in the answer.”

“There’s a girl I know,” Ciro admitted. He thought of Concetta, and he was disappointed all over again. The kiss between Don Gregorio and the girl he was enamored of burned in his memory like the image of hell in the fresco over the altar.

“Just one?”

“Concetta Martocci,” Ciro said softly.

“Concetta. What a beautiful name.”

“
Si
,” he said. “It suits her. She’s small and blond.” He glanced at Enza, who was almost as tall as he was. Ciro continued, “And I used to watch her in church. The truth is, I looked for her everywhere. I’d wait on the colonnade for her to go by. Sometimes for hours.”

“Did she return your feelings?”

“Almost.”

It was Enza’s turn to laugh. “I’m sorry, I just never heard anyone describe love in terms of
almost
.”

“Well, I loved her from afar, let’s say. But it turns out that she loves someone else.”

“So your love story has a sad ending.”

Ciro shrugged. “She’s not the only girl in Vilminore.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Enza said. “You can be the Prince of the Alps, wooing girls with your charm and your shovel.”

“Now you’re making fun of me!” Ciro cried.

“Not at all. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. There are lots of girls in the Alps. Pretty ones in Azzone, and more up the mountain. Or go to Lucerne. The girls are blond there, and petite and pretty. Just like you like them.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Ciro stopped and put his hands in his pockets.

Enza faced Ciro. She reached behind her apron and tightened the bow. Then she smoothed the front placket with her hands. “You should have what you want. Everyone should.”

“And what do you want?” Ciro asked her.

“I want to stay on this mountain. And I want to be with my parents until they’re old.” Enza took a breath. “Before I go to sleep, I picture my family. Everyone is safe and healthy. There’s enough flour in the bin and sugar in the jar. Our chickens decide it’s a good day, and they lay enough eggs to make a cake. That’s all I want.”

“You don’t wish for a gold chain or a new hat?”

“Sometimes. I like pretty things. But if I had to choose, I’d rather have my family.” Enza put her hands in her apron pockets.

“Have your parents made a match for you?”

“If they have, they haven’t told me who he is.” Enza smiled. How odd that Ciro asked her this question on this day, of all days. Stella’s death had forced her to grow up, or at least ponder the choices that lay ahead in adulthood. But now she realized that to have a full life, you must commit to building one.

“Maybe they haven’t chosen him yet.” Ciro leaned against the shovel.

“I wouldn’t want my parents to make a match for me. I want to choose who I will love. And I want—more than anything—to see my sister again.” Enza began to cry but stopped herself. “So I’m going to do my best in this life so that I’m sure to see her in the next one. I’m going to work hard, tell the truth, and be of some use to the people who care about me. I’m going to try, anyway.” Enza took the handkerchief out of her sleeve, turned away from Ciro, and wiped her tears away.

Ciro instinctively moved toward her and put his arms around her. Even though he had been thinking for the past several minutes how to get his arms around her, he was surprised to realize that the urge to comfort her came from a place of authentic compassion, not simply desire.

The scent of the earth and his skin enfolded her as he pulled her close.

Enza felt a sense of relief in his arms. This kindness from Ciro felt good after a day of comforting others. She leaned into him and released her burdens, crying until the tears stopped. She closed her eyes and let him hold her tight.

A feeling of contentment washed over Ciro as he held her. Enza seemed to fit naturally in his arms. There was a familiarity between them that made him feel useful. He discovered a purpose in her arms that he had never known before.

Ciro’s worth had always been measured by how hard he worked, how many chores he could complete from the time the sun came up until it went down. His diligence was his calling card and the foundation of his fine reputation; he had built his sense of self-worth one task at a time.

Ciro hadn’t had any idea how capable he would feel, caring for a person rather than completing a chore. He felt a deep well open in his heart. He believed that a girl could be a thrilling mystery, but he couldn’t have guessed she could also be a true companion, that conversation with her would fulfill him, or that he might even learn something from her.

Enza pulled away from his embrace. “You came to dig a grave, not to talk to me.”

“But I found you,” he said, took her into his arms, and kissed her. As his lips caressed hers, his mind rushed over the events of the day. He tried to remember when he had first seen her. Had he seen other girls in the crowd first and then found her, or was she the only girl he noticed? How did he get this far, how was she allowing him to kiss her when his hands were dirty and he was hardly at his best? Would there ever come a time when he would woo a girl pressed, polished, and as shiny as a glass button?

Enza felt her heart race as their lips touched, the sadness of the day quelled by the unexpected meeting with this boy from Vilminore. Maybe their kisses, breath exchanged for breath, could show her a way to live in the shadow of the sorrow of this day. Maybe her darkest moments had found some light; perhaps he could redeem her grief and replace it with connection. Maybe this boy was some kind of peculiar angel, tall and strong, with freckles from working in the sun and calluses on his hands, so unlike the soft hands of the wealthy and learned. After all, he had made Stella secure in the earth. Maybe he had been sent to place her sister in the mountain she knew and loved, making her an eternal part of it.

But it didn’t matter what he was, or where he came from. Enza was sure he had a good heart, raised as he had been by the sisters in the convent, and he filled a yearning within her. There would be time later to wonder why she had let a boy she hardly knew kiss her on Via Scalina. For her, there was no hesitancy, because there was no mystery. She understood him, though she wasn’t sure why.

In this small village, though, there were rules about courting. The thought of a neighbor seeing her, here in the open, kissing a boy quickly brought her to her senses. As usual, her practical nature won over her romantic heart.

“But you love someone else,” she said, making an excuse to step away from him, even though she didn’t want to.

“Sister Teresa says that when one girl breaks your heart, another comes along to mend it.”

Enza smiled. “I’m the best seamstress in Schilpario. Everyone says so. But I don’t know how to help you mend your broken heart. I have one of my own, you know.” Enza ran up the stairs of the rectory and rang the bell. Ciro bounded up after her.

Father Martinelli came to the door. He seemed so much smaller in the doorway than he had at the altar. His white vestment robes and gold sash had made him seem like a giant, but in his black cassock, he had shrunk to the size of an ink blotter.

“Your cloth, Don Martinelli.”

“
Va bene
.
Buona sera
.” Don Martinelli began to close the door. Ciro put his foot in the door frame to prevent the priest from closing it.

“Ignazio Farino says you’re to pay me two lire.”

“You’re an expensive grave digger.”

Father dug in his pocket and handed Ciro two lire. Ciro handed one lira back to Don Martinelli. “For the church.” Ciro said. Don Martinelli took the money, grunted, and closed the door.

“That was kind of you,” Enza said.

“Don’t think highly of me. That was the deal,” Ciro said.

Enza looked up at the night sky, an expanse of lavender with streaks of gold that looked like embroidered threads. A beautiful heaven had welcomed her sister’s soul tonight.

“Where did you stable your horse?” she asked.

“I walked.”

“From Vilminore? You can’t possibly walk over the pass when it’s dark. You could get trampled, or worse.”

Spruzzo wheezed.

“And what about your dog?”

“He’s not my dog.”

“But he follows you everywhere.”

“Because I couldn’t get rid of him. He followed me up here over the pass. I made the mistake of feeding him.”

“He chose you.” Enza knelt down to pet Spruzzo.

Ciro knelt down next to her. “I’d rather
you
chose me.”

Enza looked into Ciro’s eyes, and couldn’t decide if this young man was the type who said pretty things to all the girls, or if he really liked
her
. He wouldn’t be the first boy to take advantage of a sad girl, but Enza decided that she had to trust what she saw in him instead of thinking the worst.

“You know this church is named for Sant’Antonio di Padova, the saint of lost things. That’s a sign. Spruzzo was lost, he found you, and he meant to. You have to keep him.”

“Or what?”

“Or Sant’Antonio will forget you. And when you need him most, when you’re lost, he won’t help you find your way.”

When Enza spoke of the saints, Ciro almost wanted to believe in them. He couldn’t imagine such a personal faith, where saints were at the ready to do the bidding of those on earth. Ciro had buffed every statue at San Nicola, and never once felt the power behind the plaster images. How did this mountain girl know with certainty that the heavenly hosts were watching over her?