The Shoemaker's Wife (20 page)

The girl tugged on his sleeve, motioning him toward a nearby group of men on the dock, but Ciro saw a red parasol moving through the crowd like a periscope.

“No, no, come with me,” the young woman insisted, placing her calfskin-covered hand on Ciro’s forearm. He remembered the soft touch of his mother’s gloved hand.

“Leave him alone!” Signora Zanetti’s voice cut through the din from under her parasol. “Shoo! Shoo!
Puttana!
” she said to the girl.

Carla Zanetti, stout, gray-haired, five feet tall, and sixty, burst forward from the crowd. She was followed by her husband, Remo, who was only slightly taller than she. He had a thick white mustache and a smooth bald head with a fringe of white hair above his collar.

Ciro turned to apologize to the red-haired girl, but she was gone.

“She almost got you,” Remo said.

“Like a spider in a web,” Carla agreed.

“Who was she?” Ciro asked, still turning his head from side to side, searching for the pretty young woman.

“It’s a racket. You go with her and sign up to work in the quarries in Pennsylvania for low wages,” Carla said. “She gets a cut, and you get a life of misery.”

Reeling at this news, Ciro handed her the flowers. “These are for you.”

Carla Zanetti smiled and took the bouquet. She cradled the flowers appreciatively.

“Well, you’ve won her over already, son,” Remo said. “We’ll take a carriage over to Mulberry Street.”

Carla walked in front of the men, leading them through the crowd. Ciro looked back and caught a glimpse of the girl talking with another passenger from steerage. She leaned in and touched his arm, just as she had Ciro’s. He remembered Iggy warning him about women who were too nice too soon.

The carriage careened through the streets, dodging pedestrians, carts, and motorcars. The streets of Little Italy were as narrow as shoelaces. The modest buildings, mostly three-floor structures made of wood, were potchkied together like a pair of patchwork pants. Open seams in walls were sealed with odd ends of metal, drainpipes trailed down the sides of houses in different widths, welded together with flaps of mismatched tin. Some houses were freshly whitewashed, others showed weathered layers of old paint.

The cobblestone streets were crowded with people, and when Ciro looked up, the windows were also filled with faces. Women leaned out of second-story windows to holler for their children or gossip with the neighbors. Stoops spilled over with southern Italians gathered in small groups. It was as if the belly of the ship had been sliced open and docked on the streets of Little Italy. Curls of black smoke from cheap wood puffed out of the chimneys, and the only green was the occasional tufts of treetops, scattered among the tarpaper roofs like random bouquets.

The sounds of city life were a deafening mix of whistles, horns, arguments, and music. Unaccustomed to the clatter, Ciro wondered if he could get used to it. When they arrived on Mulberry Street, he offered to pay the driver, but Remo wouldn’t allow it. Ciro jumped out of the carriage and held his hand out to help Carla. Signora Zanetti nodded at her husband, impressed with Ciro’s fine manners.

A barefoot boy in ragged shorts and a torn shirt approached Ciro and held out his hand. His black hair was chopped off, leaving uneven layers. His thick black eyebrows were expressive triangles, his brown eyes wide and alert.

“
Va, va!
” Carla said to the boy. But Ciro reached into his pocket and handed the boy a coin. He held the coin high and twirled down the sidewalk, joining his friends, who charged back toward Ciro. Remo pulled him into the house before Ciro had a chance to empty his pockets.

The poor of Little Italy were different from those Ciro knew. On the mountain, they wore clothes made of sturdy fabric. Boiled wool was their velvet; buttons and trim were extravagant extras added to clothing worn on feast days, at weddings, and for burial. The New York Italians used the same fabrics to make their clothing, but they accessorized with jaunty hats, gold belt buckles, and shiny buttons. The women wore lipstick and rouge, and gold rings on every finger. They spoke loudly and expressed themselves with theatrical gestures.

In the Italian Alps, this particular kind of presentation was considered ill mannered. In Ciro’s village, when the vendors rolled their carts out on to the colonnade to sell their wares, there was modest stock to choose from, and little room for negotiation of the price. Here, the carts were loaded full, and customers haggled. Ciro came from a place where people were grateful to be able to purchase any small thing. Here, everyone acted entitled to a better deal. Ciro had entered the circus; the show was Italian, but the tent was American.

Back on the mountain, Enza siphoned homemade burgundy wine from a barrel into bottles lined up on a bench in the garden. She closed her eyes and held the bottles up to her nose, distinguishing the scent of the woodsy barrel from the potential bitterness of the grapes. She had begun to cork the bottles when she saw her father and Signor Arduini entering the house.

Enza quickly untied her apron, splattered with clouds of purple, and smoothed her hair. She slipped into the house through the back door. As Marco took the landlord’s hat and pulled out his chair, Enza removed two small glasses from the shelf, poured brandy into the glasses, and placed them before the padrone and her father.

“I always say the Ravanelli children have the best manners on the mountain.” Signor Arduini smiled. Enza looked at him, thinking that if she weren’t so scared of him, and so anxious about the power he wielded over her family, she might actually like him.

“Thank you,” said Marco.

Enza opened a tin, placing several sweet
anginetti
cookies on a plate. She served the men, placing two linen napkins on the table.

“I wish my daughter had Signorina’s grace,” Arduini said.

“Maria is a lovely young woman,” Marco reassured him.

“Lovely and spoiled.” Arduini sighed. “But thank you.”

Enza knew all about the pampered Maria Arduini. She had made her several gowns when she took on odd jobs in the dress shop in town. When Maria couldn’t decide upon a fabric, she would have three gowns made instead of one.

“We’re always happy to see you. What brings you here today?” Marco asked.

“I’ve been meaning to come down the mountain and talk to you about the house.”

“We would like to come to terms on the sale,” Marco began.

“I had hoped to sell it to you,” Signor Arduini said.

Marco continued, “We hope to give you a down payment by the end of summer.”

Enza placed her hand on her father’s arm. “Signor Arduini, you said you
had
hoped to sell it to us. Is that still your plan?”

“I’m afraid it’s no longer possible.”

There was a long silence. Signor Arduini sipped the brandy.

“Signor Arduini, we had an agreement,” Marco said.

“We would like to make an offer to you for the stable,” Signor Arduini said, placing his glass on the table. “You know that it isn’t worth much, but I’m sure we can negotiate a fair price.”

“Let me understand you, Signore. You have reneged on your offer to sell us the house, but you would like to buy my stable, which has been in my family for a hundred years?” Marco asked softly.

“It’s a small stable.” Arduini shrugged.

Infuriated, Enza blurted, “We will never sell the stable!”

Signore Arduini looked at Marco. “Does your daughter speak for you?”

“My father has worked hard to pay a high rent to you for many years in exchange for the opportunity to buy our house outright. You promised him that you would sell as soon as we had a reasonable down payment.”

“Enza.” Marco put his hand on Enza’s.

“My son wants the house,” Arduini said.

Enza was unable to contain her anger. “Your son squanders every lira you give him. He drinks his allowance at the tavern in Azzone.”

“He can raise his son as he pleases. And this is his house, Enza. He can do with it whatever he wants,” Marco said.

Since Stella died, her father’s ambition had all but left him. This current turn of events didn’t seem to surprise him so much as reinforce his sense of helplessness in the inevitable downward spiral of bad luck.

“Signore, you are backing out of a promise. That makes you a liar.” Enza seethed.

“I have been kind to this family for many years, and this is how you thank me. You allow your daughter to say whatever she likes against me. You have until the end of the month to move out.”

“Just a moment ago I had the best manners on the mountain.” Enza’s voice broke.

Arduini stood and placed his hat on his head, a sign of disrespect while he was still inside their home. He left the house without closing the door behind him.

“We’ll have to find a place to live.” Marco was stunned. He’d had no idea the meeting might end this badly.

“Enough renting! Enough living in fear under the thumb of the padrone. We should buy our own house!” Enza said.

“With what?”

“Papa, I can go to America and sew. I hear the girls in the shop talking about it. They have factories and jobs for everyone. I could go and work and send the money home, and when we have enough, I’ll return to take care of you and Mama.”

“I’m not sending you away.”

“Then come with me. You can get a job too—that’s more money for our house. Battista can run the carriage service while we’re gone. Everyone must work!”

Marco sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands, trying to sort through this dilemma.

“Papa, we have no choice.”

Marco looked up at his daughter, too tired to argue, and too defeated to come up with an alternative.

“Papa, we deserve a home of our own. Please. Let me help you.”

But Marco sipped the brandy and looked out through the open door, hoping for a miracle.

Ciro followed Remo and Carla Zanetti into their shop. He found a tidy operation. There was one serviceable main room, with a wide-plank wood floor and a tin ceiling overhead. The pungent scents of leather, lemon wax, and machine oil filled the room. A large worktable was positioned in the center of the room under a saw for cutting leather, surrounded by a series of bright work lights.

The far wall was lined with a sewing machine and a buffing apparatus for finishing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with tools and supplies, and sheets of leather, bolts of fabric, and spools of thread filled the opposite wall. As workspaces went, this one was far more pleasant than the slag pit in the bottom of the SS
Chicago
. Plus, Signora Zanetti looked to be a good cook.

In the back of the shop, Remo showed Ciro a small alcove with a cot, basin, pitcher, and one straight-backed chair, all of which had been cordoned off behind a thick curtain.

“It’s as nice as the convent,” Ciro said as he placed his duffel on the chair. “And better than the ship.”

Remo laughed. “Yes, our apartments in Little Italy are better than steerage. But just barely. It’s God’s way of keeping us humble.” Remo opened the back door of the shop. “That’s my little piece of heaven. Go ahead.”

Ciro followed Remo through the open door to a small enclosed garden. Terra-cotta pots positioned along the top of the stone wall spilled over with red geraniums and orange impatiens. An elm tree with a wide trunk and deep roots filled the center of the garden. Its green leaves and thick branches reached past the roof of Remo’s building, creating a canopy over the garden. There was a small white marble birdbath, gray with soot, flanked by two deep wicker armchairs.

Remo fished a cigarette out of his pocket, offering another to Ciro as both men took a seat. “This is where I come to think.”

“
Va bene
,” Ciro said as he looked up into the tree. He remembered the thousands of trees that blanketed the Alps; here on Mulberry Street, one tree with peeling gray bark and holes in its leaves was a cause for celebration.

“Signor Zanetti,” Ciro began, “I’d like to pay you rent.”

“The agreement is that you’ll work for me, and I’ll provide your room and board.”

“I had that same agreement at the convent, and it did not end well for me. If I pay you, then I’m secure.”

“I’m not looking for a boarder to pay me rent; I need an apprentice. The letter from my cousin, the nun, came at the right moment. I need help. I’ve tried to train a couple of boys here in the neighborhood, but they’re not interested. They want the fast money. Our boys rush to line up for day work on the docks. They’re assigned to crews that build bridges and lay tracks for the railroad. They work long hours and make a good wage, but they aren’t learning a craft. A trade will sustain you, while a job will only feed you temporarily. I think it’s important to be able to make something, whether it’s shoes or sausage. Food, clothing, and shelter are the basic needs of all people. If you master a trade that serves one of those needs, you will work for a lifetime.”

Ciro smiled. “I’ll work hard for you, Mr. Zanetti. But to be honest with you, I have no idea if I have any talent for what you do.”

“I will teach you the technique. Some of us make shoes; then there are the men who do more. They take the same skills I use in the shop to make sturdy shoes, and make art. Either way, you’ll eat. The world will never run out of feet in need of a pair of shoes.”

Ciro and Remo leaned back in the wicker chairs and puffed their cigarettes. The smooth tobacco calmed Ciro after his long journey. He closed his eyes and imagined he was home with Iggy, sharing a smoke in the church garden. Perhaps this little garden on Mulberry Street would be a tonic for his homesickness.

“You like girls, Ciro?” Remo cleared his throat.

“Very much,” Ciro answered honestly.

“You want to be careful, Ciro,” Remo said, lowering his voice.

“Oh, I understand about the red-haired girl on the dock now,” Ciro said, embarrassed. “At first, I didn’t. She just seemed pretty and American.”

“She has a job. But I’m talking about the girls on Mulberry Street, on Hester, and on Grand. They’re about your age, and sometimes there are ten children living in the same three rooms. It gets tiresome for them. The girls want to marry, as soon as possible. So they find a hardworking young man who will provide for them and take them away from the situation they come from.” Remo put his cigarette out on a stone at the bottom of the tree.