The Shoemaker's Wife (22 page)

“I don’t want another cameo.”

“I thought you liked the cameo.”

“It’s all right. I’d rather have something with shine.”

“Let your fiancé buy you a stone with shine,” Ciro said.

“I’m not ready to get married.”

“Your parents made a match.” Ciro slipped into his shoes. “You’re obligated.”

“I don’t always do what they say. After all, you’re here—” As Felicitá stood, the sheet fell away.

Ciro took in her golden skin, soft curves, and sleek lines. She resembled the statues in the church of San Nicola. He pulled her close and buried his face in her thick hair, with its scent of sweet vanilla. “You know I’m a lost soul.”

“Don’t say that.” Felicitá kissed his cheek. “I found you. Remember?”

Felicitá pulled on her robe and walked Ciro to the front door of the apartment. She lifted a blood orange from the bowl on the table and gave it to him, along with a good-bye kiss. Ciro slipped out of Felicitá’s building and walked back to Mulberry Street.

He peeled the orange and ate it as he walked through Little Italy. The orange was sweet, the September air cool, and the sky teal blue. The seasons were changing, and so was Ciro’s point of view. It was after making love, when he felt satisfied, that Ciro did his best thinking.

He thought about Felicitá. She had been good to him. Felicitá had taught him English, as she spoke both English and Italian. She mended his clothes and replaced buttons on his coat. He imagined he was in love with her, but his feelings did not consume him, and not just because she was betrothed to another. He had always believed true love would overwhelm, capture, and guide him to the safe shores of fidelity like a boat made of fine wood, varnished against the elements. But it hadn’t, not yet anyway, and not with Felicitá. He was waiting to feel that deep attachment take hold within his heart. He knew for sure it existed. He remembered it on the mountain. He remembered his mother and father.

The wind whistled through the trees as Enza made her way up Via Scalina toward home. She heard the hinges on the gate as she passed the old house they used to rent, the light of a new family pouring out of its front windows. The Arduinis had turned around and rented it to another family as soon as the Ravanellis moved out. Next door, her father’s stable was dark, the windows latched, the doors chained, and had been so since Cipi died. The night air had the scent of oncoming snow, but in October, it was early for the storms.

Enza pushed the front door of the house on Gondolfo Street open. Her mother and father sat at the farm table, which took up most of the space in the smaller kitchen of this house. Every important family document lay neatly on the table. The brown tin money box rested by Mama’s accounting book, which had a series of figures recorded on a fresh page marked with the date. Papa rolled a cigarette while Mama wrote in the ledger, as Enza took off her coat and hung it on the hook.

“You’re so late, Enza,” Giacomina said.

“I know, Mama. It was my last day at the dress shop, and I didn’t want to leave Signora with a lot of work to do.” She fished in her apron pocket. “She gave me ten lire for the trip.” Enza placed the money in the box on the table.

“She should’ve given you fifty,” Giacomina said.

“Mama. It was a
gift
. You taught me to be grateful for them, no matter how small.” Enza went behind her mother and wrapped her arms around her. “You’re the best mother on the mountain. You taught me good manners and . . . patience. That’s why I expect so little from cheap bosses like Signora Sabatino. Besides, we don’t need her money. We saved all year long, and we have our passage.”

“Which is the money we usually use to survive the winter.”

“Mama, as soon as Papa and I get to America, we’ll get jobs and start sending you money. Please don’t worry,” Enza said. “Your tin box will be full by Christmas.”

“Maybe we should go in the spring, Enza,” Marco said.

Enza was tired of arguing with her father. He agreed to the plan, and then doubted Enza’s logic. Marco had had a terrible time making decisions since Stella died. Enza gradually took on more responsibility as her father grieved.

Enza spoke kindly but firmly to her father. “Papa, we’ve thought about this long enough. If we work hard for the rest of our lives in Schilpario, we will never save enough to buy a house. We need to make real wages. The scraps from summer tourists will never be enough. We’ll go to America, make the money, and come back as soon as we can. It’s the only way. Someday we’ll have the life we dreamed of.”

Giacomina handed an envelope to Enza. “From my cousin.”

Enza read the back of the envelope:
Pietro Buffa, 318 Adams Street, Hoboken, New Jersey.
“What’s he like, Mama?”

“I don’t know him very well. I know that he has a wife and three sons, and the sons have wives, and some have children. There’s a lot of work there for you to do.”

Enza tucked the letter into her apron pocket. She would find work in a factory and, in exchange for room and board, cook and clean for the Buffa family. How hard could it be? She had been helping her mother since she could remember.

Eliana came out of the bedroom. “I wish we could all go with you.”

“How long will it take you to make enough to buy a horse? Because I will keep the stable going until Papa returns,” Vittorio asked from his cot.

“We’ll make enough for a new horse,” Enza promised. “And then enough to build our own house.”

“You stay here and help Mama, and we’ll be back before you know it,” Marco said.

Enza smiled at her father gratefully. “As fast as we can.”

“What if you like America more and forget about us?” Alma said from her loft bed above the kitchen.

“That will never happen,” Papa assured her.

“I’m going to get a job sewing, and Papa will build all sorts of things: bridges, railroads.”

“Whatever they need,” Marco said.

“Just picture the house,” Enza said. “And it will come true.”

“Then we’ll be like Signor Arduini,” Battista said from his cot.

“Except Papa looks better in hats,” Enza said.

It seemed the entire village of Schilpario came out to see Enza and Marco Ravanelli off on their journey.

Their friends showered them with gifts—small soaps scented with peppermint from the Valle di Scalve, tins of cookies, and knit gloves that Giacomina carefully wrapped in brown paper and packed into their cloth duffels.

Battista walked Marcello Casagrande’s horse, a sleek black mare named Nerina, pulling the Ravanelli carriage, up to the street in front of the house. He climbed up onto the seat and took the reins.

When Enza climbed up to sit on the bench of the carriage, she looked down at the faces of neighbors and friends she had known since she was a girl, faces that expressed worry, apprehension, and support. From their smiles she drew confidence to go to America and do what she must for her family; seeing their tears, she felt regret that she could not achieve the same goal by staying at home.

Marco climbed up into the seat next to his daughter. Battista leaned forward and patted Nerina’s mane.

As the carriage pulled away, Giacomina waved her handkerchief and began to cry. She had a terrible feeling about the trip, but she didn’t share her worries with Enza. Enza was brave, and Giacomina would never tell her not to follow her heart’s desire. But she warned Marco to take especially good care of their daughter; when she had the bad dream, it was about Enza.

The dream had recurred over several months, after Cipi’s death and the decision to send Enza and Marco to America. Lately, Giacomina had dreaded falling asleep. The details were always the same, which made the dream seem true after a time. Giacomina pictured Enza aboard an ocean liner in a terrible storm, with deafening thunder and streaks of lightning illuminating sickly green waves that pummeled the ship.

Enza, in her traveling clothes, would grip the railing on the deck. Giacomina could see every detail of her daughter’s hands—the slim blue veins, the tapered fingers, the trim white nails. As the storm swirled around her, Enza cried and held on. Giacomina then appeared in her own dream, crawling across the deck to save her daughter. Just as she reached to grab Enza’s cloak, a towering black wave stretching as high as a masthead bludgeoned the deck, swallowing Enza. Giacomina would call out for her lost daughter, then wake in sheer panic. Leaping out of bed, she would climb the ladder to the loft to find her daughter safely asleep. No amount of prayer would stop the nightmare, and no matter how Giacomina tried to let go of the image of her daughter aboard the ill-fated ship, she could not.

As Giacomina waved good-bye, she thought of the dream. She knew in her heart that it was the last time she would see Enza.

As Nerina clopped through the narrow streets of Schilpario, Enza turned to take one last look at Pizzo Camino, and the eternal white peaks of the Italian Alps that towered over the rolling green hills of the Orobie Prealps. She had been born and baptized on this mountain. She promised herself she would return and raise her children here; and someday, when she was old, she would be buried next to Stella under the blue angel.

It didn’t occur to Enza to be sad that circumstances were so dire that she and her father had to leave their family to make enough money to buy a house. As she had always done, she would imagine the house in her dreams and build it beam by beam. The goal was to come home as quickly as possible. That dream would fuel her ambition. She would work as many hours a day as she could stand, save every penny, and return to Schilpario as soon as possible. There was no regret on this day, only hope. The Ravanellis had plenty of love, and now they wanted security. Marco and Enza would see to it that they had both.

As they passed the church of Sant’Antonio da Padova, Enza made the sign of the cross. As they approached the cemetery, she asked her brother to stop the cart.

Enza climbed down from the bench, opened the wrought-iron gate to the cemetery, and walked the gravel path to the family grave. Standing before the small angel on the marble headstone, she prayed for her sister.

Gravel crunched behind her as her father joined her by the grave.

“What it is about grief, Papa? It never leaves you.”

“It’s there to remind us of what we had,” he answered. “It’s a terrible trick played on the living.”

Enza lifted a chain from around her neck and slipped a medal of the Sacred Heart off its bale. She kissed it and placed it on Stella’s grave.

“We should go,” Marco said. “Or we’ll miss our train.”

Marco put his arm around his daughter and walked her out of the cemetery.

As Nerina descended the mountain pass, the old carriage bounced over the pits and grooves in the Passo Presolana. Rainstorms had pounded the road and flooded the surface, wearing the gravel away, leaving streaks of cinnamon-colored mud. Enza would remember the exact shade of that color, and when she sewed, she would often choose a similar rich, reddish brown in wool and velvet, a hue that held meaning and memory for her.

If only Enza had known that this would be the last time she’d descend this mountain and overlook the gorge, she might have paid closer attention. If she had known that this would be the last time her mother held her in her arms, she might have clung to her more tightly. If she had known that she would not see her brothers and sisters again, she might have listened more carefully to every word said that day. In the years to come, when she yearned for the comfort of her family, she would conjure this day and try to recall omens and clues.

Enza would have done everything differently. She would have taken her time to acknowledge that one part of her life was ending and a new era had begun. She would have held Alma’s hand longer, given Eliana the gold chain she had always coveted, and told one final joke to Vittorio. She would have touched her mother’s face. Maybe, if she knew what lay ahead, she would never have made the decision to leave Schilpario in the first place.

Enza might also have noticed that the shadows beneath the Pizzo Camino were more menacing than they had ever been; but she didn’t see them. She wasn’t looking up, and she wasn’t looking back; instead, she kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She was thinking about America.

Chapter 12

A FOUNTAIN PEN
Una Penna da Scrivere

T
he SS
Rochambeau
was twelve hours out of the port of Le Havre when Marco was summoned from steerage to the ship’s hospital on the second tier.

The sleek, elegant ship was French built, with a midnight blue hull, whitewashed decks, and brass bindings. It graced the ocean like fine French couture, but below the waterline, it was no different from the worst Greek and Spanish ships. Bunk beds, three to a cell, were made of thick canvas, reeked of vomit, and were stained with the sickness of prior passengers. The accommodations in steerage were primitive, the maintenance minimal: floors swabbed with ammonia and hot water between crossings, and not much more.

There was one large dining room for third class. The rough-hewn tables and benches were nailed to the floor. It had no windows and was lit by the flames of gaslights that spit coils of black soot into the cavernous space. Meals prepared with beans, potatoes, and corn, stretched with boiled barley and served with black bread, were typical. Once, in the nine-day crossing, they were served beef stew with gristle of meat, family style.

Once a day, the passengers in the belly of the ship were encouraged to go up to the deck for fresh air and sun. Many chose to sleep on the deck through the night, to avoid the overcrowded conditions in the accommodations below. The cold night air and ocean storms, it turned out, could be as perilous to their health as the cramped conditions in the cabins below. Many contracted coughs they could not shake, influenza, and fevers, for which there was nothing but mustard plasters and weak tea.

While on the deck below, the passengers in steerage could hear the tinkling of champagne glasses, the strings of the orchestra, and the sandy shuffle of feet as the first-class passengers danced through the night above them. In the morning, they were awakened by the heady scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls drenched in butter baking in the ovens in the upper-class kitchen. When the steerage passengers went below for their own breakfast, there were vats of scorched black coffee, cups of cold milk, and heels of day-old bread with butter.