The Shoemaker's Wife (24 page)

Enza opened her eyes in a hospital room that had the scent of ammonia. For the first time since she left Le Havre, the room did not spin, and her body did not have the sensation of free-falling. She had awoken to a pounding headache, and her eyes had trouble focusing, but she was no longer in the state of agonizing constant motion. She had no memory of the transport from the ship to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. She didn’t remember her first ride through Greenwich Village in the back of a horse-drawn ambulance. She did not take note of the trees in bloom, or the windowboxes stuffed with yellow marigolds.

As Enza attempted to sit up, a searing pain split her head from top to bottom. “Papa?” she called out fearfully.

A slim young nun in a navy blue habit eased Enza back down onto the pillow. “Your father is not here,” she said in English.

Baffled at the new language, Enza began to cry.

“Wait. Let me get Sister Josephine. She speaks Italian.” The nun turned to leave. “Don’t move!” The nun grabbed Enza’s chart and went.

Leaning back against her pillow, Enza surveyed the room.

Her travel clothes were neatly folded on a chair. She looked down at her white hospital gown. A needle was bound with a bandage into the skin of her hand. She followed the tube to a glass jar filled with liquid. There was a small pulsing pain in her hand where the needle met the vein. She bit her dry lips. She reached for a glass of water on the small table and drank it down in a single gulp. It was not enough.

A second nun pushed the door open. “
Ciao,
Signorina,” Sister Josephine said, then continued in Italian, “I’m from Avellino on the Mediterranean.” Sister Josephine had a full face, tawny skin, and a straight, prominent nose. She pulled up a chair next to Enza’s bed, filled the empty water glass, and gave it to Enza.

“I’m from Schilpario,” Enza said in a scratchy voice, “on the mountain above Bergamo.”

“I know the place. You’re a long way from home. How did you get here?”

“We were on the
Rochambeau
from Le Havre, France. Can you help me find my father?”

The nun nodded, clearly relieved to find her patient so lucid. “We were informed that he had to process through Ellis Island.”

“Does he know where I am?”

“Yes, he was told to meet you here at Saint Vincent’s.”

“How will he find me? He doesn’t speak English. We were going to learn some basic phrases on the trip, but then I got sick.”

“There are plenty of people in Manhattan who speak Italian.”

“But what if he doesn’t find someone who can?” Enza was panicked.

Sister Josephine’s face showed her surprise that the daughter was in charge of the father. Yet Enza knew that Marco had not been the same man since Stella died. To be fair, no one in the family had been the same since they lost her. Enza doubted they would have made the decision to come to America if Stella had lived. She couldn’t explain to Sister Josephine how loss had led to a plan, then to action, how precarious everything had seemed after Stella’s sudden death, and how desperate she felt to help the Ravanellis forge a more secure life for themselves.

“Your father will find his way to you,” Sister Josephine reassured her.

“Sister, what’s wrong with me?” Enza asked. “Why have I been so ill?”

“Your heartbeat all but disappeared from low blood pressure in reaction to the motion. You almost died on that ship. You’ll never be able to travel by boat again.”

The nun’s words cut worse than any pain she had endured on the crossing. The thought of never seeing her mother again was too much to bear. “I’ll never be able to go home.” Enza began to cry.

“You mustn’t worry about that yet,” Sister Josephine interjected before Enza’s despair could spiral further out of control. “You just got here. First you must get well. Let me guess, you’re going to Brooklyn.”

“Hoboken.”

“Do you have a sponsor?”

“A distant cousin on Adams Street.”

“And you’re going to work?”

“I sew,” Enza said. “I hope I can get a job quickly.”

“There are factories on every block. Hasn’t anyone told you? Anything is possible in America.”

“So far that hasn’t been true, Sister.” Enza lay back on the pillow.

“A practical girl for a change.” Sister looked around and then back at Enza. “You must know that they don’t give you your papers unless you’re a dreamer.”

“I wrote ‘seamstress’ as my occupation. That’s what’s on the ship’s manifest of the
Rochambeau
,” Enza said, closing her eyes. “I didn’t think to write ‘dreamer.’ ”

Marco Ravanelli stood at the railway platform in lower Manhattan with a few lire in his pocket, his duffel, Enza’s suitcase, and a small slip of paper with an address upon it. The processing through Ellis Island had taken most of the day, as the Greek and Turkish onboard came with multiple family members, adding to the slow grind of the process.

For all Marco knew, Saint Vincent’s Hospital might be a thousand miles away. He was exhausted from the interminable lines at Ellis Island and terrified at the uncertainty he faced. Marco wondered if the American doctors had saved Enza. His beautiful daughter, whom he had held on the day she was born in the same blanket that had held him, might already have died in the long hours he had been away from her side. He wanted to pray for his daughter’s life, but he couldn’t find the will or the words to do so.

Marco gave in to the emotions of the long day and cried.

The sight of this newly arrived immigrant, obviously a proud man with troubles, standing alone next to his cloth duffels in boiled wool clothing and a dingy shirt, filled a driver on the carriage line with compassion. He jumped off his perch and headed toward the man.

“Hey, Bud, you all right?”

Marco looked up at a burly American man, around his age. He wore a plaid cap, vest, and work pants. He had the flat nose of a prizefighter, and a plain gold tooth in the front of his mouth shimmered like a window. Marco was taken aback by the man’s gregarious manner, but welcomed the sound of his friendly voice. “You look like you lost your best friend. You speak English?”

Marco shook his head.

“I speak a little Italian.
Spaghetti. Ravioli. Radio. Bingo
.” The stranger threw his head back and laughed. “Where are you going?”

Marco looked at him blankly.

“Do you mind?” The stranger took the piece of paper from Marco. “You have to go to the hospital?”

Marco heard the word
hospital
and nodded vigorously.

“Joe, this hospital is about two miles from here. If you didn’t have the bags, you could walk. You Catholic?” The stranger made the sign of the cross.

Marco nodded, dug into his shirt, and pulled out a devotional medal on a chain he wore around his neck.

“You’re Catholic, all right. You gonna work for them?” he asked. “They got a lot of jobs at the hospital. And them nuns will find you a place to stay too. They’re good about that. Something about those habits makes ’em want to help people. They wear veils with wings, makes you think they’re fairies, flying around doing good works. Now, just nuns I’m talking about. Not women in general, if you know what I’m saying. They don’t wear the wings, and they don’t fly. They got other pluses. And the first plus: they ain’t nuns.” The driver threw his head back again and laughed.

Marco smiled. He may not have understood the words, but the animated delivery by this stranger was entertaining.

“Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna do a good deed for the hell of it. I’m gonna give you a lift to Saint Vincent’s.” The stranger pointed to his horse and carriage. Marco understood the man and nodded appreciatively.

“My treat.” The driver snapped his fingers. “
Regalo.
”

Marco formed his hands in the prayer position. “
Grazie, grazie
.”

“Not that I’m a good Catholic or nothin’,” the man said as he picked up Marco’s bags. Marco followed him to the carriage. “I’m planning on repenting at the very end of my life, when I’m takin’ that last gasp. I’m the kind of guy who eats a rib eye rare on Good Friday. I know, I know, it’s a mortal sin. Or maybe it’s venial. See that? I don’t even know the difference. The point is, I wouldn’t mind seeing the face of God once I’m on the other side, but I got a hard time with rules on this one. Ya know what I mean?”

Marco shrugged.

“Hey, what am I doin’, unloading on you when you got your own problems. Ya look like a sad sack, my friend, like ya just heard the most miserable opera they ever wrote.”

Marco nodded.

“Ya like the opera? All them Italian guys, Puccini, Verdi . . . I know about ’em. How about the Great Caruso? He’s one of youse guys too. I seen him for twenty-five cents at the Met. Standing room. Ya gotta go to the Met sometime.”

As Marco climbed into the carriage, the driver hoisted the bags on to the bench next to him. The driver with the gold tooth climbed up to his perch and took the reins.

For the first time since he’d left Schilpario, Marco had caught a lucky break. He sank into the leather seat and held hope in his heart like a hundred stars.

Ciro practically filled up the tiny examination room on the second floor of Saint Vincent’s Hospital. He was so tall, his head nearly touched the ceiling before he sat down on the table. A young nun in blue, who had introduced herself as Sister Mary Frances, wrapped a clean bandage around the stitches that sealed the wound on his hand.

Remo and Carla stood against the wall and watched her bind Ciro’s hand. In the months since Ciro had arrived and breathed new life and energy into the shop, the childless couple had begun to enjoy a late-in-life experience of parenting. Even their styles in that regard were different. Remo thought of the pain Ciro was in, while Carla thought of the lost hours the accident would cost her.

“I could’ve used you this morning,” Sister Mary Frances said as she wrapped the bright white strips of cloth around Ciro’s hand. “We admitted an Italian girl, and I couldn’t communicate with her.”

“Is she pretty?” Ciro asked. “I’ll be her translator.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Carla said.

“How did you learn English?” Sister asked Ciro.

“The girls on Mulberry Street,” Carla answered for him, and cackled.

“There you have it, Signora,” Ciro said to Carla. “It pays for me to spend time with the girls. I learn English, and I learn about life.”

“You know enough about life,” Carla said drily.

“How bad is the wound, Sister?” Ciro asked.

“It’s quite a gash. I want you to keep the wound covered, and don’t think of pulling out the stitches yourself. You come back, and I’ll take them out. About three weeks?”

“Three weeks in a bandage?” Ciro complained. “I have to make shoes.”

“Do whatever you can one-handed,” Sister told him.

Enza watched the sun as it slipped past the trees over Greenwich Village. From her hospital window on Seventh Avenue, Enza saw rows of connected houses. The colors of New York City were new to her, burnt orange and earthy browns with an apricot glaze so different from the vivid blues and soft greens of her mountain town. If light itself was different in this new country, imagine what else would be.

Sister Josephine wrote,
Enza Ravanelli
. “Is that your full name?”

“Vincenza Ravanelli.” She corrected the nun without taking her eyes off the streets below. She couldn’t imagine what was taking her father so long.

“Did you know this hospital is called San Vincenzo’s?”

Enza turned to her and smiled.

Sister asked, “Do you believe in signs?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Me too. Well, that’s a good omen.”

“Where is Hoboken from here?” Enza asked.

“Not far at all. Look out the window. It’s across the Hudson River, where the sun sets.”

“What’s it like?”

“Crowded.”

“Is every place in America crowded?”

“No, there are places in America that are just wide open spaces, with nothing but rolling hills and fields. There are lots of farms in places like Indiana and Illinois.”

“I’ll never get that far,” Enza says. “We came to make money to buy our house. As soon as we do, we’ll go home.”

“We all come here thinking that we’ll go home. And then, this becomes home.”

The driver hopped down from his perch and helped Marco with his luggage. Marco looked up at the hospital entrance; the sandstone building took up an entire block. Marco reached in his pocket for his money.

“This is on me, buddy.” The driver smiled.

“Please,” Marco said.

“Nope.” The stranger climbed back on his perch. “
Arrivederci
, pal.” He drove off into the darkness whistling, with the light heart of a man who’d just done a good deed.

Marco approached a young Irish nun who managed the arrival desk, outfitted with a telephone and a large black leather-bound book with an inkwell. A row of low benches around the outside walls of the room were filled with patients.

“
Parla Italiano
?” Marco said.

“Who are you looking for?” she replied in English.

Marco did not understand.

“Are you ill?” she asked. “You look all right. Is it a job you’re after?”

Marco indicated that he didn’t understand her. He grabbed a fountain pen off the desk, wrote down his daughter’s name, and frantically waved it at the nun.

She read the name and checked it against her ledger. “Yes, she’s here. I’ll take you up to three.”

Marco bowed and said, “
Mille grazie
.” He followed the nun up the stairs to the third floor, taking them two at a time. As he passed the second-floor landing, the door opened as Ciro, Remo, and Carla turned to descend the stairs.

“That guy just landed,” Ciro said, watching Marco bound past them.

“Remember your first day?” Remo asked. “We almost lost you to the port hustlers wearing French perfume.”

Ciro and Remo made their way down the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Carla asked Remo and Ciro as she stood on the landing above them.

“Back to the shop,” Remo said.

“Oh, no. We go to the chapel and give thanks for the speedy recovery of Ciro’s hand.”