The Shoemaker's Wife (25 page)

“Carla, I have orders to fill,” Remo argued.

Carla gave Remo a withering look.

“Ciro, we go to the chapel,” Remo said. “Follow the padrone.”

As Marco burst through the door to Enza’s hospital room and took his daughter into his arms, his heart filled with a joy he had not known since the day she was born. For the first time since they left the mountain, he felt their luck changing. The registrar on Ellis Island had taken his information without question, the man with the gold tooth had given him a ride, and now, his daughter had recovered.

“What did the doctor say?” Marco asked.

“He wants me to stay in the hospital until my headache is gone.”

“Then we’ll stay.”

“But I have to get to work.”

“You get well, and then we’ll go to Hoboken.”

“The doctor wants me to walk.”

Marco helped Enza into her robe. She was shaky as she stood up, but it helped to lean against her father. With his assistance she walked out into the hallway, feeling grateful to be on her feet again.

The polished aqua and white floor tiles glistened. There wasn’t a corner of the hospital that was not scrubbed clean, not a handprint on the painted wall or a pile of sheets in the hallway. The nuns moved swiftly as they tended to the patients, their veils gently fluttering behind them as they went.

The doctors of Saint Vincent’s were confident, not like the old man who came over the mountain on horseback from Azzone when Stella fell sick. These men were young, robust, and direct. They did their work thoroughly and quickly, weaving in and out of rooms like whip stitches. They wore crisp white lab coats and moved through the sea of nuns dressed in blue like the sails on a ship.

Against the bright walls of the hospital corridor, Marco appeared wizened. Enza felt a wave of remorse for what she had put him through. On the mountain, Marco had been like everyone else’s father, a hard worker, intelligent, and devoted to his family. Here, he was just another man in need of a job. Enza felt responsible for him, and sorry that she had convinced him to come to America.

Marco and Enza reached the end of the hallway, where they found the etched glass doors of the chapel entrance. Beams of streetlight filtered through the stained glass, casting a rosy tint over the pews. A few visitors were scattered throughout the chapel; some knelt before the votive trays, while others sat in the pews and prayed. The altar was golden in the candlelight, like a lost coin on a cobblestone street.

Marco pushed the door open gently. They entered the chapel and walked up the center aisle. Enza made the sign of the cross and slid into a pew as Marco genuflected and followed her.

At last, something familiar, something that was just like home. The scent of beeswax reminded Enza of the chapel of Sant’Antonio. Over the altar, a large stained-glass mural in three parts told the story of the Annunciation in shards of midnight blue, rose red, and forest green. On the ceiling, in a china blue inset framed in gold leaf, were the words:

God is Charity

The familiar comforted them; the altar, the pews, the kneelers, and the Latin in the missals provided them with a deserved peace at the end of their long ordeal. The Blessed Mother’s outstretched arms seemed to welcome them, while Saint Vincent’s black robes and wooden rosary beads gave a sense of abiding serenity to these two lost souls hungry for home.

“I was told I will never see my mountain again,” Enza said quietly.

“What do they know about us?” Marco tried to bolster Enza’s spirits, but when he looked at his daughter, she seemed so small to him now, so vulnerable. Marco wished Giacomina was there to counsel her. He always left the big problems to his wife; she seemed to know just what to say to the children to soothe them. He couldn’t imagine how to solve this new problem. What
would
they do if Enza couldn’t return home? He sighed deeply, and decided all he could do was encourage Enza to move ahead with their plan. “You have to believe,” Marco said, “that we came this far for a purpose.” When the words came out of his mouth, he realized he meant them as much for himself as he did for his daughter.

Enza rose from the pew and followed her father down the aisle. Marco pushed the door of the chapel open.

“Enza? Enza Ravanelli?”

Enza heard her name said aloud in a familiar accent. She looked up to see Ciro Lazzari, who she had not seen since she left him at the convent entrance months ago. Her heart began to race at the sight. For a moment, she wondered if this meeting was real, when he had only lived in her dreams.

“It
is
you!” Ciro stood back and took her in. “I don’t believe it. What are you doing here? Are you here to visit? Work? Do you have people here?” As he asked her every question he could think of, Enza closed her eyes, took in the soft tones of her native language, and grew homesick on the spot.

“Who is this?” Carla Zanetti snapped.

“These are my friends from the mountain. This is Signor Ravanelli and his eldest daughter, Enza.”

Carla made fast work of sizing up the Ravanellis. She could see that Enza was not another girl from Mulberry Street looking to trap a husband, have a baby, and secure an apartment. This girl was an old friend from Ciro’s province; she traveled with her father, and was therefore respectable.

Ciro explained how he had met the Ravanelli family to Carla, who softened as she heard the story. Keep talking, Enza thought, drinking this conversation in like the first sips of cold water after the long journey.

“Why are you in the hospital?” Ciro asked her.

“Why are you in a chapel?” Enza countered.

Ciro threw his head back and laughed. “I was forced to give thanks that I didn’t lop off my entire hand.” Ciro showed her the bandage.

“My daughter fell ill on the ship,” Marco explained.

“A little sea sickness,” Enza said.

“She almost died,” Marco corrected her. “She was in the hospital aboard ship the entire time. We were terrified. I thought I would lose her.”

“I’m fine,” she said to Ciro. “There’s nothing to worry about now, Papa.”

Carla and Remo led Marco out of the chapel, leaving Enza and Ciro alone. She took his hand in hers, tucking the loose end of the gauze under the tight bandage. “What happened to you? Are you a butcher?”

“A shoemaker’s apprentice.”

“That’s an excellent trade. A shoemaker’s children never go barefoot. Do you remember that expression from the mountain?” She smiled.

Ciro was more of everything than she remembered; taller for sure, seemingly stronger, and his eyes a more vivid color, reminding her of the cliffs above Schilpario, where the branches of the deep green juniper trees met the bright blue sky. She noticed that Ciro carried himself differently. He possessed a particular swagger, an upright posture and a deliberate carriage, which Enza eventually, when she looked back on this moment, would identify as American. He even wore the uniform of the working class—durable wool work trousers with a thin leather belt, a pressed chambray shirt worn over an undershirt, and on his feet, proper brown leather work boots with rawhide laces.

“I should have written to you,” he said.

Enza took in the phrase
should have
, which she hoped meant that he
wanted
to write to her, not that he was obligated to do so. She said, “I went to the convent to see you, and the nun told me you were gone. She wouldn’t say where.”

“There was some trouble,” he explained. “I left in a hurry. There was no time to say good-bye to anyone except the sisters.”

“Well, whatever it was, I’m on your side.” She smiled shyly.

“
Grazie.
” Ciro blushed. He put his hand to his face and rubbed his cheek, as if to remove the pink flush of embarrassment. Now he remembered why he liked Enza; it wasn’t simply her dark beauty, it was her ability to get to the heart of things. “Are you going to Little Italy? We have a carriage. Most Italians go to Little Italy or Brooklyn.”

“We’re going to Hoboken.”

“That’s across the river,” Ciro said. “It’s not very far.” He seemed to think the distance over. “Can you believe I found you again?”

“I don’t think you were looking very hard,” she teased him.

“How do you know?”

“Intuition. It must have been very hard for you to leave the mountain.”

“It was.” Ciro could admit this to Enza, who came from the same place. He tried not to think about the mountain very much. He threw himself into his work, and when the day was done, he carefully laid out his leather and patterns for the next day. He allowed himself little time for outside amusement. It was as if he knew that the work would sustain him more than other pursuits. “Why did you leave?” Ciro asked her.

“You remember our stone house on Via Scalina? Well, the padrone broke his promise to us. We need a new house.”

Ciro nodded sympathetically.

“And how’s your padrone?” She motioned down the hallways toward Carla Zanetti.

“I didn’t know there were women like her in the world,” Ciro admitted.

“Maybe it’s good you find that out now.” Enza laughed.

“There you are!” Felicitá Cassio whisked down the hallway toward them. She wore a fashionable full skirt in a dusty-purple-and-white-striped silk with a matching shirtwaist in white. The hem of the skirt was hiked an inch to reveal a small fringe of cut lace, and lavender calfskin shoes tied with matching satin bows. She wore a proper straw hat with a white grosgrain ribbon band, and kid gloves upon her hands. Enza couldn’t help but admire the young woman’s dress and accessories.

Felicitá took Ciro’s wounded hand and kissed it. “What did you do?”

Enza’s heart sank as she realized Ciro and Felicitá were sweethearts. Of course he had a girlfriend, why wouldn’t he? And of course she would be beautiful. She was also stylish and bold, seemingly a perfect match for the new Ciro, the American Ciro. Enza’s face burned with embarrassment. While she had been dreaming of the boy from the convent, the last thing on his mind had been the girl from Schilpario.

“I can’t take my eyes off of you for a second!” Felicitá said. “Elizabetta told me you were bleeding all over Mulberry Street.”

“She should sell mozzarella instead of gossiping,” Ciro said, clearly embarrassed by the show of attention.

Ciro looked at Enza, who no longer met his gaze. Felicitá turned to face Enza. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Enza Ravanelli is a friend of mine from home,” Ciro said softly. Enza glanced up at him; she’d heard something in his voice, possibly regret.

“He has such a big heart,” Felicitá said, placing her gloved hand upon Ciro’s chest. Enza noticed how small Felicitá’s hand looked by comparison. “I’m not surprised that he makes a point to visit the sick.”

Ciro was about to correct Felicitá when Marco interrupted them.

“Enza, you should rest now.”

Nodding dutifully, Enza pulled the collar of her robe up around her neck. She wished her robe was made not of thick industrial cotton, but of silk charmeuse that made a soft swishing sound when a girl walked away from a handsome fellow she once had kissed.

“Enza, we’ll walk you back to your room,” Ciro said.

“No, no, the Zanettis are waiting for you. Besides, I know the way,” Enza said as she turned to walk down the hallway. She tried to walk away quickly, but she found that the steps back to her room were painful for an altogether different reason. There was no doubt: Ciro Lazzari had fallen in love with someone else.

Chapter 13

A WOODEN CLOTHESPIN
Una Molletta di Legno

T
he leaves of the old elm in the courtyard behind the Zanetti Shoe Shop on Mulberry Street had turned a dull gold and fallen to the ground like confetti at the end of a parade. Ciro propped the door open with a can of machine oil. The cool autumn breeze floated over the worktable, rustling the pattern paper. Ciro adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the book he was reading.

The scar on Ciro’s hand from the accident with the lathe had taken almost six years to fade. By the fall of 1916, the thin red gash that crossed his lifeline on his palm had faded to pink. Ciro was concerned about the mystical implication of the placement of this wound, so he had his palm read on Bleecker Street. As Gloria Vale held his open palm, she assured him that he would have more riches in this life than his heart could hold. But, he noticed, she never told him how long this blessed life would be. When Carla heard of the palm reading, she sniffed, “Another woman charmed by Ciro Lazzari.”

“I finished the order,” Ciro said without looking up as Remo entered the shop.

“What are you reading?”

“A manual about how to build women’s shoes. A salesman left these samples, and it got me to thinking.”

In response to Remo’s quizzical look, he added, “There are a lot of people in New York City, and half of them are women.”

“True,” Remo said. “And you’d be the first fellow to count them one by one.”

Ciro laughed. “Look.” He fanned a dozen small squares of leather out on the table. There was soft calfskin dyed pale green, a pebble leather the color of red licorice, and a deep brown suede the exact shade of
pot de crème
. “
Bella
, no? If we make women’s shoes, we double our business on the spot. But Signora doesn’t like the idea.”

“Carla doesn’t want women in the shop. She’s afraid you’ll take your mind off your work.” Remo laughed. “Or that I will.”

“She has it all wrong. I don’t want to make ladies’ shoes to meet women, I want to make them to challenge myself. And I’ll take any advice you have for me. A master must be a master to the apprentice in all respects. Benvenuto Cellini said so in his autobiography.”

“I haven’t read a book in twenty years. Once again, the apprentice surpasses the master. I’m almost obsolete. You’re not only smarter than me, you’re a better shoemaker.”

“Then why is your name on the door?” Ciro teased him. “You know, Cellini dictated his autobiography to his assistant.”

“You should write down my wisdom before I die and it’s forgotten.”