The Shoemaker's Wife (30 page)

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Enza said drily. “You flirt with your girlfriend ten feet from you—on a roof, no less. Don’t you worry she’ll hear you and throw you off?”

“If she did, you’d catch me, wouldn’t you?”

Enza laughed, but couldn’t imagine why. She felt like crying. Maybe it was the cookies and the champagne, but she was filled with both hunger and regret. So much time had passed since she had seen Ciro, and every moment of it felt wasted.

“I miss the mountain this time of year,” he said. “Do you?”

“Stream Vò turns silvery gray, and the cliffs turn from bright green to nutmeg.”

“Do you think anyone but us thinks of Stream Vò?”

“They think the Hudson River is glorious. It’s only beautiful if you’ve never seen the rivers on the mountain. I can’t help it, I compare everything to home.”

“How’s your family?”

“Still on the mountain. Papa took a job in California. How’s your brother?”

“He’s in the seminary in Rome.”

“A priest in the family. You’re blessed.”

“You think so? I’d rather have him here in America with me. But I also know that he is doing what he loves, so I accept it.”

Enza looked off over the rooftops. She was so happy on this old bench in this moment. Ciro was sitting next to her. After years of wondering what that would feel like again, now she knew. She wished the moment could last her whole life long.

It was as if Ciro could sense what she was feeling. “The world just got smaller, didn’t it? You found me again,” he whispered.

“It wasn’t hard. I walked down Mulberry Street.”

“I know, I know, it was an accident. But really, are there accidents? Or does fate determine time and place and opportunity?”

“I don’t know—for a shoemaker’s apprentice you sound like Plutarch.”

“I don’t know him. I read Cellini.”

“Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography?” Enza asked.

“You know it?”

“I read it on the mountain. My teacher gave it to me. He thought I would grow up to be an artist.”

“And have you?”

“I don’t know. A lot of artists work in factories.” Enza smiled. “And some even make shoes.”

“I’m not nearly the artist he was,” Ciro said shyly.

“But I bet you’re a better man. Cellini was horrible to his wife and children. He was jealous, he maimed and murdered, he practically invented the vendetta. So you’d better stop talking to me and pay some attention to the May Queen, or we’ll see some old Sicilian curses thrown around here like party streamers.”

Ciro laughed. “I like your hat.”

“You would.”

Soon the fireworks filled the sky over Little Italy as swizzles of blue, yellow, and pink exploded on a swath of purple. Ciro and Enza joined the other guests. Enza drank champagne and nibbled on the biscotti with the women, while Ciro smoked with Remo and Luigi as they watched the colors ricochet overhead, an explosion of colored stars as far as their eyes could see.

Enza glanced up at the fireworks, but kept looking at Ciro, as if to memorize every detail of him. What a beautiful man he had grown up to be. No wonder the girls of Little Italy hoped to marry him. The fireworks ended with more colors and more cannon fire, the loud booms rattling Little Italy.

“That’s the show,” Carla said, throwing back the final slug of her champagne.

Enza went to the hosts. “Thank you for a wonderful night,” she said to Remo and Carla. She said her good-byes to Felicitá, Pappina, and Luigi.

Enza remembered that it was important to know when to leave a party; it was as gracious as arriving on time. Enza seized the right moment to depart, before it got awkward, before the lines were drawn among the guests and decisions were made: who left with whom. There wasn’t much to clean up on the roof, the glasses cluttered the tray, and the cookies had been eaten. It was time to go.

“I’ll walk you ladies out,” Ciro said, following Enza and Laura down the stairs, through the dark apartment and through the shop. As they reached the door, Enza turned and asked Ciro, “Where do you stay?”

“I’ll show you.”

“I’ll wait here.” Laura innocently searched through her purse for her gloves.

Ciro took Enza by the hand to the back of the store. He pulled back the curtain and showed her his cot, sink, mirror, and chair, his neat and clean corner of the world.

“It’s immaculate. The nuns would be proud of you,” Enza said.

“You haven’t seen the best part,” he said, pushing the drapery aside and opening the door to the garden. Enza followed him outside.

An accordion played in the distance, underscoring peals of laughter and the low drone of scattered conversation from the porches and yards close by. The cool night air had the scent of buttery caramel and cigar smoke. Rolling gray clouds from the last of the fireworks hung over the jagged rooftops of Little Italy as the moon, full and blue, pushed through the haze to illuminate the garden.

“You have a tree!” Enza exclaimed.

“How many trees did we have on the mountain?” Ciro asked. He put his hands in his pockets and stood back from her, observing her delight.

“A million.”

“More,” Ciro remembered. “And here, all I have is this one tree, and it’s more precious to me than all the forests below Pizzo Camino. Who would have thought that one tree could bring me so much joy? I’m almost ashamed.”

“I understand. Any small thing that reminds me of home is a treasure. Sometimes it’s small—a bowl of soup that makes me think of my mother—or it’s a color. I saw a blue parasol in the crowd this afternoon that reminded me of the lake by the waterwheel in Schilpario. It’s the kind of thing that catches you unaware and fills you with a deep longing for everything you once knew. Don’t apologize for loving this tree. If I had a tree, I’d feel the same.”

Ciro wished he had more time to talk with her.

“We should go,” Enza said, as she went through the door and back into the shop.

Ciro walked Laura and Enza out onto Mulberry Street, strewn with bits of confetti, twists of crepe paper, and pieces of ribbon. A few stragglers had found their way down to the corner of Grand Street, where a street band played into the night. Laura walked ahead, just far enough to allow Enza some privacy.

“I should say good-bye,” Enza said, even though she didn’t want to. “And you should get back to your girlfriend.”

“She’s just an old friend, I’ve known her since I came to Mulberry Street,” Ciro said. “We just have fun, Enza. We laugh. We have a good time. It’s nothing serious.”

“It’s not a romance?”

“It can’t be,” he said honestly. “She’s been betrothed since she was twelve years old.”

“Did someone remember to tell her that?” Enza laughed.

For a moment, Enza had to think about what he was saying. Fun was so low on Enza’s list of priorities, she’d practically forgotten it existed.

“You should be having fun, of course,” she said. “You work hard, it makes sense. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m too serious. I wear my responsibilities like an old saddle on an old horse.”

Ciro took her hand. “Don’t make excuses for the way you are. You’re working to take care of your family, and there’s no higher purpose than that.”

“Sometimes I’d like to be young too.” Enza spoke without thinking. She was surprised to realize that she felt this way. She never thought about what she wanted, only what was best for those she loved. And as far as her own heart was concerned, she hoped she would do the choosing.

Enza saw how it went with the girls at the mill. Some young women had been betrothed by their parents to young men who were chosen for them, making a match that served both families, pooling their meager assets to benefit both. Others chose for themselves, lucky enough to properly court and fall in love. Still others were forced to marry quickly, when they had not followed the rules of the church. When the banns of marriage went unannounced, the bride and groom were relegated to a private ceremony, deprived of a high mass and reception, taking their vows quietly behind the doors of the sacristy, hidden away in a shame that lasted a lifetime. Maybe this was why it was so hard for Enza to be young. It wasn’t just the money that had to be earned, and the house in Schilpario that needed building, there was danger in youth.

Ciro took her hands. “I don’t want you to be like them.”

“Who?”

“The girls on Mulberry Street. They just want to get married because it’s time. I want more.”

“And what is
more
to you, Ciro?”

“Someone I can talk to.”

“And when did you decide that was important?”

“I think just now.” He laughed. After a moment, he took her face in his hands. “You’re different, Enza.”

“Signora says you see a lot of girls.” She removed his hands from her face and held them.

“She exaggerates. But she would. Signora is worried I’ll take off after my heart’s desire and leave her with a crate of shoe tacks, and a line of angry customers.”

“And will you?”

He didn’t answer. And just as it had on the mountain, the moon shifted, its beam seeming to single out Ciro, like light through a stained-glass window in a dark chapel. It was as if her world had changed in that moment, had tilted on its axis just enough to give Enza the view she had longed for. He leaned down to her. She felt safe in his shadow, and as his lips grazed her cheek, he took in the scent of her skin, which was at once familiar and right.

Enza knew that in that moment a thousand good men could not compare to Ciro Lazzari. He was the one who owned her heart. She had known it since that night on the mountain. But thoughts of Felicitá intruded, and she wondered how she would ever know whether he truly felt the same about her. In this regard, she would not settle. Better to carry the cross of unrequited love than squander herself on someone whose heart was divided. His tender, delicate kiss emboldened her to tell him what she knew.

She took a step back, letting go of his hand. “I won’t come after you again, Ciro. I’ve had enough of chasing the things I want in this world. It’s too difficult. I’ve learned that it’s fine to have expectations, and dreams are wonderful, but once in a while, it would be good to have something come my way without having to fight for it. If you want to be friends, that’s your choice. I have nothing to offer you but understanding. And I won’t chase you down in every borough of this city to convince you that what I have to give has value to you. I think I understand what makes you who you are, what you want out of life, and I know for sure where you come from. These often aren’t the gifts a man is looking for in a woman, but it’s what I’m looking for in a man. And if you would like to be that man, it’s up to you.”

“Where do you live?”

“Three-one-eight Adams Street.”

“May I call on you?”

“Yes, you may.”

“I’ve promised Remo to run the repair cart out to Queens. We have new business there with the road. I may not be able to come to see you for a few weeks. Is that all right?”

Enza smiled. “Of course.” She had waited all her life for him. A few more weeks would just make their next meeting sweeter.

Chapter 15

A YELLOW DIAMOND
Un Brillante Giallo

T
he Zanetti shoe repair cart served Carla Zanetti’s goal of keeping Ciro under her roof while turning a greater profit for her business. Ciro paraded their wares through the five boroughs, making repairs and selling new boots to the hundreds of workers recruited for the enormous construction projects—to erect bridges, train stations, and buildings.

Remo hitched the repair cart to his carriage, driving Ciro and Luigi to Astoria, Queens, before dawn. The streets of Manhattan were quiet, except for the clinking of the glass bottles on the carts delivering milk.

Ciro had to pay off Paboo, the local padrone, to park the cart on Steinway Plaza, but it was worth the freight. There was a perfect spot on the plaza for the cart, as it was a busy thoroughfare at the foot of the Hell’s Gate Bridge.

Luigi lifted the window flaps on the cart, while Ciro set up the repair table inside. The cart was painted forest green, with “Zanetti Shoe Repair” emblazoned across the side in white letters. Luigi opened the storage drawers under the counter and lifted out dozens of pairs of boots, repaired and tagged with customers’ names.

“Know where I can buy a diamond?” Luigi asked Ciro.

“What for?”

“What do you think, what for? For an engagement ring.”

“You’re gonna get married?”

“I’m older than you.”

“By a year,” Ciro said.

“It’s a long year.”

“
Va bene
.” Ciro laid his tools out on the repair table. “You go to Mingione’s in the diamond district in the Bowery.”

“How do you know?”

“Felicitá,” Ciro explained. "If there's a diamond for sale in Manhattan, she's tried it on.”

“Maybe they’ll sell us a couple of stones. We’ll have a double wedding. Pappina is a simple girl with simple tastes. Felicitá will probably want a big diamond.”

“She’d like one the size of a slab of
torrone
. But I’m not going to marry Felicitá.”

“Why not?”

“She wants to do better than a shoemaker,” Ciro said as he pulled a sole from a vamp to resew it.

“She’s got some crust. Her father sells grapes on a cart.”

“He sells a lot of grapes, Luigi. He’s a wealthy man.”

“He spits out the pits just like you and me.”

“A woman chooses a man she thinks she deserves. And then she sets out to change him to suit herself. I’m not enough for Felicitá. But,” he said, his face breaking into a wide grin, “she’s not enough for me, either.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Luigi said. “I am lucky to have found one sweet girl who likes this face. You have found so many.”

Ciro thought of the girls he had known. It didn’t feel as though he had had an abundance of experiences. In fact, he worried that he had been too guarded with his feelings. He wondered if he would ever know what it was to be truly devoted to one woman. “What did you think of Enza?”

“The girl from the roof? She was nice.”