The Shoemaker's Wife (39 page)

“It only takes one special girl to love.” He placed his hands on her face.

“You believe in love like I believe in the saints.”

“What else do you believe in?” Vito hoped Enza believed in him.

“Family.”

“No, you. Just you. Apart from your family.”

Enza had to think. Her first thought was always of her family, her mother’s needs and her father’s health. She worried about her brothers and sisters, their welfare and future. She had lived so long for them, she didn’t know how to live without them. She had crossed the ocean to give them security. If she would do that, she would do anything for them. They had always been her purpose.

Vito took this in. “You should think about what
you
want, Enza. What do you want from your life? Besides sewing Signor Caruso’s costumes, and letting them out because you make him too much macaroni?”

“No one has ever asked me that.”

“Maybe no one ever loved you enough to put you first,” Vito said.

“Maybe not. You take me to all these exciting places, but you also push me to think. That’s just as important.”

“You’re important,” Vito assured her. “To me.”

On the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, he stopped and kissed her. Enza didn’t know where this would lead, and for once, she didn’t question it. She just kissed him and lived.

Chapter 19

A CALLING CARD
Un Biglietto da Visita

G
arlands of purple wisteria were draped along the velvet ropes at the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House, bringing to mind a grape trellis in a Tuscan garden.

As the society ladies took their places in line to enter, their brooches of emeralds and sapphires, their platinum tiaras shimmering with diamonds and pearls, created the impression of an enchanted forest, filled with wingless fairies under a night sky.

Inside, orderly pandemonium ensued as the costume crew handed off last-minute fixes to the dressing crew, who ran the costumes through the catacombs and up to the actors, who reviewed their sheet music and ran scales before the performance.

Signor Caruso was nervous.

The United States had entered World War I, and Caruso wanted to show his appreciation. Antonio Scotti and Caruso had put the show together, using arias from their favorite operas, enlisting the help of the Met chorus and friends like Geraldine Farrar. Even Elia Palma had arrived from the Philadelphia Opera House, with his favorite sopranos in tow, to be part of the star-studded evening. Every friend Caruso had would either appear onstage or play in the orchestra pit. No one would ever deny a request from the Great Caruso.

Caruso enjoyed playing several parts in one evening, but it was something he did in private homes or performing at smaller gatherings. His costumes hung on a free-standing rolling rack. He sat in his white cotton undershorts and shirt, beige silk dress socks and braces, smoking a cigar, checking the show order, a handwritten list of numbers he was to sing. Caruso’s secretary, Bruno Zirato, took notes to deliver to the conductor.

The orchestra seats were a sea of crisp brown uniforms, as soldiers shipping off to Europe were given priority, with complimentary tickets to the show. They poured into the rows with military precision, as if they were running a maneuver.

The diamond horseshoe overflowed with members of New York society, their elaborate evening gowns of coral, turquoise, and grass green tulle gave the effect of opulent windowboxes in full bloom.

Calling cards, hand-printed on linen paper, were placed on a round table in the vestibule outside the boxed seats. The names written in midnight blue calligraphy included royalty and the political and military elite, as well as the families who had built the city and sustained its culture: Vanderbilt, Cushing, Ellsworth, Whitney, Cravath, Steele, and Greenough. They slipped into their box seats, were served champagne and strawberries, and waited for the curtain to lift with the same giddy anticipation felt by the working people who’d bought single tickets to stand in the back of the theater to hear the Great Voice.

Geraldine Farrar slipped into her satin gown, wriggling her hips, then pulling the bodice over her bosom.

“I don’t miss the blue,” she said. “Serafina, you were right.”

“Thank you.” Serafina crossed her arms and nodded appreciatively at Geraldine.

The dresser adjusted the mirrors so Geraldine might see the gown from the rear. She nodded, pleased with the results, as the dresser handed her a pair of diamond drop earrings, which she clipped onto her ears as if she were fastening the snaps of a work smock.

Antonio Scotti, in full tuxedo, placed a clean moppeen over his shirt and cummerbund and slowly sipped warm chicken consommé from a cup as he flipped through the sheet music for his selections, stopping to ponder a particular chord.

Enza and Laura lifted the hems of their evening gowns and ran at full speed through the catacombs beneath the stage. Enza wore a pink drop-waist satin gown, cut on the bias, while Laura wore a structured yellow silk skirt, tied at the waist with an enormous bow made of lilac tulle and topped with a white silk blouse with covered buttons.

“Let’s go, butterflies,” Colin hollered from the end of the catacomb.

The girls reached him, laughing.

“Vito’s waiting for us in the light lift.”

Enza and Laura followed Colin through the hidden passages, up the stairs, until they were behind the diamond horseshoe. They could hear the heavy footfall of evening shoes above them from the balcony, as the patrons took their seats for the show.

Colin guided them up a small ladder at the upper tier of the mezzanine. The girls hiked their skirts before climbing up into the light booth, past the row of spotlights, which tonight, looked like a string of lucky full moons.

Vito, in a tuxedo with tails, extended his hand to help Enza up into the booth and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he told her.

“So do you,” she said.

“You’re not even panting from the climb,” Vito marveled.

“She’s part alpine goat, remember?” Laura said from her place on the ladder. “We Irish girls run on flat land, and never far, only door to door for a cup of sugar for tea.”

Colin pushed Laura up into the booth by her hips to join Enza and Vito.

“Do I get a warm welcome too?” Laura asked Vito as she flounced her skirt back into place.

“No, you get warm champagne.”

“Great. Worth the hike.”

Vito popped the cork and handed out paper cups. As the timpani sounded in the orchestra pit like a warning gong over an ancient valley, they sat on work stools and watched as the grand curtain parted, and a blue spotlight bathed Enrico Caruso in a single diamond-cut beam.

The audience rose to its feet. Caruso stood in the blue light, his eyes shining like black diamonds, and grinned with the delight of a man who loved what he did for a living. The violins crescendoed, and the first note of the evening, a solid A above middle C, sailed out over the crowd like a clean, clear cannon shot.

Enza took Vito’s hand and held it tight.

Vito left the light booth before the final curtain to accompany the press to Caruso’s dressing room. The standing ovation from the soldiers lasted for six minutes, until Caruso bade them good night, laughing that they would surely lose the war if he continued to sing and they remained in their seats.

Laura and Colin made their way to the box office, where Colin would collect the proceeds of the night, run a tally, and deliver the bags of cash to the company manager. The money would go to buy bonds for the families of the soldiers. Laura would sit with him as Colin ran the adding machine; as she said to Enza, “I’d watch the man break matchsticks in two for hours on end.”

Vito was going to be busy for a few hours with publicity, so he arranged a carriage ride home for Enza, but the weather was so balmy, she decided to walk. As she moved through the crowd of soldiers to make her way to Fifth Avenue and home, she pulled her pink satin shrug over her shoulders against the night air.

“Enza!” She heard her name called. She looked around, but did not recognize any of the faces in the crowd. This happened to her often in the city. She imagined it was thoughts of her mother that brought on these moments, some deep longing that somehow manifested itself as her name in the din of a crowd.

“Enza!” She heard her name again, and this time, she stopped and waited. She felt a hand upon her forearm, and looked up into the blue-green eyes of Ciro Lazzari, who, in the brown uniform of the American army regiment, looked like a giant, taller than he ever had on the mountain or on Mulberry Street. She was shocked to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Ciro asked, looking at her, taking in her hair, her face, and her gown. He had thought about her so much, he wondered if the moment was real. He had dreaded going off to France without ever seeing her again, and now it seemed that fate was on his side.

“You joined up,” Enza said, taking in his uniform, his short haircut, and the boots that laced up to his knees. He was the picture of the perfect soldier, but she didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to feel anything for him; that part of her life was over. He hadn’t chosen her; he hadn’t come to Hoboken, as his letter had promised, and despite her growing feelings for Vito, that fact was still painful for her.

“I thought it was the right and honorable thing to do.” Ciro was filled with too many complicated feelings to sort out qiuckly: apprehension about the war, equal parts admiration and desire for this lovely young woman standing before him, surprise that she was here, and not in Italy as he had been told, and confusion over what her feelings for him might be. His thoughts tumbled over one another, until he felt unable to speak or think clearly. But he knew he had to talk to her—tonight, before he reported for duty—and tell her everything he was feeling and thinking. “Where are you going?” She looked so lovely and soft, he could barely resist reaching out to touch her. More than anything, he wished he could hold her.

“Home,” she said. “Tenth Street.”

“May I take you for a cup of coffee?”

Her instinct told her to say no. After all, she was seeing Vito Blazek on a regular basis; they were sweethearts. She had embraced a new life, and it was working. Why would she rip out the hem of a garment she was building on the chance of a better offer from Ciro? But Ciro was going off to war, and she wanted to leave nothing left unsaid between them. “Okay, yes, let’s go for coffee.”

The Automat was full of soldiers on their last night before they shipped out. Ciro explained his orders on the way to the restaurant. He was to take the train to New Haven in the morning, where they would board the USS
Olympic
to England, and then take a ferry to France. His unit would proceed to the north of France on foot.

Enza poured the coffee, while Ciro bought Enza a plain doughnut from one window, and a slice of coconut cream pie for himself. He sat down at their table, shifting his chair to cross his long legs in the bit of room left between their table and the next one over.

“I want you to know, I went to see you on Adams Street. Last Christmas. Signora Buffa told me you went home to Italy.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Enza forced a smile, her heart filling with regret. She couldn’t help but think that any plans regarding Ciro were doomed. She was weary of the back-and-forth; her unrequited longing for him was exhausting. And now Ciro had joined the army. Not only would she be required to pine for him for an undetermined length of time, maybe years; she might lose him altogether. The thought was too painful for her to bear. She just needed to let him go.

“No, you didn’t.” He smiled weakly, his mind reeling at the amount of time he could have spent with her.

“When did you sign up?”

“A few months ago. Do you remember my friend Luigi? He tried to enlist, too, but he has bad hearing, so I’ll be going to fight alone.”

“Oh. They only take you if you’re perfect?”

“We know I’m not perfect.” Ciro took a deep breath. “May I write to you?”

Despite herself, Enza smiled, then reached for a pen inside her evening purse, but she hesitated before handing it to him. “Maybe you shouldn’t write to me, Ciro. I don’t want you to feel obligated to write to me.”

“But I want to write to you. Please, give me your address?”

“But what if I give you my address, and you never write? I would worry that something happened. Or, I would wonder if it was something I had said or done to offend you. Maybe I spilled your coffee, or maybe you don’t like girls who wear pink—”

“I like pink,” he said softly.

“You always like everything about me, until I’m gone. And then you forget me. We have this way with each other”—Enza’s eyes misted—“that’s . . .”

“
Difficile
.”

“
Difficile
,” she agreed. “You don’t owe me anything just because we come from the same place. It’s just a thread, Ciro. I could snap the bond with my teeth.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

“It’s as if you seek me out because you buried my sister.”

“Stella isn’t the only thread between us,” Ciro insisted.

“You remember her name.”

“I would never forget it.” He folded his hands in his lap and looked at her.

“I feel like I’ve waited my whole life for you, only to be disappointed.”

“I’m here now.” Ciro reached out to take her hand.

“But tomorrow you’ll be gone.”

“We have a history.”

“No, we don’t. We have moments.”

“Moments
are
history. If you have enough of them, they become a story. I kissed you on the mountain when we were fifteen,” he said. “And I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

“And Ciro, I remember every word you ever said to me. I could tell you what you were wearing that night on the Passo Presolana and in the chapel at Saint Vincent’s, and on the roof of the Zanetti Shoe Shop. How could you not know what I was feeling? I thought I made it plain that night on Mulberry Street.” Enza looked away, thinking the Automat was so crowded, it would take her a few minutes to navigate her way out onto the street should she cry. She didn’t want to cry in front of him.