The Shoemaker's Wife (43 page)

Ciro mourned Eduardo’s new life, because it meant that he had lost his brother for good. Perhaps they would see each other a few times in the decades to come. There would be letters, but they would be infrequent. For two boys who had been inseparable, two brothers who were completely simpatico, to lead such separate lives was a terrible sacrifice. Ciro couldn’t help but feel cheated by the church; after all, with the recommendation of Don Gregorio, it had broken up two brothers who were the only living family each had. So much for the healing love of the Sacred Heart.

Eduardo’s devotion to Ciro would now be given instead to the priests of the order of Saint Francis of Assisi, and whatever was left beyond that would go to the Holy Church of Rome. Eduardo had given up any possibility of finding a wife and making a family when he became a priest. Ciro had wanted so much more for his brother. He wished that Eduardo could know the comfort, ease, and abiding serenity that came from the company of a good woman, and how the appetite for love and its simple but glorious connections made a man seek more in the world, not less.

Ciro imagined that Eduardo would try to save the world one soul at a time, but why would he want to?

Before the war, Ciro had thought he too was capable of great things. But now, with the landscape of France carved up and scarred forever by the trenches, filled with the broken dead, Ciro wanted no part of government and the men who ran it. Rome had been a great disappointment to him. The Italians were losing their way, he thought. There was something fragile about his Italy now. The Italian people had been poor for so long, they no longer believed they had any power to change the country they lived in. Even in the wake of victory, they couldn’t see better times. They no longer believed these were possible. They would grasp the next ideology that came along, just as a drowning man grabs at any sliver of wood. Anything is better than nothing, the Italians would shrug, an attitude that cleared the way for despots and their reigns of cruelty, for wars and their blighted landscapes.

Ciro had learned that life was never better after a war, just different.

He would always long for the Italy he knew before the war. The borders were soft; Italians traveled to France without papers, Germans to Spain, Greeks to Italy. Nationalism had now replaced neighborliness.

As a soldier, Ciro had learned that good men can’t fix what evil men are intent on destroying. He had learned to choose what was worth holding on to, and what was worth fighting for. Every man had to decide that for himself, and some never did. He had not survived the Great War to return home the same man.

Ciro had faced death. This was when a man was most likely to turn to the angels for intercession. Instead, Ciro had turned inward. He’d endured moments of paralyzing fear. He’d felt dread deep in his bones when the scent of the mustard gas permeated the fields in the distance, a pungent blend of bleach and ammonia that at first note seemed like something decent and familiar, the garlic herb simmering in Sister Teresa’s kitchen pot, rather than a death warrant as the cloud of gas snaked its way to the trenches that formed a border across France.

He remembered diluting bleach and cleaning the crevices of old marble with a small brush to remove stains from the stone. That same scent, stronger and more pungent, would linger over the battlefield with a thick stillness. Sometimes Ciro would be relieved when the wind carried the poison away from the front instead of toward it. But he also learned that a soldier could not count on anything—his commanding officer, his fellow infantrymen, his country, or the weather. He only had luck, or didn’t.

Ciro had discovered that he could go for days without much food; he’d learned to erase the image of a rare steak and potato, a glass of wine with purses of gnocchi and fresh butter, from his mind. Hunger too, it seemed had little to do with the body, but everything to do with the mind.

He didn’t imagine gathering eggs, as he had as a boy back at the convent, or the egg gently whisked in the cup with sugar and cream in Sister Teresa’s kitchen. He tried not to think of Sister Teresa, or write to her to pray for him. He was so hungry he did not want to imagine her in her apron, kneading sweet dough or chopping vegetables for stew. There was no comfort in happy memories; they just made it all seem worse.

Ciro had also thought every day at the front about women. What had soothed him in the past comforted him even more during the war. He remembered Sister Teresa in the convent kitchen at San Nicola, how she fed him and listened to him. He thought about Felicitá’s soft skin, the rhythm of her breath, the sleepy satisfaction that enveloped them after making love. He remembered women he had not met but had only seen on Mulberry Street. One girl, eighteen years old in a straw hat, had worn a red cotton skirt with buttons down the back from waist to hem. He thought about the curve of her calf and her beautiful feet, in flat sandals with one strap of pale blue leather between the toes, as she walked past the shoe shop. He imagined, over and over again, the power of a kiss, and he thought that if he made it out of these trenches, he would never take a single kiss for granted. A woman’s hand in his was a treasure; if he held one again, he would pay attention and relish the warm security of a gentle touch.

When his fellow soldiers visited a village known for their
belles femmes
, he’d made love to a girl with golden hair braided to her waist. Afterward, she had loosened her long braid and let him brush her hair. The image of her head bowed as he stroked her hair would stay with him for the rest of his life.

His moment of greatest clarity had come on the day he was certain he would die. Word had reached his platoon that the Germans were bombing with mustard gas, and their intention was to leave not one man, woman, or child alive in France. Their goal was total annihilation, soldier and civilian. In what the men believed were their final moments on earth, many prayed; some wrote letters to their wives, tucking them carefully next to their field orders and identification, hoping that their allies would deliver the message after burying their bodies. Young men wept openly at the knowledge that they would never see their mothers’ faces again.

But to Ciro, it seemed disingenuous to ask God to save him, when so many soldiers deserved life more—men with children, wives, families, lives. Let them pray. They had someone at home waiting for them.

Ciro hoped his mother, Caterina, was safe somewhere.

The red robes of Rome would protect Eduardo; Ciro was certain his brother would be all right.

There was only one other face that he pictured. He remembered her at fifteen in a work smock, at sixteen in traveling clothes, and at twenty-two years old, in a pink gossamer dress. He imagined her at fifty, gray, yet still strong and sturdy, with grandchildren.
His
grandchildren.

Ciro knew in that instant that there was only one thing worth dying for, only one person for whom he would lay down his life. Enza Ravanelli. She had owned his heart all along.

How ironic that Enza had told him not to write and not to think about her. Ciro could not stop thinking about her. If he were lucky enough to live through this carnage and chaos, the love of one good woman would be all he needed to sustain him. Starving, wasting away, falling sick and dying, fighting fevers and fending off lice and rats, filth and dysentery, all the guarantees of war—all of it was worth it if he could live out the rest of his days with Enza.

It had always been Enza. Life without her would be as grim as the trenches he’d called home during the war, where a piece of bread was like a diamond, and a cup of clean water, a dream fulfilled. In that instant he knew that nothing—not even the acid scent of mustard gas in the air or the decay of the dead around him—could keep him from going home to the woman he loved. And as he stood on the deck of the SS
Caserta
, he knew how lucky he was to have survived, and he hoped to take the gift of his great fortune and pledge his life to a deserving woman. He could only hope that she had waited for him.

Laura helped Enza make her wedding suit. She had chosen a Tintoretto-inspired cinnamon brown wool, piped with black velvet and finished with black buttons. The earthy red-brown tone of the bouclé wool was the exact hue of the earth on the Passo Presolana
.
Enza thought about her mother, and how many times she had made her tell the story of her wedding day. Now it was Enza’s turn. How she wished her mother could be here! She would have appreciated every detail. Enza built a hat of matching brown felt with a wide brim, tucked with a black satin knot and set with a black pearl.

Vito wrote to Marco in California and Giacomina in Schilpario for permission to marry their eldest daughter. He wrote pages about why she was a wonderful girl, and described the life he hoped to give her.

When Giacomina read the letter from Vito, she wept. She knew this meant that Enza would never return to live on the mountain. Her beloved daughter had a new life. Giacomina prayed to be happy for the girl who had worked for so many years to make their lives secure. She did not worry about Enza, because she believed she would make the best choice in a husband. But she did worry about the Ravenellis, who would not be as strong without Enza’s leadership.

When Marco received his letter from Vito, he also cried. Longing to return to his family, he had hoped Enza would go with him despite her terrible ordeal on the passage over. He had spent seven years in America working to make enough money to build their home. The house was finished, and when Marco returned, he would sit before the fire in the house his sacrifices and those of his daughter Enza had made possible. It was a bittersweet realization that Enza would never share the family hearth with him.

Choosing to marry Vito meant that Enza accepted that she would never go home again. She had put her illness out of her mind, but now she admitted to herself that she would never be able to show her husband or her future children with him the frescoes in Clusone or the fields above Schilpario; nor would they ever hear the orchestra in Azzone. Vito had brought her to the best doctors, who made it clear there was no cure for her particular motion sickness. They would have to learn about her family through her, and it would be her responsibility to keep them close in her heart despite the distance.

The sun was pink that November morning, embedded deep in a pale blue sky. Enza thought it odd, but didn’t take it as a sign. Her mother always checked the sky over Schilpario and took every movement and color change as an omen. There would be none of that today. Enza had a calm sense about her, a serenity Laura noticed that morning when they dressed at the Milbank House.

“You’re so quiet,” Laura said.

“I’m about to change everything about my life,” Enza said, pulling on her gloves. “I’m sad to leave you. Our room. I’ll never be a young unmarried woman again.”

“You knew we had to grow up and fall in love and marry,” Laura said. “It’s a natural progression. And you’re happy with Vito, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Enza smiled. “It’s just a shame that whenever life is good, things can’t stay the way they are. Every decision leads you forward, like when I used to step across the stones to cross streams in the Alps. I’d take a step, and another, and another, and soon I’d be safely across.”

“As it should be.”

“But there were times when I took a step and there was no stone to step onto. And the water was so cold. ”

“You’ll get through the bad times,” Laura assured her.

“Because we know they’ll come.”

“For all of us.” Laura smiled. “This is not a day to be solemn. It’s a day to celebrate. Leave serious Enza right here in this room. You’re a beautiful bride, and this is your moment.”

Enza and Laura said good-bye to the girls of the Milbank House, who gathered on the front steps to wish Enza well. The future dancers, playwrights, and actresses were enthusiastic about Enza’s new life, an affirmation that all the stories told on the stage with happy endings were somehow true. Enza was a walking symbol of success to them that morning. They were giddy with delight for her.

Enza and Laura traveled the few blocks to Our Lady of Pompeii from the Milbank House on foot. Vito and Colin Chapin, his best man, would meet them in the sacristy. The small ceremony would take place with Father Sebastianelli officiating at the Shrine of the Blessed Lady.

Enza and Laura walked past the fruit vendors, the street sweeper, the men in felt hats on their way to work. Everything in Greenwich Village was in its place, as it was every morning, reliable and predictable. The only people for whom this day was special were Enza and Vito. The world outside was spinning as it always had, and two lovers exchanging rings was not going to change it.

“You wait here.” Laura gave Enza a hug. “I’ll go inside and make sure everything is ready for you.”

“Thank you, Laura.” She gave Laura a warm embrace. “Always be my best friend.”

“Always.” Laura smiled and went into the church.

Enza stood on Carmine Street. She remembered Signora Buffa, and how hard her first months in America had been, how those months had turned into years, and how homesick she had been. She looked back and remembered her room at Saint Vincent’s Hospital, just a few blocks from where she stood. She reviewed the forward movement of each year of her life since, the decisions made and steps taken, sewn like small stitches with care and consistency. Enza could step back to see, at long last, a finished garment. Her life was something beautiful to behold, and she had built it herself.

“Enza,” a voice said from behind her. She smiled and turned, thinking it was Vito, with her flowers.

“Enza,” Ciro Lazzari said again. He wore the dull brown uniform of the doughboys, the belt notched tight, the knee boots laced with precision, though Enza could see where the laces had been knotted together several times to make them long enough. Every hem on his uniform was ragged, each cuff turned from wear. He was thin, his face etched with exhaustion and worry, but he was clean, his thick hair cut short, and his eyes were more blue than the sky that morning. He held a bouquet of violets in his right hand, his helmet in his left. He gave her the flowers.