The Shoemaker's Wife (9 page)

Ciro looked down at his work clothes, taking in the wet hems of his pants, the shadows of soot along the seams, his ill-fitting boots and filthy work shirt, which looked like a handyman’s paint palette—smears of clay putty, brass polish, and black streaks of smudges from charred candlewicks. A white polishing rag was stuck in the shirt pocket where a starched handkerchief should go.

He ran his hands through his thick hair, then looked at his fingernails, black half moons under every nail. Concetta turned and looked at him, then turned back to face the altar. This type of meeting, just the two of them alone in the church, was rare. A conversation with Concetta was nearly impossible to engineer. She had a stern father, a devout uncle, a few brothers, and a gaggle of girlfriends that surrounded her, as tight as the knot on the ties of a pinafore.

Ciro pulled the rag from his pocket and tucked it behind Saint Michael. He unsnapped the brass key ring from his belt loop and placed it on the rag. He walked up the center aisle of the church, genuflected, joined her in the pew, knelt beside her, and folded his hands in prayer.

“
Ciao
,” he whispered.

“
Ciao
,” she whispered back. A smile crossed her perfect pink lips. The lace of the mantilla made a soft frame around her face, as though she were a painting. He looked down at his dirty hands and folded his fingers into fists to hide the nails. “I just cleaned the church,” he said, explaining his appearance.

“I can tell. The tabernacle is like a mirror,” she said appreciatively.

“That’s on purpose. Don Gregorio likes to look at his own reflection.”

Concetta frowned.

“I’m just joking. Don Gregorio is a holy man.” Sometimes Ciro was happy that he actually paid attention to things his brother Eduardo said, so he added, “A
consecrated
man.”

She nodded in agreement and pulled a string of white opal rosary beads from her skirt pocket and held them. “I’m here for the novena,” she said, looking up at the rose window behind the altar.

“Novena is on Thursdays,” Ciro said.

“Oh,” she said. “I’ll just say my rosary alone, then.”

“Would you like to see the garden?” Ciro asked. “We could go for a walk. You can pray in the garden.”

“I’d rather pray in church.”

“But God is everywhere. Don’t you listen in mass?”

“Of course.” She smiled.

“No, you don’t. You whisper with Liliana.”

“You shouldn’t watch us.”

“I’m not watching Don Gregorio.”

“Maybe you should.” She slipped back off the kneeler and sat on the pew. Ciro did the same. He looked down at Concetta’s lovely hands. A slim, plain gold bracelet dangled from her wrist.

“I didn’t invite you to sit with me,” she whispered.

“You’re right. How ill-mannered of me. May I sit with you, Concetta Martocci?”

“You may,” she said.

They sat in silence. Ciro realized that he hadn’t drawn a deep breath since Concetta entered the church. He exhaled slowly, then took in the wondrous scent of Concetta’s skin, sweet vanilla and white roses. He was finally, at last, grateful to God for something, the nearness of Concetta.

“Do you like living in the convent?” she asked shyly.

Ciro’s chest tightened. The last thing he wanted from this girl was pity.

“It’s a good life. We work hard. We have a nice room. Don Gregorio loans me the cart whenever I want it.”

“He does?”

“Of course.” Ciro puffed up with pride.

“You’re very lucky.”

“I’d like to take a ride to Clusone sometime.”

“I have an aunt there,” she said.

“You do? I could take you to see her.”

“Maybe.” She smiled.

A
maybe
from Concetta was better than a
yes
from any of the hundreds of other girls who lived on this mountain. Ciro was elated, but tried not to show it. Ignazio had taught him to hold back, to refrain from showing a girl how much you care. Girls, according to Iggy, prefer boys who
don’t
like them. This made no sense to Ciro, but he decided to follow Iggy’s advice, if at the end of the game he might win Concetta’s heart. Ciro turned to her. “I wish I could stay, but I promised Sister Domenica I would make a delivery for her before dinner.”

“
Va bene
.” Concetta smiled again.

“You’re very beautiful,” Ciro whispered.

Concetta grinned. “You’re very dirty.”

“I won’t be the next time I see you,” he said. “And I
will
see you again.”

Ciro stood and exited the pew, remembering to genuflect as he left. He looked at Concetta a final time, bowing his head to her, remembering the manners the nuns taught him to use in the presence of a lady. Concetta nodded her head before she turned to the gold tabernacle, which Ciro had spent the greater part of the afternoon buffing to a high polish. Ciro practically skipped out of the church into the piazza.

The afternoon sun burned low, a purple peony in the powder blue sky. Ciro ran across the piazza from the church to the convent, noting that the colors of his world had changed for the better. He threw open the front door, grabbed Sister Domenica’s parcel for Signor Longaretti, and made his way up the hill to deliver it.

Ciro passed folks who greeted him, but he did not hear them. All he could think about was Concetta and the possibility of a long ride to Clusone alone with her. He imagined the lunch he would pack, the way he would take her hand, and how he would tell her all the things he had stored in his heart. His nails would be smooth and round and pink, the nail bed as white as snow, because he would soak them with a little bleach. Concetta Martocci would only see Ciro at his best going forward.

He would kiss her.

Ciro dropped the package at Signor Longaretti’s door. When he returned to the convent, Eduardo was busy in their room, studying.

Eduardo looked at Ciro. “You run around the village looking like that?”

“Leave me alone. I cleaned San Nicola today.” Ciro flopped onto the bed.

“You must have done a good job. Every bit of dirt is on your clothes.”

“All right, all right, I’ll take a good soak.”

“Use lye,” Eduardo said.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Roast chicken,” Eduardo replied. “I’ll tell Sister Teresa how hard you worked, and she’ll make sure you get extra. I need the keys to the chapel. I finished the mass cards for Sister.”

Ciro reached down to hand his brother the ring of keys. “Agh,” he said, “I left them at church.”

“Well, go get them. Sister wants these in the pews before dinner.”

Ciro ran back to the church across the piazza. The evening had a chill to it, and Ciro shivered, thinking he should have grabbed his coat. When he got to the church, he found the front entrance door locked, so he went around to the side entrance to the sacristy. He pushed the door open.

He could not believe what he saw.

Concetta Martocci was in the arms of Don Gregorio. The priest kissed her ravenously. Her gray skirt was lifted, exposing the smooth calf of her tawny leg. Her delicate foot was extended as she stood on her toes. In his arms, Concetta looked like a dove caught in the black branches of winter. Ciro stopped breathing; he swallowed air and choked.

“Ciro!” Don Gregorio looked up and let go of Concetta, who glided away from him as if she was on ice.

“I . . . I left my keys in the vestibule. The entrance door was locked.” Ciro felt his face flush.

“Go and get your keys then,” Don Gregorio said calmly as he smoothed the placket of buttons on his cassock. Ciro pushed past them and into the church. Embarrassment quickly gave way to anger and then fury.

Ciro ran down the center aisle, not bothering to bow or genuflect. When he reached the vestibule, he grabbed his key ring and the rag from behind the statue, stuffing both in his pockets, wanting to break free of this place as quickly as he could. The church’s grand beauty and the attention Ciro had lavished on every detail that afternoon meant nothing to him now. It was plaster, paint, brass, and wood.

Ciro had unbolted the main door to go when he felt Don Gregorio behind him.

“You are never to speak of what you saw,” the priest whispered with contempt.

Ciro turned to face him. “Really, Father? You’re going to issue an order? With what authority?” Ciro took a deep breath. “You disgust me. If it weren’t for the sisters, I’d take an ax to your church.”

“Don’t threaten me. And don’t ever come back to San Nicola. You are discharged of your duties here.”

Ciro stepped forward, within inches of Don Gregorio’s face. “We’ll see about that.”

Don Gregorio grabbed Ciro by the collar. In turn, Ciro grabbed the soft black linen of Don Gregorio’s cassock with his dirty hands. “You call yourself a priest.”

Don Gregorio loosened his grip on Ciro’s shirt, and dropped his hands. Ciro looked him in the eye and then spit on the floor at Don Gregorio’s feet. To think that all of Ciro’s hard work had been for the honor and glory of this undeserving shepherd of a most ignorant flock! Ciro unlocked the entrance door and walked out into the dark. He heard Don Gregorio bolt the church door behind him.

Don Gregorio looked down at his cassock, the chest placket rumpled and smeared with dirt where Ciro had grabbed it. He dipped his fingers in the holy water font, brushed the clay-colored smudges away, and smoothed his hair before turning back up the aisle to the sacristy, to his Concetta.

Concetta leaned against the table, her arms folded across her chest. She had twisted her golden hair into a knot on the back of her head, and buttoned her sweater over her blouse.

“You see why you cannot speak with boys?” the priest said sternly. He paced back and forth across the floor.

“Yes, Don Gregorio.”

“He took your conversation as interest in him,” Don Gregorio said angrily. “You encouraged him, and now he feels betrayed.”

Concetta Martocci placed her hands in her pockets and looked down at the floor. “How is that my fault?” She took a deep breath.

“You led him on.”

“I did no such thing.”

“He sat with you.”

“He works in the church!” she said defensively.

“The nuns have coddled him. He’s arrogant. He doesn’t take the sacraments or attend mass regularly. He’s too familiar with the congregation.”

She smiled. “You’re jealous of Ciro Lazzari? I don’t believe it.”

Don Gregorio put his arms around her and pulled her close. He kissed her neck and then her cheek, but as he grazed her lips, she pulled away.

“He saw you kiss me.” Concetta patted her skirt. “What if he tells?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Don Gregorio reached out to stroke Concetta’s arm.

“I’d better go,” she said, her voice making it clear she’d rather not. “My mother is expecting me.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

Concetta looked at Don Gregorio. He was handsome and polished in ways the boys from the mountain would never be. His kiss was not clumsy like Flavio Tironi’s, behind the fourth pillar of the colonnade at the feast last summer, nor were his hands sweaty or his conversation banal. Don Gregorio was well traveled, full of observations and political opinions, and told fascinating stories about places she had never seen, but intended to. He was an educated man, a graduate of the seminary. He was as familiar with the streets of Rome as she was with the roads of Vilminore.

Don Gregorio saw something in her that no teacher or tutor had bothered to find. He did not press her to study mathematics or bore her with science. Instead, he had made her hungry to see the world beyond the mountains, places he knew would delight her like the pink beaches of Rimini, the shops on the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze, and the purple cliffs of Capri. He loaned her books of stories, not ones filled with dull academics but red-leather-bound novels with plots of sweeping romance and adventure.

Don Gregorio had dinner every Sunday afternoon with the Martocci family. The perfect guest, he arrived after mass and stayed until dusk. He paid special attention to Concetta’s grandmother, listening patiently to her complaints about her health and every detail of her aches and pains. He blessed their fields and their house, administered sacraments, encouraged the family to be devout, to perform acts of mercy in the village, and to support the church.

Concetta had loved Don Gregorio from afar, instantly, from the first day he arrived in Vilminore. Over the course of the next several months, she had found moments alone with Don Gregorio exhilarating. She spent her school hours conniving ways to go to the church, in the hopes of seeing him.

The boys of San Nicola were generally dull and unkempt; they worked in the mines or in the fields, and had simple ideas about how to live. They were boys like Ciro Lazzari, the church handyman who wore rags and casually joined her in the church pew as though he’d bought a ticket next to her on a carnival bench and therefore earned the right to talk to her.

All her life, Concetta had been taught to choose the best in all things, whether it was a yard of linen to make an apron or the finest distilled lemon water to wash her hair. She knew Don Gregorio was a holy man who took vows, but he was also the most powerful and sophisticated man on the mountain. She wanted him. At fifteen she would give up the notion of a life with a husband and children of her own to stay home with her mother and see Don Gregorio whenever she could. She was besotted with the priest, thrilled to share stolen moments with him, and encouraged by his attention. To spend the occasional long afternoon and the weekly meal in his company would bring her happiness, she believed with all her heart.

“Make sure Ciro doesn’t tell anyone about us,” Concetta implored. “If my father were to find out . . . if anyone . . .”

Don Gregorio took Concetta in his arms and kissed her to reassure her. Once she was in his arms, risk was meaningless. Her proper upbringing, strict morals, and common sense held no power against his kiss. The rules she had promised her mother to respect until marriage dissipated in the air like smoke from an urn of incense. She told herself she had nothing to fear. No one would believe a servant over the word of a consecrated man.