The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Poor girl. She believes whatever he’s telling her.”

  “I knew he was a fake. There is nothing mystical happening in San Nicola. It’s all a show. A pageant of perfection. He cares too much about his vestments and the linens and what flowers will grow along the path in the garden. He’s particular about the wrong things. He runs San Nicola like a storefront! That priest is like one of those oily peddlers from the south who come north to the lakes to sell cheap jewelry during the summer. They sweet-talk the ladies and take their good money for glass beads. The way the schoolgirls gather around Don Gregorio, fawning over him, is no different.”

  “Yes, it’s true, he’s handsome and he uses it,” Sister said. “Concetta is being duped. But you should never look down on someone for trusting the wrong person. It could happen to any of us.”

  “I thought she was intelligent.”

  “And why did you think that?” Sister Teresa had tutored Concetta since she was six years old. She knew exactly how little interest Concetta had taken in her studies and how much energy she had expended in the quest for physical beauty and sartorial elegance. Far more effort went into her pursuit of glamour than into developing her intellect, character, or common sense.

  “I thought she was . . . everything.”

  “I’m sorry. Even those we love can disappoint us.”

  “I know that now,” Ciro said.

  “Priests aren’t perfect . . . ,” Sister Teresa began. “Ciro, Don Gregorio already knows his shortcomings, far better than you ever will.”

  “He doesn’t think he has any! He runs the church like he’s king.”

  Sister Teresa took a deep breath. “Don Raphael Gregorio was neither distinguished academically nor admired for his spiritual acumen in the seminary. From all reports, he glided through on his good manners and pleasant personality. After he took his final vows, he wasn’t assigned to the cathedral in Milan. He was not chosen to write for the Vatican newspaper. He was not selected to be the bishop’s envoy or the cardinal’s secretary. He was sent to the poorest village on the highest peak in the most northern Alps of Italy. He’s a good-looking sap, and he knows it. He’s just exactly smart enough to know that he can only be important in a place where he has no competition. He says mass like I read a recipe aloud as I’m cooking.”

  “He’s a consecrated man! He’s supposed to be better!”

  “Ciro, you can’t go by the costume.”

  “Then why does Sister take pains ironing his vestments? Why do I have to carry the altar linens on a dowel? We make the man look good.”

  “A cassock does not make a man a priest, any more than a fine dress makes a woman truly beautiful—or good or generous or intelligent. Don’t confuse the way someone looks with the way they are. Grace is a rare thing. I wear the habit not because I am pious but because I’m trying to be. I left my mother and father when I was twelve years old to become a nun. I had a great desire to see the world, and now, I am doing penance for my selfishness. Who knew I’d see the world through the drain of an old sink and across the surface of a wooden chopping board? But here it is, and here I am. In my zeal to be a part of a grand adventure, I traded my mother’s kitchen for this one.”

  Sister Teresa cooked three meals a day for the nuns, and also prepared the meals for Don Gregorio. She was up at 3:00 a.m. baking bread, which Ciro knew because he was up milking the cows. It seemed that Sister Teresa had the workload of a wife and mother, without the love and respect that went with it.

  “Why do you stay?” Ciro asked.

  Sister Teresa smiled. She really was beautiful when she smiled; her pink cheeks glowed, and her brown eyes twinkled. She placed her hands on Ciro’s. “I’m hoping that God will find me.”

  Sister Teresa stood and threw a moppeen over her shoulder. She handed Ciro the platter to carry to the dining room and loaded the bowls of chestnut puree onto a large tray.

  “It’s not so bad. We eat, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “There’s never enough chicken, but we manage. God’s love fills us up, that’s what Sister Ercolina says. You have to find the thing that fills you up, Ciro. What fills you up? Do you know?”

  Ciro Lazzari thought he knew what filled him up, but the last person he would tell was a nun. If Ciro understood anything about himself, it was his desire to woo and win a girl’s heart. “I thought it was Concetta,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes we get our hearts broken, only to have the right person come along to mend them,” Sister said.

  Ciro wasn’t ready to let go of Concetta Martocci. He couldn’t say why he loved her, he only knew that he did. The goal of winning her heart inspired him to work harder, longer, and more diligently so he might make enough money to take her places and buy her pretty things. Now what would he work for?

  Ciro imagined Concetta in full, filling in the details of her life outside of what he observed in fleeting glimpses of her on the piazza, in school, or in church. He wondered how she spent her time away from San Nicola. He imagined her bedroom, with a round window, a white rocking chair, and a soft feather bed surrounded by a wallpaper of tiny pink roses. He wondered what she wished for—an elegant gold chain, a small emerald ring, or a fur capelet to wear over her winter coat? What would she become? Did she see herself working in a shop on the colonnade? Would she want a house on Via Donzetti or a farm above the village in Alta Vilminore?

  Ciro pleaded, “Let’s get rid of Don Gregorio. Help me do it. He’s an infidel. You know how the church works. Help me get the job done. I would do it for you.”

  “Let me think about it,” Sister Teresa said.

  Seeing Concetta in the arms of another did not make Ciro jealous, it made him sad. He had hoped for a kiss for so long, and now he would never know one from the girl he had longed for from the first moment he saw her. The village priest had stolen any chance for his happiness outright, and Ciro wanted Don Gregorio to pay.

  Ciro set off on foot for Schilpario to the north. The five-mile hike over the pass would take him about an hour, so he gave himself plenty of time to make it to the church to speak with Don Martinelli after the funeral and receive instructions for the grave-digging.

  Sister Teresa packed a few fresh rolls, sliced salami, a hunk of Parmesan cheese, and a canteen of water. Ciro was frustrated that he was forced to walk to Schilpario, but after his run-in with Don Gregorio, he knew he would never ride in the church carriage again. He wondered who would take care of the rectory stable now that he had been fired. He felt for Iggy, who was getting older and counted on his young companion to do the heavy lifting. The word had spread quickly that Ciro was no longer working at the church, a bit of news in a village longing for it.

  The Passo Presolana curved like a copper coil up the perimeter of the mountain, snaking under stone overpasses and widening where the lip of the gorge extended over the rocks. Ciro walked through a long tunnel carved into the mountain, its stone walls once jagged from dynamite blasts but now covered in green moss. Ciro kept his eyes on the far entrance, an oval of bright light capping the darkness.

  Suddenly he heard the pounding of hooves. Ciro could make out the silhouettes of a team of horses pulling a covered carriage as it entered the tunnel. The horses plowed on at full gallop. Ciro heard the driver shout, “Sbrigati!” to him as he froze in their sightline. Ciro threw himself against the wet wall of the tunnel, clinging to it, arms outstretched. The galloping horses raced past, the wheels of the carriage inches from Ciro’s feet as it barely negotiated the hairpin turn.

  The deafening sound of the hooves diminished in the distance, and Ciro leaned over, placed his hands on his knees, and attempted to regain his breath, his heart pounding. The idea of certain death skirted only seconds ago sent a chill through him.

  As soon as he had regained his composure, he made his way out of the tunnel and continued his climb up the mountain. The Alps blossomed with the fresh buds of spring; on one side the cliffs were draped in white button daisies,
while on the other, the rocky sides of the perilous gorge were blanketed in a mesh of vines. Ciro wished he had taken Eduardo up on his offer of company, as the journey was turning out to be longer and more treacherous than he imagined, but his brother was busy preparing the liturgy for Easter week.

  Ciro whistled, climbing a steep crook in the road. As he passed a deep gulley where the road dropped off, he heard something rustle in the brush. He looked down into the pit, a crevice filled with thick foliage, and stepped back. There were wolves in these mountains, and he imagined that if they were half as hungry as the poor people who lived in these villages, he might not make it to Schilpario after all. He sprinted up the road when he heard another rustling, this time closer, as if he were being followed. Ciro broke into a run and was soon followed by a small barking dog, a wiry black-and-white mutt with a long face and alert brown eyes.

  Ciro stopped. Catching his breath, he asked, “Who are you?”

  The dog barked.

  “Go home, boy.” Ciro surveyed the stretch of road. He was too far outside Vilminore for the dog to belong to anyone there, and besides, the dog was thin, so it was doubtful he’d been in the care of an owner for a while.

  Ciro knelt. “I have to dig a grave, boy.”

  The dog looked up at him.

  “Where do you live?”

  The dog stuck out his pink tongue and panted.

  “Oh, I get it. You’re an orphan boy like me.” Ciro scratched the dog behind the ears. His fur was clean, but matted tightly, like thick wool. Ciro opened his canteen of water and poured some into his hand for the dog to drink. The dog lapped up the water and then shook his head, splashing the remains all over Ciro.

  “Hey!” Ciro stood, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Non spruzzarmi!”

  He turned to walk up the road. The dog followed him.

  “Go home, boy.”

  The dog ignored the command and followed Ciro up the mountain. The rest of the climb went by quickly as Ciro tossed sticks for his new friend to fetch. Back and forth, back and forth, the dog made a game of Ciro’s climb higher and higher into the Alps. Ciro had begun to appreciate the dog’s company just as the journey ended. The entrance to the village of Schilpario was in sight.

  Ciro’s destination, the church of Sant’Antonio da Padova, built with large blocks of sandstone from the mountain, anchored the entrance to the village. From the church courtyard Ciro saw an enormous waterwheel below, spinning furiously as rushing torrents from the mountain streams spilled over the slats and into a clear pool. The deep field behind the waterwheel gave a sense of length and breadth to this village, nestled at the foot of Pizzo Camino.

  Ciro peered down the empty street. The town was eerily quiet. He looked up at the windows and saw no faces in them. The shop doors were locked, and the shades were down. It was as though the village had been abandoned. Ciro began to doubt Iggy’s instructions.

  The stray dog followed Ciro to the entrance of the church. Ciro looked down at him. “Look, I have a job here. Go find a family to take you in.”

  The dog looked up at Ciro as if to say, What family?

  Ciro opened the door to the church. He looked back at the dog, who sat back on his hind legs to wait. Ciro shook his head and smiled.

  Ciro entered the church, removing his cap. The vestibule was full, ten people deep. Ciro worked his way through the crowd to the back of the church. Every pew was filled. Rows of mourners stood in the aisles. The alcoves overflowed with people, and the stairs up to the choir loft were full. Ciro soon realized that the entire population of the village was standing in the church. Ciro had been hired to bury someone very important, a padrone, a sindaco, or perhaps a bishop.

  Ciro was tall enough to see over the heads of the mourners. He looked down the long center aisle to the foot of the altar, where a small open casket rested. To his horror, Ciro realized that he had come to bury not an old man, but a child. Kneeling before the casket was the family, a mother and father and their children. They were dressed in clean, neatly pressed work clothes, but in no way would their humble appearance justify this elaborate funeral or the standing-room-only attendance. Ciro was surprised to see such a poor family, one of his own station, so exalted in church.

  Giacomina knelt before the casket, placing her hands upon it as if to comfort a sleeping child in a cradle. Giacomina had never had the seventh baby she had promised her husband. How strange that she was thinking about the baby that had never been born as her own lay in her casket. The scent and sounds of a new baby in the house always sweetened the surroundings. The older children had their enchantments, and it was a pleasure to tend to them, but a baby brings a focus to the home. A new baby binds a family together anew.

  Giacomina had believed that the absence of a seventh baby shielded the other six from harm. She had made a deal with God Almighty. In exchange for that seventh joy she had prayed for but not received, He would hold the six she had close and safe. But God had broken His promise. As she took in the faces of her children, she realized that she could not comfort them. Their loss was as catastrophic as her own.

  Enza gripped her mother’s hand tightly as she knelt before the casket, taking in for the last time Stella’s sweet face and unruly curls. How many times Enza had stood at the foot of the crib when Stella was a baby, peering up at her as she slept! She did not look that different to Enza now.

  Enza would hold the image of her baby sister in her heart like the curl of Stella’s hair that she had clipped and placed in a locket before the priest allowed the mourners into the church. Enza began to list all the things Stella had accomplished during her short life. Stella was learning to read. She knew the alphabet. She could recite her prayers, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be, and the Our Father. She knew the song “Ninna Nanna” and could dance the bergamasca. She was learning about nature; she could identify the poisonous red berries of the sagrada plant as well as the edible plumberries that grew wild on the cliffs. She knew the difference between alpine deer and wild elk from drawings in Papa’s book.

  Stella knew about heaven, but it had been presented like a land of make-believe, a castle in the clouds where angels lived. Enza wondered if Stella understood what was happening as she lay dying. It was too cruel to imagine Stella’s last thoughts.

  Life, Enza decided, is not about what you get, but what is taken from you. It’s in the things we lose that we discover what we most treasure. Enza’s most profound wish was that she might have kept Stella safe, that she had not failed her baby sister, that they would not have to face the years ahead without her.

  Enza vowed never to forget Stella, not for a day.

  The priest struck a long match and ignited the incense in the gold urn until streams of gray smoke curled from the open squares of the brass cup. He gently lowered the cap and lifted the urn on its rope chain, swinging it gently as he walked around the casket, anointing it, until puffs of smoke obscured the tiny casket, which now resembled a small golden ship sailing through clouds. The family encircled the casket as they had Stella’s bed.

  The priest looked all around the church, unable to figure out a way to move the vast crowd through the cathedral so each mourner might pass the casket and pay their final respects. Ciro quickly grasped the problem. He nudged two young men and motioned for them to join him.

  Ciro walked up the aisle with the boys, and, slipping behind the altar to the far side of the church, he motioned for the two young men to do the same on the other side of the church. They unbolted the side doors, top and bottom, letting in the fresh mountain air and beams of sunlight that immediately dispelled the gloom. The mourners formed a line and began to process past the casket and out from either side. The priest nodded his approval to Ciro.

  Ciro observed the eldest daughter rise from her kneeling position to stand behind her grieving mother, placing her hands on her shoulders to comfort her. He looked away; to see such deep connection between mother and child awoke a particular grief of his own. He slipped out the side door
through the crowd. Once outdoors, he took in the cool, fresh air. He figured it would take most of the afternoon to move the mourners through the cemetery after the final benediction. It would be hours before he could begin to dig the grave, and nightfall before he would return to Vilminore.

  Hearing a dog whimper, Ciro looked up and saw his stray running around the side of the church toward him. He leaned down, and the dog nuzzled his hand.

  “Hey, Spruzzo,” he whispered, happy for the company.

  Ciro reached back into his knapsack and broke off a bit of salami for the dog as the mourners filed out of the church and into the streets of Schilpario in waves of black and gray, like low storm clouds off the cliffs.

  A group of children left the church together. Ciro immediately recognized them as orphans. They were led by a nun whose hands were folded into her billowing black sleeves, her head bowed as she went. The sight of the children, moving quickly as if to ward off attention as they followed the nun, tore at his heart. He missed his own mother. Ciro had learned that the pain of her abandonment was only lying dormant; suddenly, when he was most unaware, the sight of a child around the age he was when Caterina left him at the convent would open the old wound again, piercing his fragile soul.

  Ciro imagined his mother in a gold carriage, led by a team of black horses, stopping in front of the convent on a winter morning. Caterina would be wearing her best coat, of the deepest midnight blue velvet. She would reach down and extend her hands to her sons, beckoning them to join her. In this dream, Ciro and Eduardo were young boys again. This time, she wouldn’t leave them behind; instead, she would scoop them up and place them on the seat of the carriage. The driver would turn to them: their father, Carlo, smiling with the contentment of a happy man with a clear conscience, who needs nothing in this world but a woman who loves him and the family they have made together.