The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  But it didn’t matter what he was, or where he came from. Enza was sure he had a good heart, raised as he had been by the sisters in the convent, and he filled a yearning within her. There would be time later to wonder why she had let a boy she hardly knew kiss her on Via Scalina. For her, there was no hesitancy, because there was no mystery. She understood him, though she wasn’t sure why.

  In this small village, though, there were rules about courting. The thought of a neighbor seeing her, here in the open, kissing a boy quickly brought her to her senses. As usual, her practical nature won over her romantic heart.

  “But you love someone else,” she said, making an excuse to step away from him, even though she didn’t want to.

  “Sister Teresa says that when one girl breaks your heart, another comes along to mend it.”

  Enza smiled. “I’m the best seamstress in Schilpario. Everyone says so. But I don’t know how to help you mend your broken heart. I have one of my own, you know.” Enza ran up the stairs of the rectory and rang the bell. Ciro bounded up after her.

  Father Martinelli came to the door. He seemed so much smaller in the doorway than he had at the altar. His white vestment robes and gold sash had made him seem like a giant, but in his black cassock, he had shrunk to the size of an ink blotter.

  “Your cloth, Don Martinelli.”

  “Va bene. Buona sera.” Don Martinelli began to close the door. Ciro put his foot in the door frame to prevent the priest from closing it.

  “Ignazio Farino says you’re to pay me two lire.”

  “You’re an expensive grave digger.”

  Father dug in his pocket and handed Ciro two lire. Ciro handed one lira back to Don Martinelli. “For the church.” Ciro said. Don Martinelli took the money, grunted, and closed the door.

  “That was kind of you,” Enza said.

  “Don’t think highly of me. That was the deal,” Ciro said.

  Enza looked up at the night sky, an expanse of lavender with streaks of gold that looked like embroidered threads. A beautiful heaven had welcomed her sister’s soul tonight.

  “Where did you stable your horse?” she asked.

  “I walked.”

  “From Vilminore? You can’t possibly walk over the pass when it’s dark. You could get trampled, or worse.”

  Spruzzo wheezed.

  “And what about your dog?”

  “He’s not my dog.”

  “But he follows you everywhere.”

  “Because I couldn’t get rid of him. He followed me up here over the pass. I made the mistake of feeding him.”

  “He chose you.” Enza knelt down to pet Spruzzo.

  Ciro knelt down next to her. “I’d rather you chose me.”

  Enza looked into Ciro’s eyes, and couldn’t decide if this young man was the type who said pretty things to all the girls, or if he really liked her. He wouldn’t be the first boy to take advantage of a sad girl, but Enza decided that she had to trust what she saw in him instead of thinking the worst.

  “You know this church is named for Sant’Antonio di Padova, the saint of lost things. That’s a sign. Spruzzo was lost, he found you, and he meant to. You have to keep him.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or Sant’Antonio will forget you. And when you need him most, when you’re lost, he won’t help you find your way.”

  When Enza spoke of the saints, Ciro almost wanted to believe in them. He couldn’t imagine such a personal faith, where saints were at the ready to do the bidding of those on earth. Ciro had buffed every statue at San Nicola, and never once felt the power behind the plaster images. How did this mountain girl know with certainty that the heavenly hosts were watching over her?

  “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll take you home.”

  “You can drive a carriage?”

  “Since I was eleven,” Enza said proudly.

  “This I have to see.”

  Enza and Ciro walked up Via Scalina together, following Spruzzo, who trotted ahead as though he’d been officially adopted. Oil lamps lit the path to the entrance of the Ravanellis’ old stone house. The yard was filled with small groups of visitors who had come to be with the family. Inside, the house overflowed with more neighbors and friends, who had brought food and comfort to the family.

  “Let me talk to my father,” she said. “I need his permission.”

  Ciro followed Enza into the Ravanelli home while Spruzzo waited outside on the grass.

  Ciro’s mouth watered as he looked at the table, filled with an array of homemade breads and rolls, fresh cheese, prosciutto, cold polenta, and platters of tortellini, small purses of pasta filled with sausage. On the mantel over the hearth, he saw several cakes in tin pans, reminding him of the holiday baking at the convent. Ciro delivered Sister Teresa’s rum cakes throughout Vilminore every December. An enamel pot of coffee rested on a trivet, and a pitcher of cream was set nearby. Every bench and chair was filled with company from the village.

  There were children everywhere, climbing the ladder to the loft, running under the table, playing tag as they ran through the house to the outdoors. It occurred to him that a terrible day had been made whole by the laughter of children after the loss of one of their own.

  Ciro felt the sudden sting of regret for all that he had missed in his own home, with family and friends filling rooms and making a life. The simply furnished house was clean and welcoming, and the friends seemed devoted. What more does a man need to be happy? Ciro wondered.

  A woman around the same age as Giacomina poured her coffee, while Marco stood in a circle with several men who tried to keep his mind off his grief with stories from the mines. Ciro remembered them at the foot of the altar that morning , a lump forming in his throat.

  Enza made her way to her father. She whispered in Marco’s ear, and he nodded and looked over at Ciro, sizing him up, as Enza went to her mother and knelt before her. She patted her mother’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.

  Enza collected two pears, several small sandwiches, and a cavazune pie filled with ricotta and honey, placing them in a starched moppeen. She joined Ciro at the door. “Papa said we can take the carriage.”

  “Before we go, may I pay my respects to your parents?” Ciro asked.

  Every feeling Enza had in her heart had been expanded that day. She was surprised by Ciro’s grace and also moved by it. “Of course,” she said quietly.

  Enza tied a knot in the moppeen and placed the food on the table. She took Ciro to meet her father. Ciro shook his hand and offered his condolences. Then Enza took Ciro to meet her mother. Ciro repeated his kind sympathies and remembered to bow his head to the lady of the house.

  Ciro followed Enza down a stone path to the stable as Spruzzo barked outside the stable door. Enza grabbed a small oil lamp and went into the barn, where the light turned everything inside a milky gold—the hay, the walls, the trough, the horse. Cipi stood in his stall, covered by a blanket.

  “You can pull the muslin cover off the carriage,” Enza said, lifting the blanket off Cipi. The horse nuzzled her neck.

  “You want me to hitch the carriage?” Ciro asked.

  “I can do it.” Enza led Cipi out of his stall to the carriage hitch. “You can feed him.”

  Ciro lifted a bucket of oats from the feeder trough and positioned it where Cipi could gobble it down.

  Enza opened the stable doors and attached the oil lamp to the hook on the carriage. She went to the water pump outside the doors and pumped fresh water for Spruzzo, who lapped it up hungrily. Then she washed her hands and face, wiping her face on her apron. Ciro did the same, wiping his own face on his bandana.

  She climbed up onto the carriage bench. “Don’t forget supper.” Ciro picked up the food and climbed next to Enza, who picked up the reins as Spruzzo jumped up on to the seat and sat between them.

  Enza snapped the reins; Cipi trotted out of the barn and onto the main road that weaved through Schilpario. The heart of the village, a corridor of buildings that lined eith
er side of the road, was drenched in pale blue moonlight. The carriage passed through the narrow stone street until the walls of the town gave way to the entrance of the Passo Presolana.

  The road unspooled down the mountain before them like a black velvet ribbon, the carriage lamp throwing a strong beam of white light into the darkness to guide them. Ciro watched as Enza deftly controlled the reins. She sat up high, with perfect posture, guiding Cipi through the night.

  “Tell me about your ring,” Enza said.

  Ciro twisted the gold signet ring on his smallest finger. “I’m afraid I’m going to outgrow it altogether.”

  “Have you had it very long?”

  “Since my mother left. It belonged to her.”

  “It suits you.”

  “It’s all I have from my family.”

  “That’s not true,” Enza said. “I’ll bet you have her eyes, or her smile, or her coloring.”

  “No, I look like my father.” Whenever anyone else asked about his mother, Ciro changed the subject, but Enza asked about Caterina in a manner that didn’t feel like prying. “My brother looks like our mother.” He added, “I’m not at all like her, really.”

  “You should eat,” Enza said. “You must be starving.”

  Ciro took a bite of the bread and cheese. “I’m always hungry.”

  “What’s it like, living in the convent? When I was a little girl, I thought about becoming a nun.”

  Ciro draped his arm over the back of the carriage seat around Enza. “You shouldn’t kiss boys, then.”

  “Don’t look so smug.”

  “How can you tell how I look? It’s dark out here.”

  “I can see just fine. The lamp is loaded with oil.” Enza loosened the reins on Cipi, who slowed to a more leisurely jog.

  “You don’t even have to direct him. He knows the way,” Ciro observed.

  “Papa takes this route when business is good.”

  “And how is business?”

  “Terrible. But the summer is coming, and it’s always better then.”

  “Will I see you this summer?” Ciro asked.

  “We go up to Lake Endine.”

  Ciro sat up. “You do?”

  “We stay with our cousins. You could come with us,” Enza offered.

  “I would never impose,” Ciro said.

  “My brothers would love the company. They go fishing. They hike and go in caves. Battista says that there are caves with blue sand up on the mountain.”

  “I’ve heard of those caves! Do you go fishing?” Ciro asked.

  “No, I cook and clean and help my aunt with her babies. Just like your nuns. A lot of work, and I’m paid in fresh figs,” Enza joked.

  Enza took the turn onto the piazza in Vilminore. A few of the townspeople were out after la passeggiata. Old men played cards on small tables on the colonnade as a mother pushed a pram, soothing her baby. Cipi’s hooves clicked across the piazza as Ciro took the reins and guided the carriage to the entrance of the convent.

  “Thank you for the ride,” Ciro said. “I wish you didn’t have to go back alone.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Cipi knows the road. Remember?”

  “I’d better go,” Ciro said, yet he didn’t move. He wasn’t ready to get out of the carriage, or for this night to end.

  “I’m not going to kiss you again,” Enza said gently.

  “But . . . ,” Ciro said.

  Enza gave him the moppeen with the food.

  “Good night, Ciro. Remember, Sant’Antonio will take good care of you if you take care of Spruzzo.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Whenever you want. You know where I live.”

  “The yellow house on Via Scalina,” Ciro said.

  He climbed down from the carriage, his arms full of Spruzzo and the remnants of supper. He turned to say something more to Enza, but Cipi had trotted out into the piazza and was heading for the road.

  Enza’s dark hair flew behind her like a veil. How small she looked, high on the driver’s bench! As the carriage turned off onto the pass, the lamplight threw a sheen on the wooden side of the carriage. “Wait!” Ciro called out, but she was gone.

  I know that carriage, he thought.

  It looked like the carriage that had taken his mother away. Could it be the same one? Ciro had felt there was something fated about meeting Enza, and now he knew. He couldn’t wait to tell Eduardo, who might remember the carriage in more detail than he. Or maybe he was just imagining things on this day of grave-digging and tears.

  The smattering of clouds over the moon floated away, leaving a gold coin in the sky. Lucky moon. Tonight, Ciro thought, life was pretty good. If he were the praying kind, he might even thank God for his good fortune. He had a lira in his pocket. He had met a pretty girl, and he’d kissed her. It wasn’t like any of the other kisses he’d ever had, nor was she like any of the other girls who had come before her. Enza listened to him, and this was a gift sweeter than any kiss. But it would take Ciro many years to realize it.

  Ciro pushed the convent door open and entered the vestibule. Eduardo jumped up from the bench. “You’re back. Grazie Dio.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What is that?” Eduardo looked down at the dog.

  “This is Spruzzo.”

  “You can’t have a dog in the convent.”

  “He’s for Sister Teresa. She says there’s a rat in the kitchen.”

  Ciro turned to head out to the workhouse. Eduardo stopped him. “They’re waiting for us in the kitchen.”

  “They?”

  “The nuns.”

  Ciro followed Eduardo. “What’s going on?” he asked. A sense of unease displaced the contentment he had felt moments before.

  The kitchen door was closed, but light spilled through the cracks in the doorjamb. Ciro told Spruzzo to stay outside as Eduardo pushed it open.

  The nuns had gathered around Sister Teresa’s worktable. Some sat on stools, while others stood. Sister Teresa stood off to the side, a look of worry on her face.

  “Are we taking a vote?” Ciro asked. “Because if we are, I vote to plant more olives next year than grapes.”

  The nuns, who usually appreciated Ciro’s jokes, were in no mood for them tonight.

  “Okay, before you punish me, for whatever I’ve done—” Ciro took the lira from his pocket. “For you.” He handed it to Sister Domenica, whose white hair stuck out of her wimple, a sure sign she’d been in a rush to get to this meeting.

  “Thank you,” she said. The sisters murmured their gratitude.

  “We have a very serious problem,” Sister Ercolina said as she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and stood tall and reedy, like a palm frond on Easter Sunday. She crossed her arms across her chest inside her sleeves. “We have loved having you boys here. Eduardo, you have been a wonderful student, and Ciro, we don’t know how we would have handled the garden and the chickens and the maintenance of the convent and the church without you—”

  “This is about Don Gregorio, isn’t it?” Ciro interrupted her, but his mouth was so dry, he could barely swallow. He picked up the pitcher and poured himself a glass of water.

  “He has asked to have you removed from the convent immediately,” Sister said.

  Ciro looked at Eduardo, whose face had turned as white as the flour in the enamel bin. Ciro placed his hands on the table and nodded his head in disbelief. The Lazzari boys had lived in two homes in their young lives. The first had been taken from them because their father had died, and their mother could not build a life for them alone. Now, it was Ciro’s own actions against the village priest that had caused them to lose their home. The boys had grown accustomed to their role in service to these good and poor nuns. They felt long work hours in exchange for their room and board was a fair trade. They had became part of this community, and grown to feel affection for it. The nuns were purposeful in their motherly care of the boys, making certain they celebrated holidays and feast days as they might have
with their parents. Now, the security that had given them confidence and a place in the world had been taken away.

  “I hope you told Don Gregorio to drop dead,” Ciro said.

  The novitiates gasped.

  “He’s a priest,” Sister Ercolina said.

  “He’s also a fraud who takes advantage of young girls. You press his vestments, but he is not worthy of them. You—” Ciro turned and searched the eyes of his family of nuns. “You are worthy. Every single one of you. You serve. Don Gregorio takes.”

  Eduardo gripped Ciro’s arm.

  “My brother and I”—Ciro’s voice broke—“thank you for taking us in. We’ll never forget you. You should not suffer because I was honest with Don Gregorio. My brother and I will pack up and find another place to stay.”

  Sister Ercolina’s eyes filled with tears. “You won’t be together, Ciro.”

  “Don Gregorio has seen to it that you will be separated,” Sister Teresa cried.

  “Ciro, he has arranged to send you to the boys’ workhouse in Parma,” Sister Domenica began. “I argued that you had done nothing wrong, and that you don’t belong there with boys who steal and do worse, but he was vehement.”

  “So the infidel punishes us instead of doing penance for his own sin. And this, dear sisters, is the man who represents God on earth? I have no words.”

  “He deserves our respect,” Sister Domenica said, but the steady look in her eyes told Ciro the words were bitter in her mouth.

  “Sister, you can give him yours, but he will never have mine.”

  Sister Ercolina looked around, then fixed her gaze on Ciro. “I am not here to debate the power of the village priest, I am here to help you. We have all gathered to help you.”

  “That’s why we meet in secret in the kitchen.” Ciro looked around at their faces, the same sweet faces with whom he and Eduardo had shared dinner since the first night they came to the convent. He could not imagine his life without them, nor could he accept the loss of his brother. Fury rose within him. “He would never think to look for us here. The saint of pots and pans is not one he calls upon. No, the saints of gold, frankincense, and lire are more his style.”