The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  That night, the sisters of San Nicola filed into their pews in the convent chapel. Ciro and Eduardo joined them, taking seats behind them. Sister Ercolina entered from the sacristy. She closed the door and faced them.

  Sister Ercolina began with a heavy heart. “The arrangements have been made. This Saturday, Ignazio is going to take you both down to Bergamo, in the church cart.”

  “I’m allowed in Don Gregorio’s cart? I thought he’d make me walk barefoot down the mountain, hauling a giant cross like Jesus on Golgotha.”

  “Ciro, I’m going to ask you to hold your tongue until I finish talking.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister.” Ciro smiled.

  “Eduardo, your train ticket will be waiting for you at the station. You will join four other seminarians. When you reach Rome, you will proceed with them to your new home in the seminary at Sant’Agostino. Ciro, the ticket waiting for you at the train station will take you to Venice. From there, you will sail to Le Havre, France, where you will purchase a one-way ticket to New York on the SS Chicago.”

  “Have you secured me a spot as an indentured servant? I only had one lira, and I gave it to Sister Domenica, who may have already squandered it on a bottle of Cuban rum.”

  “Ciro!” Sister Domenica laughed. The nuns giggled.

  “No, your passage will cost one hundred lire.” The sisters gasped at Sister Ercolina’s defiance.

  “Sister Anna Isabelle’s family wired us to let us know that they will meet you in Manhattan at South Port 64 after you have been processed through Ellis Island. Take this letter.” She gave it to Ciro. “And this money.” She gave Ciro the lire. “There are two extra lire for you.”

  “Thank you,” Ciro said. He held the envelope and the money and looked at his brother. “You’ve all sacrificed for me, and I’m not worthy.”

  “You are worthy, Ciro. But, I must ask you something in return. And I must ask you, Eduardo, and all the sisters, to hold a confidence for me. I told Don Gregorio that you were being sent to the work camp in Parma.”

  The sisters gasped; they had never known Ercolina to lie.

  “I prayed about it, and I must follow my conscience in this matter. I believe you to be an honorable young man, Ciro. It’s ironic that in order to take care of you, I had to lie. But the priest’s power is absolute, and a thousand years of begging him to change his mind would not have turned the result in your favor. You should never have been punished for telling the truth.”

  “Thank you, Sister.” Sister Teresa was full of emotion.

  “I’m asking you to forgive me, and to pray for Eduardo and Ciro as they leave us to start their new lives. And also, please pray for Don Gregorio, who needs your intercessions on his behalf.”

  “You had me until you asked us to pray for the padre,” Ciro muttered.

  Sister Ercolina snapped, “Ciro, you realize, had you ever met me halfway, I’d be sending you to the seminary with Eduardo.”

  “Better to ship me off on a boat to America. I don’t think the Holy Roman Church and I are a match.”

  “That would be my conclusion also, Ciro.” Sister Ercolina smiled.

  The rectory carriage was parked outside the entrance of the convent. The sun was not yet up over Vilminore; only the farmers and the town baker were up this early. Sunrise was an hour away.

  Ignazio Farino drank a cup of strong coffee and hot milk and dipped a heel of day-old bread into it in the convent kitchen while Sister Teresa prepared eggs on the stove. Ciro and Eduardo joined them in the kitchen.

  “It’s the last supper, Sister,” Ciro joked.

  “I didn’t know a sense of humor was awake this early.” Eduardo pulled out a work stool and sat. Ciro poured his brother a cup of coffee, and then one for himself.

  “Thank you for getting up early to milk the cows,” Sister Teresa said to Ciro.

  “I’m going to New York City. I don’t know when I’ll see another cow.”

  “That’s a talent that you can use anywhere in the world,” Ignazio assured Ciro. “They drink a lot of milk in America, I hear.”

  “I’m going to be a shoemaker, Iggy.”

  “I’ve always wanted a pair of black leather boots with blue spats and gray pearl buttons. I’ll tell you what, I’ll have my wife take a pencil and draw my feet on butcher paper. I’ll send you the patterns and you can make the shoes. And you”—Ignazio turned to Eduardo—“You can pray for me and arrange some indulgences, if and when I need them.”

  “You’ll always be in my prayers, Iggy,” Eduardo said.

  Ignazio finished his coffee and headed outside to prepare the cart for the trip down the mountain. He had agreed to transport several boxes for the Longarettis and deliver a collection of missals to the church in Clusone.

  “I’m going to go and pack up my books. Thank you, Sister.” Eduardo took his plate to the sink.

  “I’ll be right there,” Ciro said to Eduardo.

  Sister Teresa turned away from Ciro and cleaned the frying pan on the griddle.

  “The pan is clean, Sister.”

  “I can’t look at you, Ciro.”

  Ciro looked away, trying not to cry. The only sound was the soft sizzle of the pot of boiling water in the fireplace. Finally, Ciro said, “You knew this day would come. I just hoped to live up the road and visit a lot. Bring my wife over and my children. Maybe stop in and be of some use to you.”

  “You’re going so far away.”

  “If only Don Gregorio knew how far.”

  Sister Teresa smiled, knowing this was the last bit of humor from Ciro that would brighten her mornings. “He’ll never find out, but even if he does, you’ll be safe.”

  “Do you know what happened to Concetta?” Ciro asked quietly.

  “Her mother didn’t believe me until Concetta admitted the whole thing. The relationship between the Martoccis and the priest has ended. Concetta won’t see the priest any longer. That’s why Don Gregorio is so angry at us. We ruined his happy arrangement.”

  “I loved Concetta, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Ciro tried to lighten the mood, for Sister Teresa’s sake and his own. “I can’t believe Sister Ercolina shook Don Gregorio down for one hundred lire. He didn’t even know what hit him. I wish she would’ve asked for two hundred, and then you could’ve gotten some cows and pigs for the convent.”

  “Sister only takes what she needs. It’s the secret to happiness, you know. Only take what you need.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Ciro smiled. “I guess I should say good-bye. I will write to you. One day, I promise, I will return to Vilminore. This is my home, and I plan to grow old here.”

  “I’ll be so happy to see you when you come back.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” Ciro embraced Sister Teresa.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Ciro wiped his own tears on his sleeve. “You have been my mother and my friend. You have been on my side from the day I arrived here. Eduardo will always do well because he knows how to follow rules. I never could, but you protected me and made it seem as though I was. I’ll never forget you. It’s only fitting that I leave you with a special gift so you’ll always remember me.”

  “Absolutely not, Ciro.”

  “Oh, yes, Sister.”

  Ciro whistled. “Come on, boy.”

  Spruzzo bounded into the kitchen.

  “Spruzzo will keep you company. You can feed him bits of salami, just like you fed me. He won’t talk back, and he won’t hound you for seconds. He will be happy with whatever you give him. Promise me you’ll be as good to him as you were to me.”

  Sister Teresa’s tears gave way to a hearty laugh. “All right, all right. But when you come back, he’s all yours.”

  “Absolutely.” Ciro hugged Sister Teresa one last time, then slowly walked out the door. Ciro did not look back. He wanted to, but he knew that the greatest gift he could give Sister Teresa was to forge ahead and take a bold step into his new life. He knew that
she hoped above all he would be brave; courage would keep him from harm.

  Spruzzo looked up at Sister Teresa. She sat down on the work stool, lifted her apron to her face, and cried into it. She had vowed to be true only to God, and then to her community, but she hadn’t counted on raising a hungry little boy who had walked into the convent kitchen and won her heart. No mother had ever loved a son more.

  The bells in the tower above the convent chapel rang out over the valley as the rectory carriage made the turn on the ridge above Valle di Scalve. Iggy pulled the reins tightly as Eduardo and Ciro looked up the mountain at Vilminore for the last time.

  Ciro’s eyes did not linger on the landscape, as he vowed to return quickly. Eduardo knew differently, taking a few moments to commit the green cliffs to memory. He was certain the antiquities of Rome could never be this beautiful.

  “Those bells are for you boys,” Ignazio said. “If I didn’t have to drive you down the mountain, it would have been me working the ropes in the tower to say good-bye to you. I’m deaf in one ear from ringing those chimes.”

  “I’m sorry you have to scrub the church from now on,” Ciro said.

  “You left it so clean, I think I can get to next Easter without a major scouring,” Iggy said. “Now, Ciro, when you get to America, remember that every other person you meet is trying to trick you out of what’s in your pocket. Only drink wine with your spaghetti and never alone at a bar. When a woman seems interested in you quickly, she is looking to take advantage of you. Ask for your wages in cash, and if they pay by paper, don’t let them take a cut for cashing your check. Open a bank account as soon as you get there, with ten lire. Leave it there, but never add to the sum. Every man needs a bank, but the bank doesn’t need your money.”

  “I’ll only have two lire after I pay my passage,” Ciro reminded him.

  Ignazio reached into his pocket and gave Ciro eight lire. “Now you have ten.”

  “I can’t take this.”

  “Trust me, Mother Church will never miss it.” Iggy winked as Eduardo rolled his eyes and made the sign of the cross.

  “Thanks, Iggy.” Ciro put the money in his pocket.

  “I always felt for you boys. I remember your father, and I know he would be very proud of you.”

  Eduardo and Ciro looked at one another. Whenever they asked Iggy about their father, he made a joke or told a funny story.

  “What do you remember about him?” Eduardo asked.

  Iggy took his eyes off the road and looked at the boys. He believed dwelling on the past and revisiting the pain would make their loss worse, so he had kept quiet all these years. Today, though, Iggy wanted to share all he knew. “He never set foot in church. You must get your devotion from the Montini side. Anyway, his people were from Sestri Levante originally, down in the Gulf of Genoa. He came up to Bergamo to find work. At that time, they were building the train station, and there were many jobs. Your mother’s people had a printing shop, and he would walk by on his way to work and see your mother in the window. He fell in love with her and that was that.”

  “Why did they come to Vilminore?”

  “Your father got a job in the mines. But then he was told he could get twice the wages for the same job in America. And your mother came from some means, and he felt that he had to provide her with a life like the one she knew as a girl. So he set off to make his fortune.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “He went to a place in America called the Iron Range, in Minnesota.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “I know only what you boys have been told, that he died in a mining accident.”

  “But they never found his body,” Ciro said, a phrase repeated whenever he spoke of his father.

  “Ciro,” Iggy said solemnly, “you’re a man now. It’s not good for you to believe that he’ll return. Put your hopes in something real, something that will bring you happiness.”

  Ciro stared ahead, wondering what, if anything, would ever bring him happiness. Eduardo nudged Ciro to say something.

  “Va bene, Iggy,” Ciro said.

  “You just do your best, and life will follow. That’s what my papa used to tell me.”

  They stopped in Clusone to deliver a package to the local stonemason. Iggy tied the horse to the railing outside the post office. Eduardo and Ciro sat on the bench and ate their lunch. Ciro squinted and looked across the street, taking in the homes staggered on the hillside like dollhouses, painted yellow and white, pale blue with eggshell trim, moss green with black shutters. Ciro never tired of looking at houses. He was fascinated by their design and longed for the permanence they represented.

  Across the street, a girl closed the door of a white house with dark blue trim. She pulled on a straw hat with a long red ribbon and tied it under her chin. Ciro saw the ruffles of her white skirt as they grazed the top of her brown leather ankle boots. She turned and walked out onto the street. It was Concetta Martocci.

  “Where are you going?” Eduardo called out as Ciro leaped from the bench. “We’ll be late for the train!”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Ciro ran across the road and followed her. Concetta turned and saw him, then quickened her pace.

  “No, please . . . stop, Concetta!” Ciro called after her.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said as Ciro raced alongside her, until he overtook her. She stopped.

  “I never meant to hurt you,” Ciro said.

  “Too late for that.” Concetta moved around him and kept walking.

  “Why are you in Clusone? Did Don Gregorio send you away?”

  “No, my mother decided it was best. I’m staying with my aunt.”

  “He should have been the one to leave, not you and not me.”

  Concetta stopped and faced Ciro. “Why did you have to ruin everything?”

  “He was taking advantage of you!”

  “No, he wasn’t. I didn’t want to end up a miner’s wife, I wanted something more for myself.” Concetta’s eyes burned with tears.

  “You couldn’t make a life with him,” Ciro said, frustrated by her ignorance. “He’s a priest.”

  “Just so you understand,” Concetta said, “I never would have fallen in love with you. I don’t like the way you would strut on the piazza, lifting stones and hauling wood, talking loudly and making jokes. Your clothes were always dirty, and when you’d eat, you ate with both hands and hungrily, as though you would never eat another meal again. I watched you too, Ciro, just like you watched me, and I was not impressed. You deserve the work camp. Maybe they can straighten you out.”

  “Maybe they can.” Instead of defending himself, instead of trying to convince her to see what he believed to be true, he surrendered. What had always been impossible would remain so forever.

  Eduardo waved to Ciro from across the road.

  “Good-bye, Concetta,” Ciro said as he turned to the carriage. He didn’t look back, but this time it was because he didn’t want to.

  In the days that followed Stella’s death, Giacomina hardly spoke. She took care of the house, washed the clothes, and cooked the meals as she had always done, but joy was lost along with her baby girl. She knew that she should be grateful that she had five other healthy children, but the comfort of many could never make up for the loss of one.

  Slowly, Enza was beginning to feel the suffocating bonds of her grief break loose. She picked up after the children and took care of chores her mother usually attended to. Marco kept busy running the carriage from Schilpario to Bergamo.

  “I have a package to deliver to Vilminore,” Marco said as he came into the house before supper.

  “I’ll take it for you, Papa,” Enza volunteered. She had waited a week to hear from Ciro Lazzari. He had promised to come to see her, and she believed he meant it.

  A practical girl never pines; she takes action, Enza told herself. She knew Ciro lived at the convent in Vilminore.

  As she hitched up the carriage and t
he horse, she remembered the camaraderie she had felt with Ciro the night they drove down to Vilminore. He was easy to be with, and she loved the way he looked, that offbeat thick sandy hair, the funny ring of keys on his pants loop, and the red bandana tied around his neck, just like the miners wear after they’ve cleaned up after a long shift. He was original, on a mountain where that was rare.

  Ciro had taken Enza’s mind off her despair the day of Stella’s funeral. He had given her something to look forward to, something beyond that terrible day. In his kiss there was hope.

  As she took Cipi out of the stable, he found the road and instinctively headed south in the direction of Vilminore. The wind cooled her face as Cipi settled into a trot on the pass. The night she took the ride with Ciro, it had been pitch-black, but the lamp threw plenty of light to see. She savored their conversation, and often, when doing her chores, she remembered the words he said to her, and how hopeful he was that she might kiss him again.

  Now, she wished she had. Because one kiss is not enough. Neither is one conversation. Enza had so much more to say to Ciro Lazzari.

  As she entered the village of Vilminore, she guided the carriage to the entrance of the convent, where she had left Ciro the week before. She felt confident, but more importantly, she felt the excitement of the possibility of their reunion. Surely he would be happy to see her. Hadn’t he said he wanted to see her again? Even if he didn’t, even if he was cold and abrupt, at least she would know his feelings. She would happily stop imagining his kisses every time she put down her book, or remembering his arms around her when she hung up the wash.

  Enza jumped off the carriage bench and onto the ground. She rang the bell at the convent entrance and waited. Soon, Sister Domenica answered the door.

  “Sister, my name is Enza Ravanelli. I’m from Schilpario.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Ciro Lazzari.”

  “Ciro?” Sister’s eyes darted around suspiciously. “What do you want with Ciro?”

  “I met him the day my sister was buried. He dug the grave.”

  “I remember.”

  “And I wanted to thank him.”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore,” Sister Domenica said softly.