The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I should have written to you,” he said.

  Enza took in the phrase should have, which she hoped meant that he wanted to write to her, not that he was obligated to do so. She said, “I went to the convent to see you, and the nun told me you were gone. She wouldn’t say where.”

  “There was some trouble,” he explained. “I left in a hurry. There was no time to say good-bye to anyone except the sisters.”

  “Well, whatever it was, I’m on your side.” She smiled shyly.

  “Grazie.” Ciro blushed. He put his hand to his face and rubbed his cheek, as if to remove the pink flush of embarrassment. Now he remembered why he liked Enza; it wasn’t simply her dark beauty, it was her ability to get to the heart of things. “Are you going to Little Italy? We have a carriage. Most Italians go to Little Italy or Brooklyn.”

  “We’re going to Hoboken.”

  “That’s across the river,” Ciro said. “It’s not very far.” He seemed to think the distance over. “Can you believe I found you again?”

  “I don’t think you were looking very hard,” she teased him.

  “How do you know?”

  “Intuition. It must have been very hard for you to leave the mountain.”

  “It was.” Ciro could admit this to Enza, who came from the same place. He tried not to think about the mountain very much. He threw himself into his work, and when the day was done, he carefully laid out his leather and patterns for the next day. He allowed himself little time for outside amusement. It was as if he knew that the work would sustain him more than other pursuits. “Why did you leave?” Ciro asked her.

  “You remember our stone house on Via Scalina? Well, the padrone broke his promise to us. We need a new house.”

  Ciro nodded sympathetically.

  “And how’s your padrone?” She motioned down the hallways toward Carla Zanetti.

  “I didn’t know there were women like her in the world,” Ciro admitted.

  “Maybe it’s good you find that out now.” Enza laughed.

  “There you are!” Felicitá Cassio whisked down the hallway toward them. She wore a fashionable full skirt in a dusty-purple-and-white-striped silk with a matching shirtwaist in white. The hem of the skirt was hiked an inch to reveal a small fringe of cut lace, and lavender calfskin shoes tied with matching satin bows. She wore a proper straw hat with a white grosgrain ribbon band, and kid gloves upon her hands. Enza couldn’t help but admire the young woman’s dress and accessories.

  Felicitá took Ciro’s wounded hand and kissed it. “What did you do?”

  Enza’s heart sank as she realized Ciro and Felicitá were sweethearts. Of course he had a girlfriend, why wouldn’t he? And of course she would be beautiful. She was also stylish and bold, seemingly a perfect match for the new Ciro, the American Ciro. Enza’s face burned with embarrassment. While she had been dreaming of the boy from the convent, the last thing on his mind had been the girl from Schilpario.

  “I can’t take my eyes off of you for a second!” Felicitá said. “Elizabetta told me you were bleeding all over Mulberry Street.”

  “She should sell mozzarella instead of gossiping,” Ciro said, clearly embarrassed by the show of attention.

  Ciro looked at Enza, who no longer met his gaze. Felicitá turned to face Enza. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Enza Ravanelli is a friend of mine from home,” Ciro said softly. Enza glanced up at him; she’d heard something in his voice, possibly regret.

  “He has such a big heart,” Felicitá said, placing her gloved hand upon Ciro’s chest. Enza noticed how small Felicitá’s hand looked by comparison. “I’m not surprised that he makes a point to visit the sick.”

  Ciro was about to correct Felicitá when Marco interrupted them.

  “Enza, you should rest now.”

  Nodding dutifully, Enza pulled the collar of her robe up around her neck. She wished her robe was made not of thick industrial cotton, but of silk charmeuse that made a soft swishing sound when a girl walked away from a handsome fellow she once had kissed.

  “Enza, we’ll walk you back to your room,” Ciro said.

  “No, no, the Zanettis are waiting for you. Besides, I know the way,” Enza said as she turned to walk down the hallway. She tried to walk away quickly, but she found that the steps back to her room were painful for an altogether different reason. There was no doubt: Ciro Lazzari had fallen in love with someone else.

  Chapter 13

  A WOODEN CLOTHESPIN

  Una Molletta di Legno

  The leaves of the old elm in the courtyard behind the Zanetti Shoe Shop on Mulberry Street had turned a dull gold and fallen to the ground like confetti at the end of a parade. Ciro propped the door open with a can of machine oil. The cool autumn breeze floated over the worktable, rustling the pattern paper. Ciro adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the book he was reading.

  The scar on Ciro’s hand from the accident with the lathe had taken almost six years to fade. By the fall of 1916, the thin red gash that crossed his lifeline on his palm had faded to pink. Ciro was concerned about the mystical implication of the placement of this wound, so he had his palm read on Bleecker Street. As Gloria Vale held his open palm, she assured him that he would have more riches in this life than his heart could hold. But, he noticed, she never told him how long this blessed life would be. When Carla heard of the palm reading, she sniffed, “Another woman charmed by Ciro Lazzari.”

  “I finished the order,” Ciro said without looking up as Remo entered the shop.

  “What are you reading?”

  “A manual about how to build women’s shoes. A salesman left these samples, and it got me to thinking.”

  In response to Remo’s quizzical look, he added, “There are a lot of people in New York City, and half of them are women.”

  “True,” Remo said. “And you’d be the first fellow to count them one by one.”

  Ciro laughed. “Look.” He fanned a dozen small squares of leather out on the table. There was soft calfskin dyed pale green, a pebble leather the color of red licorice, and a deep brown suede the exact shade of pot de crème. “Bella, no? If we make women’s shoes, we double our business on the spot. But Signora doesn’t like the idea.”

  “Carla doesn’t want women in the shop. She’s afraid you’ll take your mind off your work.” Remo laughed. “Or that I will.”

  “She has it all wrong. I don’t want to make ladies’ shoes to meet women, I want to make them to challenge myself. And I’ll take any advice you have for me. A master must be a master to the apprentice in all respects. Benvenuto Cellini said so in his autobiography.”

  “I haven’t read a book in twenty years. Once again, the apprentice surpasses the master. I’m almost obsolete. You’re not only smarter than me, you’re a better shoemaker.”

  “Then why is your name on the door?” Ciro teased him. “You know, Cellini dictated his autobiography to his assistant.”

  “You should write down my wisdom before I die and it’s forgotten.”

  “You won’t be forgotten, Remo.”

  “You never know. That’s why I want to sell everything and go home to Italy.” Remo admitted, “I miss my village. I have family there. Three sisters and a brother. Lots of cousins. I have a small house. I have a crypt with my name on it.”

  “I thought I was the only one who dreamed of home.”

  “You know, Ciro, if there’s a war, we don’t know what side Italy will be on. It could make it very difficult for us here.”

  “We’re Americans now,” Ciro said.

  “That’s not what our papers say. We’re welcome to stay and work; beyond that, it’s up to them. Until you pass the test for citizenship, you are here at the whim and fancy of the United States government.”

  “If they threw me out, I would be happy to go back to Vilminore. I liked that I knew every family in my village, and that they knew me. I remember every garden and street. I knew who owned the best ground to grow sweet onions and
who had the best spot to plant pear trees. I watched women hang the wash and men shoe the horses. I even watched people pray in church. I could tell who was truly penitent and who was there to show off a new hat. There’s something to be said for life on the mountain.”

  “You dream of your mountain, and I dream of the port of Genoa. I spent every summer there with my grandmother,” Remo said. “Sometimes I go through the leather and look for the exact blue of the Mediterranean.”

  “And I look for the green of the juniper trees. Everyone on the mountain had the same view of Pizzo Camino. We looked at the world in the same way. I can’t say that about Mulberry Street.”

  “So many layabouts here. They don’t work hard enough. They want the sparkle without doing the polish.”

  “Some, not all,” Ciro said. Ciro heard the men leaving for construction jobs before sunrise, and watched the women tend their children. Most of the people in Little Italy worked hard to keep their families secure. “I’m lucky,” Ciro admitted.

  “You made your luck. Do you know how many boys I tried to train in this shop? Carla never liked anyone I tried to apprentice here. But she’s never said a word against you. I think you work harder than she does.”

  “Don’t tell her that.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” Remo looked at the doorway, hoping Carla was not coming through it.

  “I am very grateful to you, Remo. You didn’t have to take me in.”

  “Every boy deserves a second chance.” Remo shrugged.

  “I didn’t think I needed one. I didn’t do anything wrong. But I learned that it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the padrone believes—that’s what counts.”

  “We all have a boss.” Remo pointed up the stairs. “Thirty-seven years with her taught me to keep my mouth shut and follow instructions.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t marry a padrone, Ciro. Pick a quiet girl who likes to take care of you. An ambitious woman will kill you. There’s always something that needs to be done. They keep a list. They make you a list. They want more, more, more, and trust me, more, more, more leads to an ulcer.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I make shoes for a living, and love . . . only when it suits me.”

  “Smart boy,” Remo said.

  “What are you two talking about?” Carla asked as she entered the room with the mail. She pushed the leather samples aside. “What are these doing here?” she barked, then glanced back at Ciro.

  “We’re not going to make anything in this shop but work boots. Get those pipe dreams out of your head.”

  Ciro and Remo looked at one another and laughed.

  “It’s a good thing I keep the books,” Carla said, undeterred. “If I left this business to you two, I might come home one day to find you making cannoli instead of boots. You’re a couple of dreamers.” Carla gave Ciro a letter before she climbed back up the stairs.

  Ciro was thrilled when he saw that the return address was Eduardo’s seminary in Rome. He excused himself and went out to the garden with the letter, put his feet up, and carefully opened the envelope. Eduardo’s perfect penmanship was a work of art. Ciro handled the letter reverently.

  October 13, 1916

  My Dear Brother,

  Thank you for the work boots you sent. I laced them up tightly and tested the steel toes you mentioned like a prima ballerina. Our old friend Iggy would not have been capable of en pointe. Of course, I examined the boots as closely as Sister Ercolina would have and was happy to see that you are every bit the craftsman you claim to be in your last letter. Bravo, Ciro, bravissimo! Though I wear the sandals of Galilee, I can still appreciate a good pair of boots!

  I have some news regarding our mother.

  Ciro sat forward in the old wicker chair.

  This information has been relayed to me by letter from the abbess in a convent near Lake Garda where our mother has been living for the past several years. I know this will come as a shock to you. Mama was so close to us, just a few kilometers from Bergamo. But she was very sick. She went to see a doctor in Bergamo the day she left us at the convent. He made his diagnosis and sent her to the nuns. They have a hospital and a sanitarium there. Our mama suffered from mental distress so severe she could not function. Papa’s death had put her in a grief state she could not overcome. Sister Ercolina made sure that Mama got the best care, and now, I am told, she works in the hospital there. I wrote to her and told her about you, and about the seminary. As you know, seminarians are not allowed any contact with family members except by letter. If I could fly over these walls to see Mama in this moment, I would, if only to write to you to tell you that I had seen her and was assured by my own eyes that she was safe and healthy. But, sadly, I have only the promise of the sisters to go on. We must trust that they are taking care of her, as they always did for us.

  Ciro’s heart felt heavy. He began to cry.

  The news that Mama is alive is a blessing to me. I feared that we’d never look upon her face again, not even learn what became of her. We must be grateful for this news, and pray that we will all be reunited someday. I keep you in my prayers, my best and only brother, and remember how proud I am of you. Nor am I penitent about that pride. I know what you are made of.

  Yours, Eduardo

  Remo stood in the doorway to the garden and watched as Ciro wiped his eyes, carefully folded the letter, and placed it back in the envelope. He remembered the day Ciro had come off the ferry from Ellis Island. Despite his size and abundance of energy, Ciro had been an innocent boy. As Remo observed Ciro now, he saw a man in the wicker chair, a man any father would be proud to call his son.

  In the intervening years, Remo had grown to find as much purpose in the exchange of knowledge from master to apprentice as Ciro. This experience would be as close as Remo would ever come to being a father himself, and he savored the role.

  “Ciro, you have a visitor,” Remo said softly. “He says he’s an old friend.”

  Ciro followed Remo back into the shop.

  “You never write,” Luigi Latini said to Ciro. Luigi had cropped his black hair, slicked it back with pomade, and grown a small, fashionable square mustache under his small nose.

  “Luigi!” Ciro embraced his old friend. “You could’ve written to me! Where’s your wife?” Ciro looked over Luigi to see if he had brought her.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “What happened?”

  “I went to Mingo Junction as planned”—Luigi nodded sadly—“but I knew the photograph was too good to be true. I couldn’t get past her nose. I tried. But I just couldn’t do it. So I made up an excuse. Said I was dying and that I had weak blood. I told her father that his daughter did not deserve to be a young widow. I practically climbed into an empty casket and clutched a lily to my chest. Before they could figure out I was lying, I’d hopped a freighter and gone to Chicago. I’ve worked there ever since, on the roads, mixing cement. Six years I’ve been working on a crew. And I could work another twenty out there. They’re building roads all the way to California.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I remembered Mulberry Street,” Luigi said. “We worked so well together aboard ship, I thought maybe we could work together again.”

  “How touching.” Carla stood in the doorway and fixed a red bandana in her white hair. “You can’t stay here.”

  “Mama,” Ciro teased, winking at Luigi. Ciro only called Signora “Mama” when he wanted something. He knew it, and so did she.

  “I’m not your mother,” Carla said. “There’s no room here.”

  “Look at him. You can see the bones in his neck. Luigi barely eats. He’ll have one spoon of cavatelli and no more.”

  “Not likely. When he tastes my cavatelli, he’ll eat a pound.”

  “See that? Signora has invited you to dinner,” Ciro said to Luigi.

  “There’s a boardinghouse on Grand,” Carla said as she wrote down the address. “Go get a room there and be back in an hour for dinner.”

  “Yes, Signo
ra,” said Luigi.

  Enza’s sixth anniversary on Adams Street in Hoboken came and went without a glass of champagne or a slice of cake, and there was surely no acknowledgment from Signora Buffa.

  A few months after Enza settled in with the Buffa cousins in Hoboken, Marco Ravanelli left Hoboken for the coalfields of Pennsylvania to take a job in the mines. He was six hours away by train, and sent his pay to Enza faithfully. She, in turn, would take the money to the bank, deposit it with her own paycheck, and send a money order to her mother in Italy.

  Each Christmas, Marco managed to visit his daughter. They would celebrate quietly, attend a mass, share a meal, and he would return to work, and so would she, making overtime on the holiday shifts.

  A lucky break came a year into their plan. Giacomina had been willed a small parcel of land above Schilpario. The plot was just large enough to accommodate a house, but Marco seized on the opportunity. Instead of buying one of the modest storefront houses along Via Bellanca, Marco and Enza decided he would keep working in America until they had saved enough to build the kind of house Marco had dreamed of. Not a grand home, but one with a deep hearth and three windows for sunlight and five bedrooms so that Enza and her siblings could all stay and raise their families under one roof. Enza knew this change in plan would keep them in America longer than they had hoped.

  Six years of combining Enza and Marco’s salaries, less their expenses, was slowly beginning to fill Giacomina’s money box in Schilpario. Battista and Vittorio carried on Marco’s carriage route and picked up small jobs wherever they could, but without the money made in America, they would never have survived.