The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  He wondered what she would say about giving up her position at the Metropolitan Opera, and he had doubts about asking her to do so. But he also knew that if he could make a success of himself in a place that needed his services, they would have the freedom to decide where they would live in the years to come. He would be able to return to Italy and offer her life on the mountain once his pockets were full of American dollars. It was time for Ciro to become a padrone; nothing less would do, and there was not enough he could do for Enza.

  Thoughts of the Iron Range played through his mind. Minnesota was like the title of an unread book he knew he would eventually pick up and devour by lamplight. Here in America, his father had died. The fortunes of his family had been changed by events in that distant state. Perhaps it was time he finally cleaned the wound of his father’s death. Perhaps he would find peace if he walked in his father’s steps along the shorelines of Minnesota’s crystal lakes. Maybe that’s where he belonged, where they could be happy.

  As Ciro put out the cigarette, he thought of Eduardo. His brother would see to it that their mother was taken care of. What Ciro needed to do was simple: make a good living to take care of his wife and their future children. For him, that meant embracing a new chapter, while filling the void the absence of his father had made. It meant Minnesota.

  Laura, dressed and ready for work, joined Enza at the breakfast table in the dining room of the Milbank House. Enza had woken early, bathed, and dressed before Laura had risen. Enza was having her third cup of coffee when Laura joined her.

  “I think we should post a summons on the bulletin board regarding your wedding. There’s more whispering going on around here than there was when housekeeper Emmerson took a drunken tumble down the front stairs last New Year’s Eve.”

  “You don’t have to answer for me,” Enza assured her.

  “I don’t? Isn’t that what best friends are for?”

  Enza put down her coffee cup and looked up at Laura. Laura had slept soundly through the night; she always did whenever she had been honest and cleared her conscience. Enza, however, was the opposite; she spent many nights wrestling with decisions, last night among the most difficult. She needed Laura and couldn’t imagine her life without her. “Are we still best friends?” Enza asked. She had hoped that Laura would not make her choose between her lifelong friendship and her lifelong love.

  “Yes.” Laura sat down. “I’m just wondering what you’re going to tell your father when he gets here this afternoon. You’ve swapped out one groom for another. And that might make your dear old dad dizzy.”

  “I’ll do what I’ve done my whole life. I’ll tell him the truth.”

  “I’ve got to get to work. Anything you want me to say to the girls? They think you’re on your honeymoon.”

  “Just tell them that I’m happy.”

  “Can do.” Laura stood and drank the last sip of her coffee. She pulled on her gloves. “Should I tell Serafina that you’ll be back sooner than you had planned?”

  “Don’t let her assign my machine to anyone else,” Enza said.

  “Hallelujah!” Laura clapped her gloved hands together.

  The clock over the mantel in the beau parlor at the Milbank House ticked loudly as Enza prepared a tray with tea. She folded the linen napkins, angled the china platter filled with delicate cookies and small sandwiches. She checked the sugar bowl and the cream pitcher. She lifted the silver tea ball out of the pot and placed it on the silver coaster.

  The bell rang. Miss DeCoursey answered the door. Enza didn’t wait for her father; she sprang off the sofa and ran to him. Father and daughter held one another a long time.

  Marco took a good look at Enza, and then stepped back to look at her surroundings. The Milbank House was beautifully appointed. Behind Enza in the foyer, the wide staircase that curved over the second floor had a polished mahogany railing and balusters. The pocket doors were open to the entrance to the living room and beau parlor. The library, with its lavish black marble fireplace and mantel, was lush by any standards. He had not seen opulence like this since he dropped a package at the cardinal’s residence in Brescia many years ago. It comforted him to know that his daughter lived in this stately brownstone.

  Marco also noticed that his daughter had acquired a worldly sophistication since he left her with the Buffa family eight years ago. He wondered if that didn’t have something to do with her recent change of heart.

  “Why did you call off your wedding? What did he do?” Marco asked, and made a fist. “I’ll take care of him if he hurt you.”

  “No, Papa, I hurt him.”

  “What happened?”

  Marco was now in his late forties. He was not the robust man Enza remembered. He had the stoop of a stonecutter and the bronze skin that came from doing hard labor outdoors in a place where there was summer year-round. Now, at long last, the house in Schilpario had been built. He had fulfilled his contract to the California Department of Highways and was ready to return to the mountain for the rest of his life. Any spring in his step and smile upon his face were in anticipation of returning home to his wife and children; they no longer came from ambition, drive, or exuberance, but from the desire to see his home again.

  “Papa, come and sit with me.” Enza led him into the beau parlor and motioned for him to sit on the chair before the game table in the window.

  Marco took her hands into his. “Tell me everything.”

  “Eliana wrote a long letter about the house. Vittorio painted it yellow like the sunflowers. He put in cabinets, and the doors are thick. There are many windows. The root cellar is filled with sweet potatoes and chestnuts. Mama put up peppers and cherries for the winter.”

  “Enza, did you know that Battista made a deal with the Ardingos? He bartered free carriage rides down the mountain for all the prosciutto and sausage our family could eat.”

  “Battista was always a schemer.” Enza laughed.

  “And he always will be. I can’t wait to see my children. But mostly, I can’t wait to see your mother again,” Marco said. “Do you want to brave the ocean with me now that you’re not getting married?”

  “I wish I could, Papa.”

  “The old mountain can’t compete with Caruso’s opera house.”

  “It’s not that.” Enza looked down at her hands, unsure of what to say.

  “Are you going to give Signor Blazek another chance?”

  “No. It’s done.”

  “Then you’ll come home with me,” Marco said quietly.

  “Papa, you know it’s not possible.”

  Marco took his daughter’s hand. “ I know you got very ill on the way over,” he began.

  “Papa, I almost died,” she said softly. The only person on earth who understood what had happened to her on the crossing would also understand why she could never make that trip again.

  “We’ll go right to the doctor and make sure he can help before the ship ever leaves the harbor,” Marco said.

  “And what if he can’t help, Papa? What if I get so sick I don’t make it across? I want you to go home and be with Mama and our family and revel in every corner of that house. I want you to throw open the windows and light the fire, and plant the garden and fill it with love. That will make me happy.”

  “But that house belongs to you too. You worked harder than I did to build it. I don’t want to believe you won’t ever live in it.”

  “But it’s my choice, Papa. I’m going to stay here. And it’s more than my job. Do you remember a boy named Lazzari? He was sent from Vilminore to dig Stella’s grave. I brought him home to meet you?”

  “I don’t remember much about that time, Enza.”

  “And you met him again at Saint Vincent’s Hospital in the chapel when I was ill. Ciro is from a good family. His brother has become a priest. They lived at San Nicola when they were boys.”

  “The Lazzaris of Vilminore.” Marco pondered the name. “I once drove a widow Lazzari down to Bergamo. I remember it was snowing. She ha
d sons, and she had taken them to the convent. I remember that. And the nuns paid me three lire. It was a fortune then.”

  Enza took in a breath. The threads that connected her to Ciro were so strong, it seemed inevitable that they would have found one another again and after so long. “Another sign that we are meant to be together.”

  “What makes you think that this young man knows how to treat you? Just because he’s from the mountain doesn’t mean he’s good enough for you. He was raised in a convent. That’s not his doing, but how would he know how to take care of a family if he’s never been a part of one? How can you be sure that he won’t leave you, as his mother left him?”

  “I’m very sure of him, Papa.”

  “But can he be a good husband?”

  Marco knew his daughter. She’d had a mind of her own since she was a girl, and she had always honored her own heart. Marco stood and went to the window. He surveyed the street below, buying time to find the right words to say to his daughter. She was at a turning point in her life, and needed her mother’s wisdom, but she was not there to provide it. Marco would have to do his best.

  Ciro, polished and neat, wearing a suit, was bounding up the front stairs to the entrance door of the boardinghouse. “Is this Lazzari coming to meet me?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “You have chosen a tall one, haven’t you?”

  Miss DeCoursey brought Ciro into the beau parlor. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, vest, and tie. His oxblood shoes were laced in navy. Marco turned to meet his future son-in-law, and they shook hands. “It’s good to see you again, Signore.”

  “Enza, I’d like to speak privately with Signor Lazzari,” Marco said.

  Enza deferred to her father and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Lazzari,” Marco said aloud.

  “Yes, Signore.”

  “What did your father do?”

  “He was a miner. He worked in the marble mines in Foggia, and then went up the mountain to work in the iron ore mines in the Alps.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He came to America almost twenty years ago to find work. I was told he died in an iron ore mine in Minnesota.”

  “And your mother?”

  “The Montinis.”

  “The printers?”

  “Yes, Signore.”

  “They made the missals for Holy Week,” Marco remembered.

  “For all the churches on the mountain, and in Bergamo and Citta Alta.”

  “Why aren’t you a printmaker?”

  Ciro looked down at his big hands, not exactly the best tools for pen-and-ink calligraphy. “I’m not delicato, sir.”

  Marco took a seat and motioned for Ciro to join him. “How do you earn your living?” Marco asked.

  “I apprenticed to Signor Zanetti on Mulberry Street. I’m a shoemaker.”

  “Are you a master?”

  “Yes. I’ve completed my apprenticeship to Signor Zanetti. My debt to him is paid, and I’m ready to go into business for myself.”

  “A lot of competition in this city. They say you can throw a rock in Brooklyn and you’ll hit a shoemaker.”

  “I know, Signore. I have a partner, Luigi Latini, and we’re looking to get a loan and start a business where shoemakers are needed.”

  “You need a partner?”

  “I prefer it, Signore. I grew up with a brother to whom I was devoted. And when I went to enlist in the Great War, I made good friends. One in particular, Signor Juan Torres, looked out for me, and I did the same for him. Sadly, he didn’t come home, but that does not lessen the bond I have to him. I’ve made my way alone for a very long time and it comes naturally for me to seek a partner. Luigi Latini is a good man, and I work well with him. I think we could build a good business together.”

  Marco took this in and reflected upon his own experience since he’d come to America. It had been a long and lonely slog. A partner in business was a sounding board, the work was cut in half, and life was less isolated. Ciro made sense.

  Marco leaned over the chair and looked at Ciro critically. Ciro’s size and strength designated him as a natural leader. He was an attractive young man, probably popular with the ladies. “Have you had many girlfriends?”

  “A few, sir.”

  “My daughter was engaged to Vito Blazek.”

  “I know. I must have had an angel with me that morning. I got to the church moments before she went inside.”

  “When Signor Blazek wrote to me for Enza’s hand, I was impressed with him,” Marco said. “He wrote a very moving letter.”

  “It’s better we meet in person, sir. I couldn’t begin to impress you on paper, and I probably wouldn’t try. I used to count on my brother Eduardo to do the writing in the family.” Ciro smiled.

  Marco sat back in his chair and took Ciro in. “I can see what kind of a man you are, Ciro.”

  “I hope you will trust me with Enza.”

  Marco looked down at his hands. The strings within his heart tightened. He did not want to let Enza go, and yet he trusted her judgment. He wondered if Ciro Lazzari had any idea how strong his eldest was. “My daughter is independent. She has made her own decisions for a long time now.”

  “I love her because she is so strong. It’s one of the things I most admire about her. When I think of marriage and a long life ahead, I want to know that my wife could take care of my family if something happened to me.”

  Marco smiled. He thought of his own Giacomina, who had taken care of the family while he and Enza lived in America. So he said, “We work hard in my family. Do you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re people of faith. Are you?”

  Ciro swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to mislead his future father-in-law either. “I try, sir.”

  “Try harder,” Marco admonished.

  “I will, Signore.”

  “We’re also loyal. I’ve been away from my wife for more than a few years now, and I haven’t been with another woman. Would such devotion to my daughter be possible under similar circumstances?”

  “Yes, Signore.” Ciro began to sweat.

  “May I have your word?”

  “You have my word, sir.” Ciro’s voice broke.

  “There is one more thing I need to know before I would agree to entrust my daughter to you.”

  “Anything, sir.” A sliver of panic sliced through Ciro’s chest. Could he have come this far, only to have Enza’s father reject him?

  “I want to know why you love my daughter.”

  Ciro leaned forward in his chair. He had to think about why he loved Enza because he hadn’t questioned it. Ciro knew that there was a correct answer. He knew that men learned how to love; they weren’t born with that capacity. He knew the qualities of a good man included all the aspects that concerned Marco: loyalty, fidelity, ambition, and gentleness. As a man, Ciro had been shaped by the loss of his father, the absence of his mother, the ordination of his brother, and his decision to volunteer to fight in the Great War. Each of Ciro’s choices had changed the landscape of his heart and his ability to love. In many ways, he felt lucky he still could.

  As a boy, Ciro had learned how to give of himself generously in the convent. He knew how to be loyal because he had grown up with Eduardo, who taught him the nuances of what it meant to be a loving brother. Ciro had given up searching for love, hoping it would fill that deep well of regret that he still carried at having been abandoned by his mother, but he was wise enough to know that you can’t always blame your parents for your sadness. After so much rejection, and periods of emotional drift and loneliness, Ciro had finally found what was missing. He didn’t want Marco to think that he’d chosen Enza to save himself, but deep down, he believed it was true. Ciro loved Enza, but was that enough for Marco, who had put everything he was into his family? There was no building, bridge, ocean liner, or shoe with Marco Ravanelli’s name on it, just the quiet and exemplary life of a good man who live
d in service to the family he created. Ciro hesitated to tell Marco what was in his heart, because he knew more than Ciro ever would about what it takes to love one woman and build a life with her.

  So Ciro said, “I traveled far, Signor Ravanelli. I have never met a woman like Enza. She’s intelligent without being condescending. She’s beautiful without vanity. And she’s funny when she isn’t trying to be. I love her and will give her a good life. Your daughter encourages the best in me. When I’m with her, I’m in the presence of grace, and she makes me aspire to it.”

  Marco took a moment to think about Ciro’s words. He saw that an honest young man sat before him. If Marco were completely honest, he would admit that he saw also a sadness in Ciro, one that he could not name. Marco didn’t know if that meant Ciro hadn’t made peace with the past, or if it might portend something grave in the future. He knew there was a certain seriousness about Ciro, born of a life experience that Marco himself had not endured. On the surface of things, it appeared to Marco that this was a solid match, and one that Giacomina would endorse. Ciro was from the mountain, and he knew Enza’s dialect and way of life. That accounted for something on this unexpected morning. He would find comfort in the knowledge that his daughter would marry a man who understood what she came from, and for Marco Ravanelli, this tipped his decision in Ciro’s favor.

  Ciro still sat on the edge of the chair. His future and the fulfillment of all his dreams were at the mercy of another.