The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  Enza peered into the glass window of Leibovitz Jewelry and admired the pearls resting on a velvet display. She was mesmerized by the beautiful gold rings studded with clear blue aquamarines and diamond chips, the slim platinum chains dripping on velvet, and the enameled cuff bracelets stacked on a Lucite dowel. A town that had beautiful jewelry for sale must have a clientele that required them. This boded well for her custom clothing business. Enza passed the Valentini Supper Club, the Five and Dime, and several bars (the staple business of all mining towns), including the bustling Tiburzi’s, until she reached Raatamas Department Store.

  The department store was owned by a Finnish couple who had lived in Chisholm all their lives. It was an enormous single-story room with a tin ceiling painted pale blue and the clean lines of Scandinavian design. The walls were painted oyster white, a cool backdrop for the variety of merchandise.

  Unlike the chic stores in New York City, each filled with merchandise over several floors connected by escalators, Raatamas displayed all their goods on one level. The sections were cordoned off with sheer linen curtains. There was a fabric and notions section, another for furniture, and yet another with housewares. Glass cases were filled with gloves, purses, hats, and scarves. Enza walked up and down the aisles, surveying the inventory.

  “May I help you?” The salesgirl was a young Nordic beauty, around sixteen years old, with a small nose and large blue eyes.

  “I’m a new bride.” Enza smiled. “And we just moved to Chisholm.”

  The salesgirl followed Enza as she chose a mattress and box spring, two lamps with yellow ceramic bowl bases, a white lacquered table with four chairs, and two comfortable reading chairs, covered in soft sage green chenille. Enza remembered the sage green and coral used for the interior decoration of the Milbank House, and chose the same colors for her new home, reminding her of happy times with Laura.

  Enza intended to splurge on the best items she could afford. She had American money in her purse, but she had the Italian determination to purchase things that would last. She had a good head start, as she and Laura had packed a trunk with the basics for any proper home, including linens, sheets, towels, moppeens, napkins, and tablecloths, made in the costume shop of the Met. They filled another trunk with fabric—yardage of wool, silk, cotton, and corduroy—knowing that there were things that Enza might need once she arrived, and she would already have the material to sew whatever she needed.

  In the furniture department, along the wall, were three models of phonograph players in wooden cabinets. Enza ran her hands over a mahogany model with brass bindings. She lifted the lid and spun the turntable with her gloved hand.

  “I’d also like to buy this record player. Could you deliver it to Five West Lake Street?”

  “Of course.” The girl smiled, knowing that her mother and father, the owners, would be thrilled with the sale. “Would you like to see the records?” she asked Enza. “They’re over here in this cabinet.” The salesgirl opened a wooden cabinet filled with phonograph records, arranged in alphabetical order.

  Enza looked through the selections until she found the recordings of Enrico Caruso. She was pleased to find compilations that included duets with Geraldine Farrar and Antonio Scotti. Their faces adorned the cardboard sleeve, their profiles drawn inside large silver stars with their names emblazoned in clouds underneath their images. Enza bought the scores to La Traviata, Aida, and Cavalleria Rusticana. She decided not to have the records delivered; she would carry those herself. She held the brown paper package close to her, and somehow it made her feel connected to her days at the opera.

  Enza walked to the top of the hill, the end of West Lake Street. The snow had begun to fall again, throwing a glittery gauze over the town. Enza imagined this was Chisholm’s way of asking her to fall in love with it. She crossed the street to enter the building that had most intrigued her when they drove past the first time in Mel Butorac’s truck, and walked up the wide half-moon steps into the Chisholm Public Library, a regal red-brick building in the Georgian style, angled artfully on the block in the shape of a half moon.

  Enza treasured the public library. She’d first gone with Laura, at the behest of Signora Ramunni, who sent them to the New York Public Library to research fabrics for historically accurate costumes when she worked at the Met. Laura had insisted that Enza get a library card, and until she became a citizen, it had been Enza’s main source of identification.

  As she pushed open the front door, she was met with the familiar scent of books, leather, and lemon polish. Enza took in the main room, with its cozy reading alcoves, a picture window revealing a garden in winter across the back wall, long walnut study tables outfitted with low lamps, and the floor-to-ceiling stacks, filled with cloth-bound books in shades of deep green, blue, and red. As she went to the front desk, Enza imagined she would spend many happy hours here.

  “Good afternoon”—Enza looked at the librarian’s name tag, reading it aloud—“Mrs. Selby.”

  The portly, white-haired lady wore a simple serge day dress and hand-knit white wool sweater. She did not bother to look up at Enza, especially after she heard her Italian accent. “I have no books in Italian. If you want them, I have to special order them from the Twin Cities.”

  In an instant, Enza was back in Hoboken, where Italian immigrants received little respect and it was assumed that they were illiterate and therefore unintelligent. She took a deep breath. “I would like to sign up for a library card,” Enza told the librarian firmly but politely.

  Mrs. Selby finally looked up, taking in Enza’s proper hat, well-structured wool coat, and gloves.

  “You do have library cards, don’t you?” Enza asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Selby sniffed.

  Enza filled out the application as Mrs. Selby watched her out of the corner of her eye. When she was finished, Enza placed it on the desk blotter.

  “I’m afraid the card itself won’t be ready until tomorrow,” Mrs. Selby said, clearly taking pleasure in the delay.

  “It’s no problem for me to come back,” Enza said. “You see, I love to read, and I can tell that you have a lot of books here that will keep me busy on these long winter nights. You’ll be seeing a lot of me.” Enza flashed her most dazzling smile and turned on her heel before the lady could respond.

  Enza walked out of the library, relieved to be outside in the fresh air. She realized that life might be difficult in a new place, in a part of the country that she did not know. She decided to bring Mrs. Selby an embroidered handkerchief on her next visit to the library. Winning a stranger over with kindness was a tactic Enza had used in Schilpario, and was certain it would work in Chisholm.

  Enza and Ciro had been in Chisholm a couple of weeks when they were invited to a party. The Knezovichs lived across Longyear Lake in an old farmhouse with red cotton curtains in the windows, trimmed in white rickrack. Inside, Ana, the mistress of the house, had had her husband, Peter, paint every piece of the simple furniture a lacquered candy apple red. On the floor, he stenciled black and white squares on the wood, an artful contrast to the red. Enza remembered when the scene designer would have a crew paint the floor at the Met, and how dramatic the pattern would look from the mezzanine.

  Enza couldn’t wait to write to Laura about the Serbian style. Every detail was bright and polished, like the jewels in the Leibovitz window. Enza had been to many fancy parties in New York, but none could top the theatrics of the Slava.

  While the Roman Catholics honored the feast days of their saints quietly with a visit to church or early morning mass, the Serbs threw an all-day, through-the-night party, serving homemade plum brandy and robust cherry wine, glasses refilled without request.

  The house was so full that the guests spilled out into the cold winter night, where firepits had been lit in the fields, and an open tent had been raised for dancing.

  The Serbian women wore full silk skirts in jewel tones and white blouses trimmed in lace, topped with fitted velvet vests secured w
ith gold silk buttons. The men wore traditional high-waisted wool pants and hand-embroidered shirts with billowing sleeves. The clothing they wore served the same purpose as theatrical costumes: they served a theme, were colorful, and moved to accommodate the dance.

  Long tables filled with Serbian delicacies were placed under the tent and inside the house, as a loyal band of women kept the platters filled to overflowing, while their daughters bused dishes and washed and dried them for the next shift of revelers.

  The Serbian dishes were prepared with fragrant spices, including sage, cinnamon, and turmeric. The festival bread kolach was hearty and delicious, with its thick buttery crust and soft doughy center. They ate it with sarma, a fragrant meat mixture of bacon, onions, rice, and fresh eggs wrapped in kupus, tangy cabbage leaves that had been pickled in a crock. Burek, a meat strudel with a tender buttery crust, was cut into squares and served with roasted potatoes. The dessert table was a wonderland of pastries filled with fruit, dusted in sugar, and glazed with butter. Small ginger cookies and bar cookies made with candied dates were dipped in strong coffee and savored. Kronfe, round doughnuts dusted with cinnamon sugar, were passed in baskets piping hot from the fryer. Povitica, layers of thin pastry dough filled with walnuts, brown sugar, butter, and raisins, rolled carefully, layer over layer, baked, and sliced thin, was served on a platter in neat slices resembling pinwheels.

  Emilio and Ida Uncini joined Ciro and Enza by the dessert table. Ida, a petite brunette in her forties, wore a full turquoise skirt and a gold velvet jacket. For an Italian, she was throwing herself into the Serbian festa like one of their own. In the short time Enza had been in Chisholm, Ida had been steadfast, showing up at the new building to help her wash floors, paint walls, and arrange the furniture. Ida had been through a big move herself years ago, so she understood how important it was to make a home comfortable as soon as possible.

  “I’m going to ask Ana to teach Enza how to make povitica,” Ciro said, taking a bite.

  “She has enough to do,” Ida chided him. “She has curtains to make, and a sewing machine to assemble. And I know, because I promised to help her.”

  “And I need your help,” Enza said.

  “This is some party,” Ciro said. “Is everyone in Chisholm here?”

  “Just about. But let me warn you. This is nothing. Wait until you go to Serbian Days in July. Every Serb from here to Dbrovnik shows up to sing,” Emilio promised them.

  “My husband loves that celebration the most because the girls have a dance competition. Baltic beauties, each more stunning than the one before, line up to tap, kick, and sashay,” Ida assured them.

  “I like the dancing for the art of it, Ida.” Emilio winked.

  “Now he’s a patron of the fine arts.” Ida shrugged.

  “How long have you and Emilio been in Chisholm?” Enza asked.

  “Since 1904,” said Ida.

  “We were here for the Burt-Sellers mining disaster in Hibbing,” Emilio said. “It was quite a welcome to life on the Iron Range. Hundreds of men died underground. Such a tragedy.”

  Enza looked at Ciro, who looked away. An expression of hollow grief crossed his face. He forced a smile. “Emilio, want to join me for a smoke?”

  Emilio followed Ciro to the outside of the tent. “Did Emilio say something wrong?” Ida asked.

  “Ciro’s father died in a mining accident in 1904 in Hibbing.”

  “How awful. I’m sure Emilio didn’t know.”

  “He wouldn’t. Ciro never talks about it. It’s such a terrible part of his past, and his mother, poor thing, didn’t handle it very well. She ran out of money, had no family to turn to, and finally had to put her sons in a convent.”

  “Iron ore makes steel and widows,” Ida remarked.

  Ida showed Enza the wine barrels, set up at the far side of the tent, with easy access from either side. Enza helped herself to a glass and sipped the sweet wine, feeling her mood plummet at the thought of Ciro’s unhappiness. She didn’t know what to say or do; any mention of his father produced either a depressive silence or a quiet rage, never directed at her, but taken out on equipment, tough leather, and himself. She wished there was some way to heal his broken heart. Maybe moving to the place where his father died hadn’t been the best idea.

  Ida excused herself to join a group of ladies, leaving Enza to circulate through the tent alone. Suddenly the band began to play and men and women paired off, practically skipping onto the dance floor, planks of wood set into the ground for just that purpose. Enza looked around for Ciro, going up on her toes to look over the crowd. She saw him enter the tent alone and waved to him. He looked around but did not catch his wife’s eye.

  A comely young woman of twenty with a long, silky blond braid cascading down her back grabbed Ciro by the arm and pulled him on to the crowded dance floor.

  “You better watch your husband,” Ida said to Enza as she passed her on the way to join the cakewalk in the field.

  Enza didn’t need any reminders from Ida to look out for Ciro. Plus, Enza could find Ciro in any crowd easily because of his height. She tried to move onto the dance floor to join him, but the surrounding bystanders were too thick, and she couldn’t push through.

  She watched as Ciro put his arm around the waist of the Baltic beauty, who was eager to show him the steps of the dance. He laughed as she took his hands, and Enza flashed to Mulberry Street, when he’d entered the shop carrying two bottles of champagne in the delightful company of Felicitá so many years ago. Ciro had the same look on his face that he had then—not a care in the world, just a sense of unfettered joy. The girl was not that much younger than Enza, but suddenly Enza felt a hundred years older. The beauty leaned in and whispered something in Ciro’s ear, and he whispered in hers. Enza felt a flash of pain in her chest, sudden and piercing.

  Ciro’s lean build and broad shoulders were an athletic counter to the willowy limbs of the girl, whose own green eyes shimmered like emeralds. At one point, the couples swayed toward the bystanders near Enza, and she tried again to wave to her husband. But he was no longer looking for her. He was laughing with abandon as the girl spun around him, pivoting back as she lifted the hem of her voluminous pale green velvet skirt, revealing her smooth calves and small ankles. Ciro drank the details of her in, and it made Enza’s stomach churn.

  “She seems to have no idea he’s married,” Ida said.

  Ida’s comment jolted Enza back into reality. “He doesn’t wear a ring. I wear his ring.” Enza twisted the signet ring on her finger.

  “You should go out there and break it up right now,” Ida insisted. “There were too many barrels of plum wine at this shindig, and they’ve all been emptied. Go. Go get him!”

  If Laura were here, she would probably have said the same thing. But for some reason, Enza couldn’t seem to make the move to claim her husband. Instead, she watched the scene unfold as though it was not her husband dancing with another woman, but a character in a novel she’d once read. This made what she witnessed less true, almost manageable. He didn’t mean anything by his actions. He couldn’t possibly. Wasn’t the nature of trust to let go? Enza tried hard to remember how the novel ended, but for the life of her, she couldn’t.

  One of the Knezovich girls came by with a tray, and Enza placed her empty glass on it. When she looked up, she couldn’t find her husband on the dance floor. She pushed her way into the crowd, but it quickly became a morass, and she had no choice but to let the crush of the bodies push her along. Eventually she was shoved to the spot where she had seen Ciro and the girl dancing, but they were gone.

  Enza felt her face flush. She reminded herself that Ciro loved her, and that she trusted him, but a wrenching pain twisted in her gut, perhaps a premonition of some kind, the kind her mother used to have but which Enza had never experienced before now. She closed her eyes, telling herself that the sweet sugar fermented in the wine had gone to her head.

  Suddenly Enza was afraid. She felt so helpless, she almost began to cry. S
he shuddered at the thought that every decision she had made had been wrong; she was in a place that she did not choose, married to a man she could not find, and all she knew was that the nagging feelings of doubt within her had replaced reason in her mind.

  Enza fought her way back through the crowd to reach Ida and Emilio, but they too had gone. Enza took a deep breath to calm herself. She told herself that she was just overtired, and not thinking straight. She told herself that her instincts were off, that her tears were simply a product of the gray smoke billowing from the firepits.

  Enza walked out from under the tent. She couldn’t discern how much time had passed. It seemed as though Ciro had been dancing with the girl for a very long time. She returned to the house, hoping to find Ciro there, and went through every room. The volume of the conversation, music, and laughter was deafening, but there was no sign of her husband.

  The trays and serving plates that had been full earlier were now being consolidated down to a few. Ana, the hostess, checked the urn of coffee, a signal that the night would soon end. Enza thought to ask Ana if she had seen Ciro, but she didn’t want her new neighbors to think that she was a flighty woman, or worse, a jealous one. She turned and went back outside.

  Enza remembered what her father had taught her on the mountain: when you’re lost, don’t move, someone will find you. Enza wanted Ciro to find her. She stood and waited as the minutes stretched into an eternity. She stood on the cold field, by the edge of the tent, as the dance floor slowly emptied and the accordions eventually ceased.

  Ciro had not come back for her. Ida and Emilio had left the party. Her new neighbors smiled as they piled into their wagons for the carriage ride home. Mrs. Selby, the librarian, waved the handkerchief Enza had made for her. The librarian offered Enza a ride, but she pretended that she didn’t need one. She stood a few minutes longer, until anger rose within her and she could no longer contain her fury. She belted her red wool coat tightly around her, pulled a silk scarf from her pocket, and tied it around her head. She pulled on her gloves, snapped her collar up to protect herself from the cold, and walked back toward West Lake Street alone.