Rose

Italy, June 1887

The cluster of faded, slate-roofed buildings gathered beneath the Pennine Alps began to look like an ethereal fairy-tale setting as the roseate glow of the afternoon sun intensified. Row upon uneven row of houses in the village of Corio were bound between narrow cobblestone streets that had been laid over paths and byways once traveled by the foot soldiers of the Roman Empire. The worn streets intersected at the piazza that fronted the ancient church of San Genesio, a baroque edifice of brick and stone with tolling bells that marked the passage of time and lives. A yawning archway in a wall beside the church opened onto the narrow road that passed beneath and meandered its way downhill to the fanning settlement of Crotte. There, on a gentle rise above the river Malone, amid fields stained emerald by summer crops and air pungent with the scent of new mown hay, stood a farmhouse nearly as old as the road itself.

A wild, unplanned garden bordered the yard that fronted the old stone house. Roses from deepest crimson to the delicate pinks of sunset grew alongside stark white calla lilies, rich violet hydrangeas, and fragrant multi-hued stocks. Garlic had been planted among the blushing roses to discourage pesky aphids while scattered basil, rosemary, thyme, and oregano plants grew among the ornamentals. A grapevine—the gnarled and twisted grandfather of them all—climbed a square-cornered trellis to frame the riotous colors below.

Within the kitchen of the old house pulsed heat and sound as intense as the vibrant colors of the summer garden. The cavernous room with its stone walls and earthen floor smelled of wood smoke, fried fish, and hot olive oil pungent with garlic. Laughter often interrupted the incessant chatter of women’s voices to mingle with the familiar sounds of kitchen work: a knife that beat a tattoo on the wooden chopping block, the scrape of a spoon against the sides of a mixing bowl, the clatter of iron lids upon the stove top.

The racket and close, warm air in her aunt Rina’s kitchen were nothing out of the ordinary, but as Rosa Audi paused to glance up from her pumping at the butter churn, she decided to seek relief from this symphony of routine. This was her last day in Corio, and nothing that occurred today should be taken for granted or seen as ordinary. Rosa was determined to hold each moment of this day in her heart. The hours of daylight were at their peak in June, the sun unwilling to slip behind the mountain until late in the evening. It would be light until after nine o’clock, and since the men used the extra hours to their advantage, it would be a while yet before they left the fields. There was still time for Rosa to escape the bustling activity in the kitchen.

Zia Rina stood over the frying pan, seasoning and turning the trout that sizzled in hot oil. Rosa’s older, married sister, Angelina, could not relieve her of her duty at the churn, for she was busy taking bread from the oven. Rosa spied little Margarina standing in the doorway. When her niece glanced in her direction, Rosa waved her near. Within seconds, the dark-eyed, round-faced girl with bobbing braids and a ready, flashing smile had replaced Rosa at the churn.

As she slipped out of the kitchen into the warm summer evening, Rosa glanced around to be certain no one had seen her escape. Fortunately, her departure had gone unnoticed, and in the bustle of the kitchen, she would not be missed for a while. She used the hem of her apron to wipe her brow, then began walking up the path through the maze of white-barked birch, majestic elm and oak, and occasional deep green fir trees that grew on the hillside behind the house.

Rosa stopped near a stand of gentle birch trees and sat down in the soft loam beside them. She gazed down on the men of the village as they bundled and raked the early crop. Others moved slowly across the field with their tall scythes swinging to and fro, swiftly cutting off the slender stalks that rippled before them much like waves on an emerald lake. The fecund scent of new mown alfalfa lay heavy on the air.

She brushed aside a tendril that had escaped one of the two thick braids of ebony hair she had wound about her head and leaned back on her elbows with a gentle sigh. It was good to be out of the kitchen, good to watch the shadows slip across the ridges and fill the valleys beyond.

After a time, Rosa reached down into the deep pocket of the much mended apron that covered her loose-fitting brown serge gown and pulled out the folded page that was never far from her these days. She held tightly to the letter from her husband, Giovanni, as one holds on to a seed before it is planted, taking care lest it blow away, carrying with it all hope for the future.

Carefully she opened the rumpled page. The creases along each fold were nearly worn through, the edges frayed from much handling. It did not matter that her fingers had nearly rubbed the words away, for Rosa had committed them to memory weeks ago.

“Mia moglie,”
Giovanni had written. My wife.

Rosa felt very little like a wife, but still, she thrilled at the salutation. After all, she
was
his wife, even though Giovanni had left for America barely a month after their wedding, even though she still lived with her own raucous family and not his, as a proper wife should do. She scanned the lines again and tried to recall the sound of Giovanni’s voice.

Mia moglie,

I have found a home. Not only a home, Rosa, but a place to live and work, in a store of our own. The village, Broken Shoe, is in the territory of Wyoming. It is small, perhaps not even as large as Corio, but I have seen the cities here, Rosa, and I know that you could not bear the darkness of the places where so many people from the old country have settled.

Enclosed you will find a postal money order which you should change into American dollars. I send to you also a ticket for passage, Genoa to New York. When you arrive in Genoa, buy a train ticket there for the trip from New York to Wyoming. No tariff is charged if you buy in Italy. Keep your money well hidden and tell no one how much you have. In New York, speak only to the Fathers of San Carlo Borromeo. They meet every ship and help those in need of assistance. Be careful of changing the train; be sure you are on the correct line. Find an American policeman, Rosa. They will help you if you need it.

I hope that you still practice your English with the contessa. Everyone here speaks only English. You must learn as much as you can,
cara,
for I wait for you and remain your own

Giovanni

“Cara, I wait for you,” he had written.

As I wait for you, she thought.

Three years. It had been such a long, long time. How often had she despaired that the time to leave Corio would never come? Now, finally, when the sun rose tomorrow, it would be time to leave.

She sighed and folded the letter along the worn lines and slipped it back into her pocket. Tucking the loose strands of her abundant, waving ebony hair behind her ears, Rosa toyed with the rose-gold wedding band that encircled the third finger of her left hand. She tried to picture Giovanni as he had been three years ago, then refused to admit to herself that it was a difficult task.

Of course she remembered his warm brown eyes and the gentleness behind his smile. When Giovanni left Italy he had been slender, still boyish when compared to big men like her oldest brother, Guido. His nature was as gentle as his smile, his hopes and dreams for a future in America as high as the sky above Corio. She tried again to recall the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, but sadly, her memories of him had become as faded as a sepia photograph. Rosa was certain, though, that when she saw him again, heard his voice, and felt his touch, the lonely years that had passed would become a memory.

Rosa stared down at the men moving across the field as they felled the alfalfa. Once bundled, it was hauled and hoisted into barns and stables to be used for winter feed for milk cows. Until the cold weather came, the animals were left to roam the low hills that surrounded the valley. She realized that when the first snowfall blanketed the land and frosted the trees, she would not be in Crotte to see it. She would not rush to greet the first flakes from the balcony that circled the upper floor of the stone house, nor would she lean out with her open palms to catch them. Did it snow in the place called Wyoming?

In the few precious letters Giovanni had sent to Italy, he had described his work and travels, but said nothing of the countryside where he had settled. She had learned little more than the cost of fruits and vegetables in America, the cost of land, the businesses Giovanni considered suitable—but of the land itself—she knew little. Whether it snowed or not, she was determined to love her new home. After all, it was the place her husband had chosen.

It was becoming harder to see the fields below, for the sun had slipped behind the hills. The valley had become cloaked in a gauzy blue-gray light. Fireflies capered around the tree trunks and hid in the tall grass, their flashing luminescent bodies reminding her of flickering votive candles in the church of San Genesio. She saw her three brothers—burly, heavyset men with dark flashing eyes and easy smiles—begin to move toward the house, their labors finished until the sun reappeared again in a few short hours. Rosa leapt to her feet and hastily brushed the grass and leaves from her skirt. With a glance toward the woods behind her, she hurried down the hillside, stepping carefully so as not to turn her ankle on a loose stone. It was enough that she had had the past few moments alone; it would not do to upset the men by being late to help with the meal. Not now, when there was so little time left with them, and especially not when Guido was so against her leaving.

When she reached the yard, the men were still out of sight, but Rosa could hear them splashing as they washed their hands and faces in the wooden kegs behind the house. Two large casks, cut in half and filled with spring water, served as the men’s washroom during the warm months of the year. The cursory scrubbing was all they would permit themselves until week’s end.

Her three brothers, accompanied by their brother-in-law Genesio, soon appeared around the corner of the house. They were dressed in the baggy woolen trousers that served as their work pants. The color of the pants had long ago faded beneath the sun and the beatings the fabrics had to withstand on wash day. Great perspiration stains encircled the armpits of the once-white shirts woven of thick, sturdy flax; water now soaked the front of them. Heavy leather work boots, so worn that the toes curled upward and the heels slanted with wear, completed their work attire.

During the summer, the evening meal was served outside at a long table set beneath the grape arbor. The hungry laborers made short work of the meal, and Rosa’s last evening with her family passed all too quickly as she and the women scurried back and forth from the kitchen to the garden serving the many courses.

After everything was cleared away, the dishes washed, the kitchen tidied, Rosa returned to the garden to enjoy what was left of the warm evening. Zia Rina was already there, seated on a wooden swing suspended from the sturdy posts that shaped one end of the arbor. The old woman glanced up from where her nimble fingers, now gnarled with age, paused over the embroidery she was working. The piece of cloth she had woven herself; the initials she outlined read
G
A
R
for Giovanni and Rosa Audi. Thanks to her
zia’s
many contributions, Rosa’s bride trunk was nearly filled with handwoven cloths, runners, and scarves. Crocheted lace to decorate table and chairs in her new home lay starched and ready between the larger pieces.

“Zia,”
Rosa warned, turning up the wick of the oil lamp that rested on a small round table her aunt had dragged out into the yard, “you must stop. This light is bad for your eyes.”

Rina spoke in the same authoritative tone that her niece had used. “I know when it is time for me to stop. Go and get more wine for the men.”

“Eh, Rosa, get another chair, too.” Guido settled down in the rocking chair near Zia Rina’s swing and issued orders much the way her papa used to before he died. Guido, at twenty-nine, was the oldest of the three sons, the head of the family now that both of their parents had died. Everyone deferred to his wishes. Rosa had the feeling they would have done so regardless of his age, for Guido had a way of commanding and cowing the others that came naturally to him. Taller than either Mario or Pino, Guido was built like a bull and was twice as nasty.