The Shoemaker's Wife (29 page)

“Now, that’s more like it. Do not wilt in the face of the oppressor!”

The young women wondered which delicacy to sample first. Enza steered them toward the sausage and pepper stand. They watched as the cooks tossed glistening slices of green peppers and ribbons of onions on a griddle while fragrant hot sausage, splitting its skin over the open flames, was placed in fresh, crusty rolls.

Laura took a bite. “
Delizioso
!” she exclaimed.

“Delicious,” Enza said in English.

“Nice. But it’s only appropriate that we speak your native language. Everything is Italian today, including me!”

A young man handed them each a flyer and disappeared into the crowd to dispense the rest. Enza saw that there was a political cartoon on the front and a caption about the evils of Germany. The Great War, as it was known, was burning through Europe; it was just beginning to touch the lives of these proud immigrants. Italy had joined the war, and talk was that the United States was next. Enza worried about her brothers, and Laura about her nephews, who longed to be soldiers.

Enza tucked the flyer into her purse to read later. She knew how poor the people of her village were. They couldn’t survive a long war, which would only make matters worse.

But today, talk of war was minimal. The Italians thriving in America didn’t have time for politics. They were hard at work, many on double shifts, making American money. They kept their eyes focused on the bobbins of sewing machines, used their might on construction sites, laid railroad tracks and built bridges, factories, and homes, and took to the sky, balancing on beams high above the city as they built skyscrapers. Here, too, war would be an unwelcome interruption.

“A lot of handsome men in Little Italy,” Laura said.

“A few.”

“That’s why you get the attention. You could care less.” Laura laughed. “I remember last summer in Atlantic City. You had a three-hour conversation with that fella from Metuchen. Whatever happened to him?”

“It was just a conversation.” Enza shrugged.

“They passed envelopes for Mary Carroll, Bernadette Malady, and the Lindas in finishing, Linda Patzelt, and Linda Faria. Everybody’s getting married. Some diamond mine in Africa has just been sucked dry, and I’m gonna go broke celebrating other girls and their happiness. When are we gonna get ours?”

“We will. You’ll be first. And I hope you don’t settle.”

“Are you kidding me?
Never
. I want a man with a bright future. And you don’t have to wait for that guy back home, you know. You need to live
now
.” Laura smiled back at a handsome young man who tipped his hat to her.

“I’m not waiting for anyone.”

“You are pining for that grave digger. Ciro, right?”

“I wonder about him. But I don’t pine for him.”

“Okay.” Laura wasn’t buying it. “Do you write to him?”

“No.”

“Letters to Italy go two ways, Enza.”

“He isn’t in Italy. He’s here.”

“In America?”

Enza nodded. “In Little Italy.”

“You’ve been holding out on me!” Laura shrieked. “Do you know his address?”

“He was a shoemaker’s apprentice on Mulberry Street. But that was so long ago.”

“He could be one block from where you’re standing, and you’re eating a sausage and pepper sandwich! I don’t believe it.”

“Who knows where he is? It’s been six years! He had a girlfriend.”

“So? You were teenagers. I think we should have a stroll on Mulberry Street.”

“He probably went back to Italy. ” Enza shrugged. “I don’t care. He never tried to find me.”

“Maybe you ought to try and find him."

“Maybe I don’t want to find him.”

“The
maybe
means that you do,” Laura insisted. “You’re never going to look prettier than you do today, so you might as well let the man see what he is missing.”

“I didn’t dress for him!”

“A girl never knows when fate is going to give her a tumble. Look at me. I’m always prepared.” Laura pulled a small sterling silver atomizer from her pocket. “A little mister in case I meet my future mister.” Laura spritzed the perfume on her neck. “Want some?”

“All right. But just a little. I don’t want you to waste it on me. If he’s not there, what’s the point?” Enza closed her eyes, letting a cloud of cedar and jasmine settle over her.

As the girls made the turn onto Mulberry Street, they were stunned by the size of the crowd. The street was filled with revelers, but so were the sidewalks, the stoops, and the roofs. There was barely any room to move. Enza took in a short breath as her heart beat faster.

“Do you remember the address?” Laura asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Come on. You’ve memorized every detail of every person you have ever met. Think.”

Enza surrendered. “He works for the Zanetti Shoe Shop.”

Laura squinted down the block. “There it is!” They saw the awning in the middle of the block, the name of the shop emblazoned upon it. Laura took Enza by the arm. “Come on.”

Enza had little faith in Laura’s plan, but before she could protest, Laura had grabbed her hand and pulled her headlong through the crowd until they reached the shop.

“Wait!” Enza’s intuition told her that she would not like what she found behind the door. But it was too late—a determined Laura was unstoppable, on the factory floor or the streets of Little Italy.

“Leave this to me. I’ll do the talking.” Laura climbed up the steps and poked her head inside.

Enza followed with a combination of dread and curiosity. Her thoughts raced, placing Ciro at the center of every possible scenario, with or without her. Ciro was probably married by now; after all, he was twenty-two, and he seemed hardworking and ambitious. Enza would be cordial and get out of there fast. That’s all. She smoothed the front of her skirt before entering the shop after Laura.

Carla Zanetti stood behind the counter. She handed money to a young boy as he placed a large cookie tray on the counter. “I included your tip,” Carla said to the boy as he went.

“Hello. My name is Laura Heery, and this is my friend Enza Ravanelli. We’re looking for a young man, the apprentice here . . . ,” Laura began. “Ciro Lazzari.”

“He’s out.”

“Oh,” Laura said, taken aback by the gruff manner of the old gatekeeper. “Enza knew Signor Lazzari from their province in Italy.”

“We’re from the same mountain,” Enza said quietly.

Carla waved her hands. “You see those crowds out there? We’re all from the same place. I could call any
jadrool
on the street a blood relative if I wanted to. But I don’t want to”—she peered over her reading glasses—“so I don’t.”

“But this is different. Ciro and Enza really do know one another from some cliff in the old country,” Laura insisted.

“We’ve met, Signora.” Enza stepped in, before Laura could do further damage. “I met you, with your husband and Ciro, on my first day in New York, at Saint Vincent’s Hospital. I was with my father.”

Carla looked at Enza, taking her in. She studied the details of Enza’s clothes and hat, deciding that this young woman was a lady.

“The day Ciro cut his hand,” Carla remembered.

“Yes, Signora.”

“How’s your father?”

“He took a position in the mines, but now he’s building roads in California.”

“Rough work.”

“Better than the coal mine.”

“We work in a blouse factory in Hoboken,” Laura said with a smile. “We’d love to bring you one some time.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Carla smiled. “But I can’t be bribed. Ciro has many girlfriends, most of whom I do not approve of—the ones I know about, anyway.”

Enza exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. Ciro was not married.

Carla continued, “Girls nowadays are so fresh. They don’t wait for proper courting. They just show up and come right out with their demands. They line up at this counter to look at Ciro Lazzari like they’re buying cheese.”

“I’m not here to buy cheese, Signora. I was looking for an old friend, just wondering how he was getting along.” She was relieved that Ciro was not there. She didn’t know if she could have borne it if he hadn’t remembered her. “Thank you, Signora. I hope you and Signor Zanetti have a lovely holiday.”

Enza and Laura turned to go.

The door of the shop opened wide, the bells on the hook jingling loudly. Signor Zanetti entered first, followed by a couple, Luigi Latini and his girlfriend, Pappina, a delicate brunette with a pink porcelain complexion. She was followed by Felicitá Cassio in a wide-brimmed red hat and matching suit. Finally Ciro Lazzari, in a fetching navy blue three-piece suit with an elegant blue-green silk tie, the exact color of his eyes, entered, carrying two bottles of cold champagne. Suddenly the room was full of people.

Enza turned away, wishing she had never set foot in this shop.

“Which one of you handsome gentlemen is Ciro Lazzari?” Laura asked.

Signor Zanetti blushed at the forward young American.

“Well, you know it’s not the old one, he’s mine,” Carla said.

“Don’t look at me. I’m Luigi Latini. I’m neither handsome”—he looked at Remo—“nor old.”

“I’m Ciro. What can I do for you?” Ciro asked.

“My friend is an old acquaintance of yours,” Laura said. “From the Alps.”

“If I’m lucky, it’s Sister Teresa from the convent kitchen of San Nicola,” Ciro joked.

“This young lady hasn’t taken the veil.” Laura pulled on her gloves.

“Not yet, anyway. Hello, Ciro,” Enza said quietly.

“Enza!” Ciro took her hands into his as he looked at her. The pretty girl from the mountain had become a beauty. Her figure was shapely and trim; in her gray and beige day suit, she looked like a sleek sparrow.

Felicitá crossed her arms across her chest as she checked her face in the mirror behind the cash register.

“Enza, this is Felicitá Cassio,” Ciro hastily introduced them. He kept his eyes on Enza, his expression one of wonder. He had so many thoughts. He was struck by how sophisticated she seemed. How far she had come in the six years since he saw her at Saint Vincent’s! Only another immigrant would understand what it took to come here so young, and grow up in a place that was so different from home. Clearly, Enza had thrived under the challenge. Ciro was impressed, and his heart was beating fast.

“Felicitá was the May Queen at Our Lady of Pompeii, six years ago,” Carla said in a tone that implied Felicitá was no longer at the peak of her desirability.

“I’ve never met a real queen before,” said Laura.

“Oh, I don’t rule a country or anything. I just crowned the Blessed Lady.”

Laura shot Enza a look.

“Well, they made a lovely choice,” Enza said generously. She looked to the door, wanting to escape this awkward situation. She was really going to let Laura Heery have it when they got back on the street.

Ciro stepped forward. “Remo, this is Enza. Remember? You met her at the hospital when I cut my hand.”

“This can’t be the same girl.” Remo sized her up. “
Che bella
.”

“I was very sick when you saw me,” Enza said.

“Hoboken agrees with you,” said Remo.

“Yeah. It’s the beauty capital of the world,” Laura said, causing everyone to laugh, especially Carla.

“Carla, did you offer them a drink?” Remo asked.

“I was about to take the trays to the roof. There are fireworks.” Carla turned to Laura and Enza. “Would you like to join us?”

Enza looked at Ciro, who had not taken his eyes off her. “We can’t. I need to go home.”

“No, you don’t,” said Laura. “Enough with the Cinderella routine. You work hard enough over there. This is your day to celebrate. Count us in, Signora Zanetti. And thank you. Happy Columbus Day!” She clapped her hands together.

“This is great. What a surprise.” Ciro picked up the tray for Carla. “I want to hear all about Cinderella.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Felicitá said as she adjusted her hat. “He loves a fairy tale, this one.”

The Zanettis’ roof on Mulberry Street was modest. Covered in tar paper, it had a low bench, a few straight-backed wooden chairs, distressed from rain, and a string of lights with fat clear bulbs strung across the chimney wall.

The rooftops of Little Italy were a village unto themselves, a few stories off the ground, but so close, the children could easily hop from one building to another. Most rooftops were decorated simply; some had tomato plants and herb gardens, others flowerpots and small grills for cooking. But tonight they were filled, like a choir loft, high above the action, with revelers waiting for the fireworks.

Carla balanced a cookie tray on the chimney ledge, while Remo opened a bottle of champagne. Carla handed out glasses as Remo poured.

“To Cristoforo Colombo!” Remo toasted.

Enza took a seat on the bench next to Pappina. She felt an instant affinity for the petite brunette with the sparkling black eyes. Pappina had a warm smile, and her curls reminded Enza of Stella. “You seem so familiar to me. Where are you from?”

“Brescia.”

“I’m from the north too. Schilpario.”

“Way up on the mountain,” Pappina said.

“Almost as high as you can go.”

“Not too many of us from the north,” Pappina said. She patted Enza’s hand. “We have to be friends.”

“I’d like that.”

Enza watched Ciro laugh and talk with Luigi and Remo. She could spend the entire night observing him, and she just might. His strong hands held the glass almost delicately. Happiness animated his entire body, as he threw his shoulders back, feet planted on the ground, and laughed. How lucky the girl who marries Ciro Lazzari, she thought.

Ciro excused himself from the men and joined Pappina and Enza on the bench. Pappina soon excused herself in turn and joined the girls at the edge of the roof. Shrewd Laura had Felicitá deeply engaged in conversation.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Ciro said.

“This was all Laura’s idea,” Enza confessed.

“I find that hard to believe. You’re a born leader. I remember a girl who lifted cemetery rocks like she was picking up spare change.”

“I was a sturdy mountain girl then.”

“I like the new version,” Ciro said.