The Shoemaker's Wife(100)

Colin guided them up a small ladder at the upper tier of the mezzanine. The girls hiked their skirts before climbing up into the light booth, past the row of spotlights, which tonight, looked like a string of lucky full moons.

Vito, in a tuxedo with tails, extended his hand to help Enza up into the booth and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he told her.

“So do you,” she said.

“You’re not even panting from the climb,” Vito marveled.

“She’s part alpine goat, remember?” Laura said from her place on the ladder. “We Irish girls run on flat land, and never far, only door to door for a cup of sugar for tea.”

Colin pushed Laura up into the booth by her hips to join Enza and Vito.

“Do I get a warm welcome too?” Laura asked Vito as she flounced her skirt back into place.

“No, you get warm champagne.”

“Great. Worth the hike.”

Vito popped the cork and handed out paper cups. As the timpani sounded in the orchestra pit like a warning gong over an ancient valley, they sat on work stools and watched as the grand curtain parted, and a blue spotlight bathed Enrico Caruso in a single diamond-cut beam.

The audience rose to its feet. Caruso stood in the blue light, his eyes shining like black diamonds, and grinned with the delight of a man who loved what he did for a living. The violins crescendoed, and the first note of the evening, a solid A above middle C, sailed out over the crowd like a clean, clear cannon shot.

Enza took Vito’s hand and held it tight.

Vito left the light booth before the final curtain to accompany the press to Caruso’s dressing room. The standing ovation from the soldiers lasted for six minutes, until Caruso bade them good night, laughing that they would surely lose the war if he continued to sing and they remained in their seats.

Laura and Colin made their way to the box office, where Colin would collect the proceeds of the night, run a tally, and deliver the bags of cash to the company manager. The money would go to buy bonds for the families of the soldiers. Laura would sit with him as Colin ran the adding machine; as she said to Enza, “I’d watch the man break matchsticks in two for hours on end.”

Vito was going to be busy for a few hours with publicity, so he arranged a carriage ride home for Enza, but the weather was so balmy, she decided to walk. As she moved through the crowd of soldiers to make her way to Fifth Avenue and home, she pulled her pink satin shrug over her shoulders against the night air.

“Enza!” She heard her name called. She looked around, but did not recognize any of the faces in the crowd. This happened to her often in the city. She imagined it was thoughts of her mother that brought on these moments, some deep longing that somehow manifested itself as her name in the din of a crowd.

“Enza!” She heard her name again, and this time, she stopped and waited. She felt a hand upon her forearm, and looked up into the blue-green eyes of Ciro Lazzari, who, in the brown uniform of the American army regiment, looked like a giant, taller than he ever had on the mountain or on Mulberry Street. She was shocked to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Ciro asked, looking at her, taking in her hair, her face, and her gown. He had thought about her so much, he wondered if the moment was real. He had dreaded going off to France without ever seeing her again, and now it seemed that fate was on his side.

“You joined up,” Enza said, taking in his uniform, his short haircut, and the boots that laced up to his knees. He was the picture of the perfect soldier, but she didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to feel anything for him; that part of her life was over. He hadn’t chosen her; he hadn’t come to Hoboken, as his letter had promised, and despite her growing feelings for Vito, that fact was still painful for her.

“I thought it was the right and honorable thing to do.” Ciro was filled with too many complicated feelings to sort out qiuckly: apprehension about the war, equal parts admiration and desire for this lovely young woman standing before him, surprise that she was here, and not in Italy as he had been told, and confusion over what her feelings for him might be. His thoughts tumbled over one another, until he felt unable to speak or think clearly. But he knew he had to talk to her—tonight, before he reported for duty—and tell her everything he was feeling and thinking. “Where are you going?” She looked so lovely and soft, he could barely resist reaching out to touch her. More than anything, he wished he could hold her.

“Home,” she said. “Tenth Street.”

“May I take you for a cup of coffee?”

Her instinct told her to say no. After all, she was seeing Vito Blazek on a regular basis; they were sweethearts. She had embraced a new life, and it was working. Why would she rip out the hem of a garment she was building on the chance of a better offer from Ciro? But Ciro was going off to war, and she wanted to leave nothing left unsaid between them. “Okay, yes, let’s go for coffee.”

The Automat was full of soldiers on their last night before they shipped out. Ciro explained his orders on the way to the restaurant. He was to take the train to New Haven in the morning, where they would board the USS Olympic to England, and then take a ferry to France. His unit would proceed to the north of France on foot.

Enza poured the coffee, while Ciro bought Enza a plain doughnut from one window, and a slice of coconut cream pie for himself. He sat down at their table, shifting his chair to cross his long legs in the bit of room left between their table and the next one over.