The Shoemaker's Wife(105)
Ciro was comfortable as he walked the streets of the city, not because he was a native Italian, but because the noise reminded him of Manhattan. He found himself looking into the faces of those he passed, hoping he might recognize a priest or a nun who might be able to help him find his brother.
The addresses on the envelopes took him to various parts of the city, requiring a good deal of walking to deliver them. He had one to deliver to the center of the city, and one a mile away, at the basilica within the gardens of Montecatini. He learned that he must hike up beyond Viterbo to the small chapel on the hillside outside of Rome, where the Franciscans stayed when they traveled through. Having delivered the last letter, Ciro lingered outside the chapel until nightfall, hoping that his brother might miraculously pass through on his way to the Vatican. But with hundreds of priests and seminarians in Rome at any given time, Ciro knew his chances of getting to Eduardo were slipping through his fingers with each passing day.
Ciro walked back toward the city, stopping at a crowded restaurant, a simple open-walled structure with a loggia shaded with olive branches. Jugs of homemade wine were filled to the top, splashing purple tears onto the white tablecloths as the waitresses set them out for customers. There was much chatter and laughter as hearty bowls of risotto speckled with mushrooms and chestnuts, with a side of hot, crusty bread, were served to the locals, farmers, construction workers, and day laborers. Ciro was the only soldier in the restaurant. His uniform drew some curious stares.
Ciro tore into the feast hungrily, having spent the day on foot, unable to stop to eat, because he wanted to deliver every last envelope to the correct address. He hoped the meal would fill him up, and even ease the heavy burden he felt in his heart. He had all but given up hope that he would see Eduardo again. He sipped the wine, which soothed him as the warmth of the smoky grapes spread through his body. He knew that when he sailed back to America, it would be many years before he would return to Italy.
The waitress placed a bowl of fresh figs on the table. Ciro looked up at her. He guessed her to be around forty. Her black hair was streaked with white, pulled off her face in a low chignon. She wore a linen apron over a black muslin skirt and red blouse. She had an attractive face, with black Roman eyes. She smiled at Ciro, and he nodded respectfully. He sipped his espresso, and remembered a time before he was a soldier when he would have smiled back at her, prolonged her stay at his table, suggested they steal away for a few minutes later in the evening. Ciro shook his head. It seemed that everything about him had changed; his reaction to the world and the things that went on in it was as unpredictable as the moods of a Vatican secretary.
Ciro stood at the front desk of the Tiziano Hotel, looking at the mail cubbies behind it. Most were stuffed with letters and newspapers, but when he gave the attendant his room number, there was nothing. Not a single response to any of the letters he had delivered.
Ciro climbed the steps to his room. Once inside, he sat and unbuckled his boots. He slipped them off and leaned back on the bed. What a fool’s errand this trip to Rome had been! Ciro’s face flushed with embarrassment when he thought about the long story he’d told the attendant at the Vatican rectory, dropping in the names of priests and the orders of nuns that he knew from his days in the convent. It had been a disingenuous exercise, a waste; no soldier in mended boots could possibly impress any watchman to the pope. Ciro chided himself for forgetting to bribe them with money—that might have worked.
There was a soft knock at the door. Ciro got up to answer, expecting the night maid. Instead, his heart filled with joy as he looked into tender brown eyes he had not seen in seven years. “Brother!” Ciro shouted.
Eduardo embraced Ciro and slipped into the room. Ciro closed the door behind him and looked at his brother, who wore the mud brown robes of the Franciscans. A belt of white hemp rope was knotted around his waist. Upon his feet, he wore sandals with three bands of plain brown leather across the top of his foot. Eduardo threw the hood off his head; his black hair was cropped short. The glasses once used only for reading were perched on his nose. The round lenses trimmed in gold gave Eduardo a sober, professorial look.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Ciro said. “I left letters in every rectory in Rome.”
“I’ve heard,” Eduardo said. He sized up his brother and couldn’t believe what he saw. Ciro was terribly thin, and his thick hair was shorn, but more shocking to Eduardo were the dark circles under Ciro’s eyes, the hollow spaces where there once had been robust, full cheeks. “You look terrible.”
“I know. I don’t make a very handsome soldier.” Ciro looked around the room. “I have nothing to offer you.”
“That’s all right. I’m not even supposed to be here. If the monsignor finds out, they’ll kick me out of the order. This visit is not allowed, and I must hurry, and be back at the rectory before they realize I’m gone.”
“You’re not allowed to spend time with your only brother?” Ciro said. “Do they know you’re all I have in the world?”
“I don’t expect you to understand, but there’s a reason for it. To become a priest, I have to separate from all I love in the world, and sadly, that includes you. I have something to occupy my heart in a wholly different way now, but I understand that you don’t. If you love me, pray for me. Because I pray for you, Ciro. Always.”
“Any racket but the Holy Roman Church. You could have had any career in the world. Writer. Printer. We could’ve bought the old press and bound books and sold them like the Montinis. But you had to put on the robes. Why, Eduardo? I would have been happy had you been a tax collector—anything but the priesthood.” Ciro fell back on the bed.