The Shoemaker's Wife(127)

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.