The Shoemaker's Wife(139)

Enrico Caruso’s death was the end of an era that had changed the course of Enza’s life. Her experience at the opera had brought rich friendships into her life and transformed her from a poor immigrant seamstress to a fine American artisan.

As Antonio played on the blanket at her feet, Enza took time to remember the small details of the great singer. She recalled the way he smoked a cigar, blowing the smoke in orderly puffs, like musical notes. She remembered his strong calves and delicate feet, and how she’d tried to lengthen his torso to slim him. She remembered the night he’d put the gold coin into her silver glove, the last night she would ever see him.

For the first time since they moved to Minnesota, Enza longed for New York. Somehow, to be with Laura at the opera house, with the machine operators in the costume shop, the footmen at the entrance, the painters and scenic artists, the musicians and the actors, would be a great comfort. Instead, she was here, with a family that barely knew the details of the life she’d had before she married.

Enza wept, too, for Caruso’s Italy. They’d had long conversations in their native Italian about food—how to grow blood oranges; how to tear fresh basil, never cut it with a knife, to release the most fragrance; and how his mother sang all the verses of “Panis Angelicus” when she boiled pasta, and by the time she got to the last verse, she would lift it from the heat and it would be al dente, perfetta.

The world would miss Caruso’s voice, and of course, Enza would too, but she would not think of his great artistry first and foremost; she would think of him. Caruso had known how to live; he extracted every drop of joy he could render from every hour of his life. He’d studied people, not to judge them, but to revel in their inimitable traits, and in so doing took in the best of them, only to give it right back when he performed.

Enza couldn’t believe that Caruso was dead, because in so many ways he was life itself. He was breath and power, emotion and sound, with a laugh that was so loud, God Himself could hear it in heaven.

Pappina held her new baby in her arms. It was her fourth child, but for the first time, the bonnet was pink. Angela Latini was just two weeks old when Pappina brought her to the shop to introduce her to the Lazzaris.

Ciro and Enza were fussing over the baby when Antonio bounded into the shop.

“Look, you have a new honorary cousin,” Enza said. “This is baby Angela.”

“A girl?” Antonio sniffed. “What are we going to do with a girl?” Antonio was a lanky seven-year-old with long legs and jet black hair. Ciro thought he looked a great deal like his brother Eduardo. No one on Enza’s side of the family was tall, but from the looks of her boy, he was going to be.

“Someday you’ll find out, son,” Ciro said.

Jenny Madich entered the shop with her young daughter Betsy in tow. Betsy went to school with Antonio, and from the first day, they had been sweethearts. Betsy was also tall for her age. Her white leather roller skates were knotted together and thrown over her shoulder. Her black hair, blue eyes, and small upturned nose gave way to a big smile that enchanted everyone she met.

“Wanna skate, Antonio?” Betsy asked.

“Can I, Mama?” Antonio looked up at Enza.

“Yes, but stay on the sidewalk, not in the street.”

Betsy followed Antonio up the stairs.

Jenny Madich was around forty, a tall, slim, blue-eyed, raven-haired Serbian beauty with three daughters, one more beautiful than the next. She was known as the povitica queen on the Mesabi Range. Whenever she made a batch, she dropped one of the pastries off at the shop. Today, she’d brought two. “Did the shoes arrive?” she asked.

“I have them,” Enza said. “They’re beauties.” She went behind the counter and gave the boxes to Jenny, who opened up the patent leather Mary Janes. The pair for her eldest daughter, who was sixteen, had a sleek, small heel. The others were classic with a stack heel. “Just like you ordered. They look like the ad in Everybody’s Magazine. They were right next to the Edna Ferber short story.”

“Are you selling shoes now, Enza?” Pappina asked.

“Special orders only.”

“Enza saved my life with these shoes,” Jenny admitted. “We take the train down to the cities before Easter and get our shoes there. I can never find black patent leather shoes for the girls. And they need them for the competition during Serbian Days.”

“You go all the way to Minneapolis for shoes?” Pappina asked.

“What else can we do? It takes us months to make their costumes, and you don’t want to finish off the look with a cheap shoe.”

“See all you have to look forward to with a little girl?” Enza smiled at Pappina. Enza had been trying for a second child since Antonio turned two, but she hadn’t had any luck. It seemed Pappina had babies one after the other with no problem. And now Enza’s highest dream, a baby girl, had gone on to be realized by her dear friend. Enza reached out, and Pappina handed her the baby. Enza looked down at her and thought she had been given the perfect name; she was truly an angel.

Antonio and Betsy clomped down the stairs, ran through the shop, and went out the door. The bells clanged behind them. “Be careful!” Jenny shouted after them. Then she looked back at Enza. “You know, I’ve been thinking. You could do pretty well selling the dance shoes. If I put an announcement in the Eastern Orthodox newsletter at our church, you’d have Yugos and Romanians and Serbs lined up out the door.”