The Shoemaker's Wife(15)

Enza was relieved every year when spring arrived at last. These majestic mountains were terrifying in the winter; the glittering snow could turn dangerous as wily avalanches buried houses and rendered roads impassable. There was the constant fear of sudden and prolonged isolation, food shortages, and sickness gripping families who might need medicine and had no access to a doctor.

It was as if the sun set the village free.

In spring, the children scattered through the Alps like dandelion puffs. The mornings were filled with chores—fetching water, gathering sticks, scrubbing clothes, hanging the wash, and prepping the garden. The afternoons were spent at play, as the children flew kites made of strips of old muslin, floated in the shallow pool under the waterfall, or read in the shade of the pine trees.

Primavera in the Italian Alps was like a jewelry box opened in sunlight. Clusters of red peonies like ruffles of taffeta framed pale green fields, while wild white orchids climbed up the glittering graphite mountain walls. The first buds of white allium lined the trail as clusters of pink rhododendron blossoms burst through the dark green foliage.

There was no hunger in the spring and summer; the mountain provided food and drink, as the children plucked sweet blackberries from the thickets and cupped their hands and drank the clean, cold water of the streams.

The girls collected baskets of wild pink asters to place in the outdoor shrine at the feet of the statue of Mary while the boys found smooth lavender fieldstones to haul down the mountain to enclose their families’ garden. The children took all their meals alfresco, and their naps in the mountain grass.

Spring was the gift after the deprivation of the long winter, and summer was the highest dream of all, with its hot sun, sapphire sky and blue lakes, and tourists with their pockets full of silver to spend on holiday. The children welcomed the visitors, who generously tipped them for carrying their bags or running errands. In return, the children offered them small baskets of raspberries and fresh lemonade.

Enza hauled the food hamper up the mountain, following the path to the lake. She inhaled the crisp mountain air tinged with sweet pine and felt the hot sun on her neck. She smiled because the chores of the morning were behind her, and she had a new book to read. The Scarlet Pimpernel was nestled in the basket next to the fresh cakes her mother baked. Her teacher, Professore Mauricio Trabuco, had given it to her as a prize for having the best marks in her class.

“Come on, Stella.” Enza turned to look for her baby sister, who lagged behind. Stella was five years old, with long, wavy hair that Enza braided every morning. She had stopped on the path and picked a yellow buttercup. “There are lots of flowers in the field.”

“But I like this one,” Stella said.

“So pick it,” Enza said impatiently. “Andiamo.”

Stella yanked the yellow buttercup, held it tightly, and ran ahead of her sister on the path, scrambling up a steep knob on all fours and disappearing through the brush to follow her brothers and sisters.

“Be careful!” Enza called to her as she took the hike up the path herself. When Enza reached the top, she saw her brothers and sisters running across the green field to the waterfall. Battista rolled the cuffs of his pants. Vittorio did the same, then followed Battista into the shallow wading pool, which came up past his ankles. They began to splash, then wrestle in the water, laughing as they went.

Eliana climbed a tree in the distance, looping her long arms around the branches and hoisting herself higher and higher. Alma and Stella, on the ground, clapped for their sister to reach the top.

Enza put the basket down beside a wild thatch of orange blossoms. She flipped the lid, pulled out a muslin tablecloth, unfolded it, and laid it out on the ground, smoothing the edges. She dug in the basket for her book while keeping her eyes on her brothers and sisters, and pulled it out to read. When she saw that the children were safe at play, she lay down on her back on the edge of the cloth.

Enza held the book over her face as she read, blocking the bright sun. Soon she was in France, in the times of guillotines, palace intrigue, and a mysterious man who signs his name with a quick sketch of a red flower.

Enza read the first chapter, and then the second. She rested the book on her chest, closed her eyes. She saw herself in the book wearing a red silk shantung gown, with hair that twirled up like smooth meringue, her cheeks powdered with hot pink rouge. Enza wondered what it would be like if she lived in another place at another time, with another family, fulfilling a destiny different from her own. Who would she be? What might she become?

“We’re hungry,” Alma said.

“Is it time to eat?” Enza asked.

Alma looked up at the sun. “It’s one o’clock.”

“That looks like a pretty good guess. You’re right. It’s lunchtime. Go and get your brothers and sisters.”

Alma ran off to do as she was told while Enza unloaded the hamper. Mama had made sandwiches of mozzarella, tomato, and fresh dandelion drizzled in honey and wrapped them in fresh linen napkins. There were two sandwiches for each child, and an extra for each of the boys. There was a jug with fresh lemonade, and slices of golden pound cake.

Enza set out the feast as her brothers and sisters gathered around. The boys, wet from wading in the pool, were careful to kneel on the outer edge of the cloth. Enza pulled Stella onto her lap.

“She’s not a baby anymore,” Alma said to Enza.

“I’m going to keep her a baby forever,” Enza said. “Every family needs a baby.”