The Shoemaker's Wife(153)

Ciro closed the book and placed it on the nightstand. He felt the hollow of his back, and it wasn’t tender. Sometimes his pain was intense, and then, without explanation or warning, it would go, and there would be a reprieve. And in the moments without pain, Ciro believed he could heal.

Ciro lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross, something he had not done in years. He hadn’t done it once during the war. He hadn’t done it when his son was born. Enza would make a cross on the baby’s forehead with her thumb, but not Ciro. He hadn’t blessed himself when he left Enza for this trip. He felt it disingenuous to call upon God in desperation. But tonight, he wasn’t making the sign of the cross so that God might grant him a wish, might have mercy and save him; he made the sign of the cross in gratitude.

Enza had loved him from the moment she met him, and he had not known it. He thought he charmed her on Carmine Street on the morning she was to marry another. He believed all his experience with beautiful girls had somehow formed a romantic confluence, so he might win the most beautiful girl of all, if only he chose her. Ciro thought it was he who had won his true love’s heart. Now he knew that her heart was there for the taking all along.

No wonder she had been so hurt when he hadn’t tried to find her, and no wonder she’d never come for him after she told him her feelings. She would never have wanted to make him uncomfortable. In fact, Enza’s mission all along had been to give Ciro comfort, and in every way, she had succeeded, including making him go on this trip. He knew that if anything would heal him, it would be the mountain. As he turned over in the bed, he felt no pain in his body. As always, Enza knew best.





Chapter 27

A BLUE CAMEO

Un Cammeo Blu

There was a loud and persistent knock on Ciro’s door at the convent. He sat up, grabbed his pocket watch, and checked the time. He had slept uninterrupted through the night, a delicious nine hours. He had not slept this well since before his diagnosis at the Mayo Clinic.

“Yes?” he called out.

“It’s Iggy.”

Ciro leaped out of bed and threw the door open. Twenty-one years later, Ignazio Farino stood before him, wearing the same hat.

“Same hat, Iggy?”

Iggy shrugged. “It still fits.”

Ciro embraced him.

“Be careful. My bones are like breadsticks,” Iggy said. “I could snap in two right before your eyes.”

“You look good, Iggy.”

“You’re thin.”

“I know.” Ciro pulled on his pants and shirt and slipped into his shoes. “I looked better before I was hit with mustard gas. But I still eat like a horse. Let’s go raid the pantry for some breakfast.”

Ciro followed Iggy down the hallway. Except for the bow in his knees, he moved well for a man in his eighties.

“Can you believe I’m not dead?” Iggy said. “I’m as old as the bell in San Nicola.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I still visit my wife.” Iggy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Iggy, I just got up the mountain, and the first thing you tell me is that you still make love to your wife.”

“I have not withered,” Iggy promised him. “Besides, she says she doesn’t mind.”

“Well, if she doesn’t mind, why not?”

“That’s what I say—why not? It’s one of the joys of marriage. I still get as hard as torrone. Not as often, but enough. How’s Enza?”

“She’s a great wife, Iggy.”

“Good for you.”

Iggy took a seat in the convent kitchen. He lit up a cigarette as the young nun came in from the main convent to make them breakfast. She poured them each a cup of coffee. Ciro poured cream into both cups, and Iggy ladled three teaspoons of sugar into his. The nun served them bread, butter, and jam, placed hard-boiled eggs in a clear glass bowl on the table, and sliced off a hunk of cheese for each of them. She picked up her moppeen and went into the main convent to help with the chores.

“Don Gregorio . . .” Iggy clucked.

“I know. Went to Sicily.”

“I had words with him after you left.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him, You’ll have to answer to God someday for what you’ve done.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Nah. He probably has every priest in Rome praying for him. That’s how they do it, you know. They do a bad thing, they say they’re sorry, and they get some ninelle to pray for them, wiping the slate clean. What a racket.” Iggy handed the cigarette to Ciro, who took a puff. “If he’s ahead of me in line to get into heaven, I’ll raise holy hell. This guy we have now, he’s all right.”

“Don—”

“Yeah—Don Baci-ma-coolie. I see him kneel in the garden and say his rosary. I’ve been in his room, and there’s nothing askew. He’s neat as wire. I think he’s all right. Finally after all these years, an actual pious priest. Didn’t think that card trick was possible.”

Ciro laughed. He took a sip of the coffee and turned to his old friend. “I don’t pray, Iggy.”

“You have to get it down to the bones, otherwise it doesn’t work.” Iggy waved his cigarette.

“What do you mean?”