The Shoemaker's Wife(20)

“I’m going to buy Concetta Martocci a cameo brooch.”

“Don’t waste your money. You need new shoes!”

“I can go barefoot, but I can’t live without love.” Ciro laughs. “How will I get to Schilpario?”

“Don Gregorio says you can take the cart.”

Ciro’s eyes lit up. If he could take the cart, maybe he could work in a ride with Concetta. “I’ll do it. But I want the cart for the whole day.”

“Va bene.”

“You’ll fix it with Don Gregorio?” Ciro asked.

“I’ll take care of it.” Ignazio threw the butt of his cigarette onto the path. He stamped it and kicked it into the shrubs, where one small orange ember released its last spark and went out.

Ciro propped open the front doors of San Nicola to let the crisp spring air play through the church like the chords of the Lenten kyries. Every surface gleamed. The nuns would like to believe their ward scrubbed the church and everything in it for the honor and glory of God, but the truth was, Ciro was hoping to impress Don Gregorio so he’d give him use of the rectory cart and horse whenever he asked.

The young handyman rubbed the mahogany pews with lemon wax, washed the stained glass windows with hot water and white vinegar, scoured the marble floors and buffed the brass tabernacle. He wire-whisked the candle drippings off the wrought-iron votive holders and refilled the pockets with fresh candles. The scent of beeswax filled the alcove of saints like the rosewater Concetta Martocci sprinkled on the laundry before she did the ironing. He knew this for sure because when she passed, the air filled with her perfume.

The saint statues looked brand new. Ciro had returned the gloss to the creamy faces, and the colors to their robes and sandals. He hoisted Saint Joseph into place upon his perch in the alcove, then rolled the votive candle cart in front of him and stood back, pleased with the results of his hard work. He turned when he heard footsteps on the marble floor. Peering out from the alcove, he saw Concetta Martocci genuflect in the aisle and move into a pew about halfway between the altar and the entrance. Ciro’s heart began to race. A white lace mantilla was draped over her hair. She wore a long gray serge skirt and a white blouse, the palette of an innocent dove.

Ciro looked down at his work clothes, taking in the wet hems of his pants, the shadows of soot along the seams, his ill-fitting boots and filthy work shirt, which looked like a handyman’s paint palette—smears of clay putty, brass polish, and black streaks of smudges from charred candlewicks. A white polishing rag was stuck in the shirt pocket where a starched handkerchief should go.

He ran his hands through his thick hair, then looked at his fingernails, black half moons under every nail. Concetta turned and looked at him, then turned back to face the altar. This type of meeting, just the two of them alone in the church, was rare. A conversation with Concetta was nearly impossible to engineer. She had a stern father, a devout uncle, a few brothers, and a gaggle of girlfriends that surrounded her, as tight as the knot on the ties of a pinafore.

Ciro pulled the rag from his pocket and tucked it behind Saint Michael. He unsnapped the brass key ring from his belt loop and placed it on the rag. He walked up the center aisle of the church, genuflected, joined her in the pew, knelt beside her, and folded his hands in prayer.

“Ciao,” he whispered.

“Ciao,” she whispered back. A smile crossed her perfect pink lips. The lace of the mantilla made a soft frame around her face, as though she were a painting. He looked down at his dirty hands and folded his fingers into fists to hide the nails. “I just cleaned the church,” he said, explaining his appearance.

“I can tell. The tabernacle is like a mirror,” she said appreciatively.

“That’s on purpose. Don Gregorio likes to look at his own reflection.”

Concetta frowned.

“I’m just joking. Don Gregorio is a holy man.” Sometimes Ciro was happy that he actually paid attention to things his brother Eduardo said, so he added, “A consecrated man.”

She nodded in agreement and pulled a string of white opal rosary beads from her skirt pocket and held them. “I’m here for the novena,” she said, looking up at the rose window behind the altar.

“Novena is on Thursdays,” Ciro said.

“Oh,” she said. “I’ll just say my rosary alone, then.”

“Would you like to see the garden?” Ciro asked. “We could go for a walk. You can pray in the garden.”

“I’d rather pray in church.”

“But God is everywhere. Don’t you listen in mass?”

“Of course.” She smiled.

“No, you don’t. You whisper with Liliana.”

“You shouldn’t watch us.”

“I’m not watching Don Gregorio.”

“Maybe you should.” She slipped back off the kneeler and sat on the pew. Ciro did the same. He looked down at Concetta’s lovely hands. A slim, plain gold bracelet dangled from her wrist.

“I didn’t invite you to sit with me,” she whispered.

“You’re right. How ill-mannered of me. May I sit with you, Concetta Martocci?”

“You may,” she said.

They sat in silence. Ciro realized that he hadn’t drawn a deep breath since Concetta entered the church. He exhaled slowly, then took in the wondrous scent of Concetta’s skin, sweet vanilla and white roses. He was finally, at last, grateful to God for something, the nearness of Concetta.