The Shoemaker's Wife(21)

“Do you like living in the convent?” she asked shyly.

Ciro’s chest tightened. The last thing he wanted from this girl was pity.

“It’s a good life. We work hard. We have a nice room. Don Gregorio loans me the cart whenever I want it.”

“He does?”

“Of course.” Ciro puffed up with pride.

“You’re very lucky.”

“I’d like to take a ride to Clusone sometime.”

“I have an aunt there,” she said.

“You do? I could take you to see her.”

“Maybe.” She smiled.

A maybe from Concetta was better than a yes from any of the hundreds of other girls who lived on this mountain. Ciro was elated, but tried not to show it. Ignazio had taught him to hold back, to refrain from showing a girl how much you care. Girls, according to Iggy, prefer boys who don’t like them. This made no sense to Ciro, but he decided to follow Iggy’s advice, if at the end of the game he might win Concetta’s heart. Ciro turned to her. “I wish I could stay, but I promised Sister Domenica I would make a delivery for her before dinner.”

“Va bene.” Concetta smiled again.

“You’re very beautiful,” Ciro whispered.

Concetta grinned. “You’re very dirty.”

“I won’t be the next time I see you,” he said. “And I will see you again.”

Ciro stood and exited the pew, remembering to genuflect as he left. He looked at Concetta a final time, bowing his head to her, remembering the manners the nuns taught him to use in the presence of a lady. Concetta nodded her head before she turned to the gold tabernacle, which Ciro had spent the greater part of the afternoon buffing to a high polish. Ciro practically skipped out of the church into the piazza.

The afternoon sun burned low, a purple peony in the powder blue sky. Ciro ran across the piazza from the church to the convent, noting that the colors of his world had changed for the better. He threw open the front door, grabbed Sister Domenica’s parcel for Signor Longaretti, and made his way up the hill to deliver it.

Ciro passed folks who greeted him, but he did not hear them. All he could think about was Concetta and the possibility of a long ride to Clusone alone with her. He imagined the lunch he would pack, the way he would take her hand, and how he would tell her all the things he had stored in his heart. His nails would be smooth and round and pink, the nail bed as white as snow, because he would soak them with a little bleach. Concetta Martocci would only see Ciro at his best going forward.

He would kiss her.

Ciro dropped the package at Signor Longaretti’s door. When he returned to the convent, Eduardo was busy in their room, studying.

Eduardo looked at Ciro. “You run around the village looking like that?”

“Leave me alone. I cleaned San Nicola today.” Ciro flopped onto the bed.

“You must have done a good job. Every bit of dirt is on your clothes.”

“All right, all right, I’ll take a good soak.”

“Use lye,” Eduardo said.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Roast chicken,” Eduardo replied. “I’ll tell Sister Teresa how hard you worked, and she’ll make sure you get extra. I need the keys to the chapel. I finished the mass cards for Sister.”

Ciro reached down to hand his brother the ring of keys. “Agh,” he said, “I left them at church.”

“Well, go get them. Sister wants these in the pews before dinner.”

Ciro ran back to the church across the piazza. The evening had a chill to it, and Ciro shivered, thinking he should have grabbed his coat. When he got to the church, he found the front entrance door locked, so he went around to the side entrance to the sacristy. He pushed the door open.

He could not believe what he saw.

Concetta Martocci was in the arms of Don Gregorio. The priest kissed her ravenously. Her gray skirt was lifted, exposing the smooth calf of her tawny leg. Her delicate foot was extended as she stood on her toes. In his arms, Concetta looked like a dove caught in the black branches of winter. Ciro stopped breathing; he swallowed air and choked.

“Ciro!” Don Gregorio looked up and let go of Concetta, who glided away from him as if she was on ice.

“I . . . I left my keys in the vestibule. The entrance door was locked.” Ciro felt his face flush.

“Go and get your keys then,” Don Gregorio said calmly as he smoothed the placket of buttons on his cassock. Ciro pushed past them and into the church. Embarrassment quickly gave way to anger and then fury.

Ciro ran down the center aisle, not bothering to bow or genuflect. When he reached the vestibule, he grabbed his key ring and the rag from behind the statue, stuffing both in his pockets, wanting to break free of this place as quickly as he could. The church’s grand beauty and the attention Ciro had lavished on every detail that afternoon meant nothing to him now. It was plaster, paint, brass, and wood.

Ciro had unbolted the main door to go when he felt Don Gregorio behind him.

“You are never to speak of what you saw,” the priest whispered with contempt.

Ciro turned to face him. “Really, Father? You’re going to issue an order? With what authority?” Ciro took a deep breath. “You disgust me. If it weren’t for the sisters, I’d take an ax to your church.”