The Shoemaker's Wife(22)

“Don’t threaten me. And don’t ever come back to San Nicola. You are discharged of your duties here.”

Ciro stepped forward, within inches of Don Gregorio’s face. “We’ll see about that.”

Don Gregorio grabbed Ciro by the collar. In turn, Ciro grabbed the soft black linen of Don Gregorio’s cassock with his dirty hands. “You call yourself a priest.”

Don Gregorio loosened his grip on Ciro’s shirt, and dropped his hands. Ciro looked him in the eye and then spit on the floor at Don Gregorio’s feet. To think that all of Ciro’s hard work had been for the honor and glory of this undeserving shepherd of a most ignorant flock! Ciro unlocked the entrance door and walked out into the dark. He heard Don Gregorio bolt the church door behind him.

Don Gregorio looked down at his cassock, the chest placket rumpled and smeared with dirt where Ciro had grabbed it. He dipped his fingers in the holy water font, brushed the clay-colored smudges away, and smoothed his hair before turning back up the aisle to the sacristy, to his Concetta.

Concetta leaned against the table, her arms folded across her chest. She had twisted her golden hair into a knot on the back of her head, and buttoned her sweater over her blouse.

“You see why you cannot speak with boys?” the priest said sternly. He paced back and forth across the floor.

“Yes, Don Gregorio.”

“He took your conversation as interest in him,” Don Gregorio said angrily. “You encouraged him, and now he feels betrayed.”

Concetta Martocci placed her hands in her pockets and looked down at the floor. “How is that my fault?” She took a deep breath.

“You led him on.”

“I did no such thing.”

“He sat with you.”

“He works in the church!” she said defensively.

“The nuns have coddled him. He’s arrogant. He doesn’t take the sacraments or attend mass regularly. He’s too familiar with the congregation.”

She smiled. “You’re jealous of Ciro Lazzari? I don’t believe it.”

Don Gregorio put his arms around her and pulled her close. He kissed her neck and then her cheek, but as he grazed her lips, she pulled away.

“He saw you kiss me.” Concetta patted her skirt. “What if he tells?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Don Gregorio reached out to stroke Concetta’s arm.

“I’d better go,” she said, her voice making it clear she’d rather not. “My mother is expecting me.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

Concetta looked at Don Gregorio. He was handsome and polished in ways the boys from the mountain would never be. His kiss was not clumsy like Flavio Tironi’s, behind the fourth pillar of the colonnade at the feast last summer, nor were his hands sweaty or his conversation banal. Don Gregorio was well traveled, full of observations and political opinions, and told fascinating stories about places she had never seen, but intended to. He was an educated man, a graduate of the seminary. He was as familiar with the streets of Rome as she was with the roads of Vilminore.

Don Gregorio saw something in her that no teacher or tutor had bothered to find. He did not press her to study mathematics or bore her with science. Instead, he had made her hungry to see the world beyond the mountains, places he knew would delight her like the pink beaches of Rimini, the shops on the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze, and the purple cliffs of Capri. He loaned her books of stories, not ones filled with dull academics but red-leather-bound novels with plots of sweeping romance and adventure.

Don Gregorio had dinner every Sunday afternoon with the Martocci family. The perfect guest, he arrived after mass and stayed until dusk. He paid special attention to Concetta’s grandmother, listening patiently to her complaints about her health and every detail of her aches and pains. He blessed their fields and their house, administered sacraments, encouraged the family to be devout, to perform acts of mercy in the village, and to support the church.

Concetta had loved Don Gregorio from afar, instantly, from the first day he arrived in Vilminore. Over the course of the next several months, she had found moments alone with Don Gregorio exhilarating. She spent her school hours conniving ways to go to the church, in the hopes of seeing him.

The boys of San Nicola were generally dull and unkempt; they worked in the mines or in the fields, and had simple ideas about how to live. They were boys like Ciro Lazzari, the church handyman who wore rags and casually joined her in the church pew as though he’d bought a ticket next to her on a carnival bench and therefore earned the right to talk to her.

All her life, Concetta had been taught to choose the best in all things, whether it was a yard of linen to make an apron or the finest distilled lemon water to wash her hair. She knew Don Gregorio was a holy man who took vows, but he was also the most powerful and sophisticated man on the mountain. She wanted him. At fifteen she would give up the notion of a life with a husband and children of her own to stay home with her mother and see Don Gregorio whenever she could. She was besotted with the priest, thrilled to share stolen moments with him, and encouraged by his attention. To spend the occasional long afternoon and the weekly meal in his company would bring her happiness, she believed with all her heart.

“Make sure Ciro doesn’t tell anyone about us,” Concetta implored. “If my father were to find out . . . if anyone . . .”