The Shoemaker's Wife(24)

“He’s a consecrated man! He’s supposed to be better!”

“Ciro, you can’t go by the costume.”

“Then why does Sister take pains ironing his vestments? Why do I have to carry the altar linens on a dowel? We make the man look good.”

“A cassock does not make a man a priest, any more than a fine dress makes a woman truly beautiful—or good or generous or intelligent. Don’t confuse the way someone looks with the way they are. Grace is a rare thing. I wear the habit not because I am pious but because I’m trying to be. I left my mother and father when I was twelve years old to become a nun. I had a great desire to see the world, and now, I am doing penance for my selfishness. Who knew I’d see the world through the drain of an old sink and across the surface of a wooden chopping board? But here it is, and here I am. In my zeal to be a part of a grand adventure, I traded my mother’s kitchen for this one.”

Sister Teresa cooked three meals a day for the nuns, and also prepared the meals for Don Gregorio. She was up at 3:00 a.m. baking bread, which Ciro knew because he was up milking the cows. It seemed that Sister Teresa had the workload of a wife and mother, without the love and respect that went with it.

“Why do you stay?” Ciro asked.

Sister Teresa smiled. She really was beautiful when she smiled; her pink cheeks glowed, and her brown eyes twinkled. She placed her hands on Ciro’s. “I’m hoping that God will find me.”

Sister Teresa stood and threw a moppeen over her shoulder. She handed Ciro the platter to carry to the dining room and loaded the bowls of chestnut puree onto a large tray.

“It’s not so bad. We eat, don’t we?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“There’s never enough chicken, but we manage. God’s love fills us up, that’s what Sister Ercolina says. You have to find the thing that fills you up, Ciro. What fills you up? Do you know?”

Ciro Lazzari thought he knew what filled him up, but the last person he would tell was a nun. If Ciro understood anything about himself, it was his desire to woo and win a girl’s heart. “I thought it was Concetta,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes we get our hearts broken, only to have the right person come along to mend them,” Sister said.

Ciro wasn’t ready to let go of Concetta Martocci. He couldn’t say why he loved her, he only knew that he did. The goal of winning her heart inspired him to work harder, longer, and more diligently so he might make enough money to take her places and buy her pretty things. Now what would he work for?

Ciro imagined Concetta in full, filling in the details of her life outside of what he observed in fleeting glimpses of her on the piazza, in school, or in church. He wondered how she spent her time away from San Nicola. He imagined her bedroom, with a round window, a white rocking chair, and a soft feather bed surrounded by a wallpaper of tiny pink roses. He wondered what she wished for—an elegant gold chain, a small emerald ring, or a fur capelet to wear over her winter coat? What would she become? Did she see herself working in a shop on the colonnade? Would she want a house on Via Donzetti or a farm above the village in Alta Vilminore?

Ciro pleaded, “Let’s get rid of Don Gregorio. Help me do it. He’s an infidel. You know how the church works. Help me get the job done. I would do it for you.”

“Let me think about it,” Sister Teresa said.

Seeing Concetta in the arms of another did not make Ciro jealous, it made him sad. He had hoped for a kiss for so long, and now he would never know one from the girl he had longed for from the first moment he saw her. The village priest had stolen any chance for his happiness outright, and Ciro wanted Don Gregorio to pay.

Ciro set off on foot for Schilpario to the north. The five-mile hike over the pass would take him about an hour, so he gave himself plenty of time to make it to the church to speak with Don Martinelli after the funeral and receive instructions for the grave-digging.

Sister Teresa packed a few fresh rolls, sliced salami, a hunk of Parmesan cheese, and a canteen of water. Ciro was frustrated that he was forced to walk to Schilpario, but after his run-in with Don Gregorio, he knew he would never ride in the church carriage again. He wondered who would take care of the rectory stable now that he had been fired. He felt for Iggy, who was getting older and counted on his young companion to do the heavy lifting. The word had spread quickly that Ciro was no longer working at the church, a bit of news in a village longing for it.

The Passo Presolana curved like a copper coil up the perimeter of the mountain, snaking under stone overpasses and widening where the lip of the gorge extended over the rocks. Ciro walked through a long tunnel carved into the mountain, its stone walls once jagged from dynamite blasts but now covered in green moss. Ciro kept his eyes on the far entrance, an oval of bright light capping the darkness.

Suddenly he heard the pounding of hooves. Ciro could make out the silhouettes of a team of horses pulling a covered carriage as it entered the tunnel. The horses plowed on at full gallop. Ciro heard the driver shout, “Sbrigati!” to him as he froze in their sightline. Ciro threw himself against the wet wall of the tunnel, clinging to it, arms outstretched. The galloping horses raced past, the wheels of the carriage inches from Ciro’s feet as it barely negotiated the hairpin turn.

The deafening sound of the hooves diminished in the distance, and Ciro leaned over, placed his hands on his knees, and attempted to regain his breath, his heart pounding. The idea of certain death skirted only seconds ago sent a chill through him.