The Shoemaker's Wife(51)

“We’ll have to find a place to live.” Marco was stunned. He’d had no idea the meeting might end this badly.

“Enough renting! Enough living in fear under the thumb of the padrone. We should buy our own house!” Enza said.

“With what?”

“Papa, I can go to America and sew. I hear the girls in the shop talking about it. They have factories and jobs for everyone. I could go and work and send the money home, and when we have enough, I’ll return to take care of you and Mama.”

“I’m not sending you away.”

“Then come with me. You can get a job too—that’s more money for our house. Battista can run the carriage service while we’re gone. Everyone must work!”

Marco sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands, trying to sort through this dilemma.

“Papa, we have no choice.”

Marco looked up at his daughter, too tired to argue, and too defeated to come up with an alternative.

“Papa, we deserve a home of our own. Please. Let me help you.”

But Marco sipped the brandy and looked out through the open door, hoping for a miracle.

Ciro followed Remo and Carla Zanetti into their shop. He found a tidy operation. There was one serviceable main room, with a wide-plank wood floor and a tin ceiling overhead. The pungent scents of leather, lemon wax, and machine oil filled the room. A large worktable was positioned in the center of the room under a saw for cutting leather, surrounded by a series of bright work lights.

The far wall was lined with a sewing machine and a buffing apparatus for finishing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with tools and supplies, and sheets of leather, bolts of fabric, and spools of thread filled the opposite wall. As workspaces went, this one was far more pleasant than the slag pit in the bottom of the SS Chicago. Plus, Signora Zanetti looked to be a good cook.

In the back of the shop, Remo showed Ciro a small alcove with a cot, basin, pitcher, and one straight-backed chair, all of which had been cordoned off behind a thick curtain.

“It’s as nice as the convent,” Ciro said as he placed his duffel on the chair. “And better than the ship.”

Remo laughed. “Yes, our apartments in Little Italy are better than steerage. But just barely. It’s God’s way of keeping us humble.” Remo opened the back door of the shop. “That’s my little piece of heaven. Go ahead.”

Ciro followed Remo through the open door to a small enclosed garden. Terra-cotta pots positioned along the top of the stone wall spilled over with red geraniums and orange impatiens. An elm tree with a wide trunk and deep roots filled the center of the garden. Its green leaves and thick branches reached past the roof of Remo’s building, creating a canopy over the garden. There was a small white marble birdbath, gray with soot, flanked by two deep wicker armchairs.

Remo fished a cigarette out of his pocket, offering another to Ciro as both men took a seat. “This is where I come to think.”

“Va bene,” Ciro said as he looked up into the tree. He remembered the thousands of trees that blanketed the Alps; here on Mulberry Street, one tree with peeling gray bark and holes in its leaves was a cause for celebration.

“Signor Zanetti,” Ciro began, “I’d like to pay you rent.”

“The agreement is that you’ll work for me, and I’ll provide your room and board.”

“I had that same agreement at the convent, and it did not end well for me. If I pay you, then I’m secure.”

“I’m not looking for a boarder to pay me rent; I need an apprentice. The letter from my cousin, the nun, came at the right moment. I need help. I’ve tried to train a couple of boys here in the neighborhood, but they’re not interested. They want the fast money. Our boys rush to line up for day work on the docks. They’re assigned to crews that build bridges and lay tracks for the railroad. They work long hours and make a good wage, but they aren’t learning a craft. A trade will sustain you, while a job will only feed you temporarily. I think it’s important to be able to make something, whether it’s shoes or sausage. Food, clothing, and shelter are the basic needs of all people. If you master a trade that serves one of those needs, you will work for a lifetime.”

Ciro smiled. “I’ll work hard for you, Mr. Zanetti. But to be honest with you, I have no idea if I have any talent for what you do.”

“I will teach you the technique. Some of us make shoes; then there are the men who do more. They take the same skills I use in the shop to make sturdy shoes, and make art. Either way, you’ll eat. The world will never run out of feet in need of a pair of shoes.”

Ciro and Remo leaned back in the wicker chairs and puffed their cigarettes. The smooth tobacco calmed Ciro after his long journey. He closed his eyes and imagined he was home with Iggy, sharing a smoke in the church garden. Perhaps this little garden on Mulberry Street would be a tonic for his homesickness.

“You like girls, Ciro?” Remo cleared his throat.

“Very much,” Ciro answered honestly.

“You want to be careful, Ciro,” Remo said, lowering his voice.

“Oh, I understand about the red-haired girl on the dock now,” Ciro said, embarrassed. “At first, I didn’t. She just seemed pretty and American.”

“She has a job. But I’m talking about the girls on Mulberry Street, on Hester, and on Grand. They’re about your age, and sometimes there are ten children living in the same three rooms. It gets tiresome for them. The girls want to marry, as soon as possible. So they find a hardworking young man who will provide for them and take them away from the situation they come from.” Remo put his cigarette out on a stone at the bottom of the tree.