The Shoemaker's Wife(64)

“It was.” Ciro could admit this to Enza, who came from the same place. He tried not to think about the mountain very much. He threw himself into his work, and when the day was done, he carefully laid out his leather and patterns for the next day. He allowed himself little time for outside amusement. It was as if he knew that the work would sustain him more than other pursuits. “Why did you leave?” Ciro asked her.

“You remember our stone house on Via Scalina? Well, the padrone broke his promise to us. We need a new house.”

Ciro nodded sympathetically.

“And how’s your padrone?” She motioned down the hallways toward Carla Zanetti.

“I didn’t know there were women like her in the world,” Ciro admitted.

“Maybe it’s good you find that out now.” Enza laughed.

“There you are!” Felicitá Cassio whisked down the hallway toward them. She wore a fashionable full skirt in a dusty-purple-and-white-striped silk with a matching shirtwaist in white. The hem of the skirt was hiked an inch to reveal a small fringe of cut lace, and lavender calfskin shoes tied with matching satin bows. She wore a proper straw hat with a white grosgrain ribbon band, and kid gloves upon her hands. Enza couldn’t help but admire the young woman’s dress and accessories.

Felicitá took Ciro’s wounded hand and kissed it. “What did you do?”

Enza’s heart sank as she realized Ciro and Felicitá were sweethearts. Of course he had a girlfriend, why wouldn’t he? And of course she would be beautiful. She was also stylish and bold, seemingly a perfect match for the new Ciro, the American Ciro. Enza’s face burned with embarrassment. While she had been dreaming of the boy from the convent, the last thing on his mind had been the girl from Schilpario.

“I can’t take my eyes off of you for a second!” Felicitá said. “Elizabetta told me you were bleeding all over Mulberry Street.”

“She should sell mozzarella instead of gossiping,” Ciro said, clearly embarrassed by the show of attention.

Ciro looked at Enza, who no longer met his gaze. Felicitá turned to face Enza. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Enza Ravanelli is a friend of mine from home,” Ciro said softly. Enza glanced up at him; she’d heard something in his voice, possibly regret.

“He has such a big heart,” Felicitá said, placing her gloved hand upon Ciro’s chest. Enza noticed how small Felicitá’s hand looked by comparison. “I’m not surprised that he makes a point to visit the sick.”

Ciro was about to correct Felicitá when Marco interrupted them.

“Enza, you should rest now.”

Nodding dutifully, Enza pulled the collar of her robe up around her neck. She wished her robe was made not of thick industrial cotton, but of silk charmeuse that made a soft swishing sound when a girl walked away from a handsome fellow she once had kissed.

“Enza, we’ll walk you back to your room,” Ciro said.

“No, no, the Zanettis are waiting for you. Besides, I know the way,” Enza said as she turned to walk down the hallway. She tried to walk away quickly, but she found that the steps back to her room were painful for an altogether different reason. There was no doubt: Ciro Lazzari had fallen in love with someone else.





Chapter 13

A WOODEN CLOTHESPIN

Una Molletta di Legno

The leaves of the old elm in the courtyard behind the Zanetti Shoe Shop on Mulberry Street had turned a dull gold and fallen to the ground like confetti at the end of a parade. Ciro propped the door open with a can of machine oil. The cool autumn breeze floated over the worktable, rustling the pattern paper. Ciro adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the book he was reading.

The scar on Ciro’s hand from the accident with the lathe had taken almost six years to fade. By the fall of 1916, the thin red gash that crossed his lifeline on his palm had faded to pink. Ciro was concerned about the mystical implication of the placement of this wound, so he had his palm read on Bleecker Street. As Gloria Vale held his open palm, she assured him that he would have more riches in this life than his heart could hold. But, he noticed, she never told him how long this blessed life would be. When Carla heard of the palm reading, she sniffed, “Another woman charmed by Ciro Lazzari.”

“I finished the order,” Ciro said without looking up as Remo entered the shop.

“What are you reading?”

“A manual about how to build women’s shoes. A salesman left these samples, and it got me to thinking.”

In response to Remo’s quizzical look, he added, “There are a lot of people in New York City, and half of them are women.”

“True,” Remo said. “And you’d be the first fellow to count them one by one.”

Ciro laughed. “Look.” He fanned a dozen small squares of leather out on the table. There was soft calfskin dyed pale green, a pebble leather the color of red licorice, and a deep brown suede the exact shade of pot de crème. “Bella, no? If we make women’s shoes, we double our business on the spot. But Signora doesn’t like the idea.”

“Carla doesn’t want women in the shop. She’s afraid you’ll take your mind off your work.” Remo laughed. “Or that I will.”

“She has it all wrong. I don’t want to make ladies’ shoes to meet women, I want to make them to challenge myself. And I’ll take any advice you have for me. A master must be a master to the apprentice in all respects. Benvenuto Cellini said so in his autobiography.”