The Shoemaker's Wife(68)

Anna Buffa played a duet from Rigoletto at full volume as Enza heated chicken stock on the stove. She chopped a carrot into slim discs and dropped them into the broth. Enza carefully ladled a cup of pastina into the pot, then another. The tiny dots of pasta, as small as rice, would make a hearty soup. Giacomina had taught Enza that all ingredients in soup must be chopped and diced similarly to create a smooth texture in order to feel uniform in the mouth, no one ingredient overpowering another.

Enza prepared a tray for Anna’s meal. She poured a glass of wine from a homemade bottle labeled “Isabelle Bell,” and set out several slices of bread, some softened butter, and the soup. She placed a cloth napkin on the tray and took it into the living room.

Anna Buffa was draped on an easy chair covered in brown chenille, one leg slung over the ottoman, the other foot on the floor. Her eyes were closed; her pale blue dress was hiked to the knees, and her lace collar was askew. Enza felt a moment of pity. Anna’s once-lovely face was now etched with lines of worry, its texture slack from age, and her once-black hair was streaked with white. Anna still managed to put on lipstick each morning, but by nightfall all that was left was a pale stain of tangerine, which made her look more haggard still.

“Your dinner, Signora.” Enza placed it carefully on the ottoman.

“Sit with me, Enza.”

“I have so much to do.” Enza forced a smile.

“I know. But sit with me.”

Enza sat down on the edge of the sofa.

“How is the factory?”

“Fine.”

“I should write to your mother,” Anna said.

Enza wondered what had brought on this civil tone and mood. She looked over at the whiskey glass and realized that Anna had already finished it. This would explain her sudden warmth.

“You should eat your soup,” Enza told her, placing a pillow behind the small of Anna’s back. This was the only pampering Anna had ever received, and she relished it.

Anna placed the napkin on her lap and slowly sipped the soup. “Delicious,” she said to Enza. Evidently, Anna's mood had mellowed in the glow of the amber booze.

“Thank you.”

Enza looked down at Anna’s swollen ankles. “You should soak your feet tonight, Signora.”

“The ankles are bad again.” Anna sighed.

“It’s the whiskey,” Enza said.

“I know. Wine is good for me, but whiskey is not.”

“Hard liquor has no place to go in the body.”

“How do you know this?” Anna’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“My mother always said that if you drink wine made from the grapes of your own vines, it can never hurt you. But we don’t have room on Adams Street for a trellis.” Enza smiled.

“Evangeline Palermo grows her own grapes and makes wine in Hazelet. She'll live to be a hundred. Watch,” Anna said bitterly. “Play me a record.”

Enza placed Enrico Caruso singing Tosca on the turntable.

“Don’t scratch it,” Anna barked.

Enza placed the needle gently on the outer groove, then lowered the volume dial. “Signora, tell me why you like the opera.”

“I had some talent myself,” Anna began.

“Why don’t you sing in church?” Enza asks.

“I’m better than that!” Anna hissed. “I can’t waste my talent in a church choir. So I don’t bother to sing at all.” She was as petulant as a spoiled girl.

Enza rose from the sofa, returning to the kitchen to finish her chores. She promised herself that she would never run a household like this one. Anna’s daughters-in-law took their meals upstairs at different times, and their respect for their mother-in-law was nonexistent.

Enza thought longingly of her home and how close she had been to her brothers and sisters. They had shared everything, meals, chores, and conversation. Even the mountain itself, with its majestic cliffs, rolling green fields, and well-worn trails, seemed to belong to them. The Ravanellis were truly a family; they didn’t simply share an address like the Buffas.

Enza’s eyes filled with tears whenever she thought of Schilpario. Her talks with her mother would go long into the night, and it surprised her to realize that Anna’s family never sought her out for company or conversation. Anna Buffa doesn’t know what she is missing, Enza thought. Or maybe she did. Perhaps that’s why she drank whiskey and played opera music so loudly. Anna Buffa wanted to forget.

Carla cleared the dishes from the garden table. She had served a feast of rigatoni in pork sauce, hunks of fresh buttered bread, a salad of fresh greens, and glasses of Remo’s homemade red wine under the old tree to Ciro and Luigi, who put in long ten-hour days without a break.

Remo roasted chestnuts on the grill. As they popped in the heat, bursting their glassy shells, he looked over at Ciro and Luigi, telling stories and making each other laugh. Ciro had seemed so much happier since Luigi arrived, as though his old friend breathed new life into him. Remo could see that Ciro hungered for the kind of friendship Luigi provided, one based upon shared memories and goals. Remo didn’t want to lose Ciro in the shop, and he figured the best way to keep his apprentice was to hire his friend.

“You know, Ciro, when you were looking at the leather samples, it got me to thinking.” Remo sat down. “We don’t necessarily need to go into women’s shoes just yet. It’s a good idea, but I see it further down the line,”