The Shoemaker's Wife(82)

As they made the turn off Adams Street onto the Grand Concourse, finally free, they smiled, broke into a run, and didn’t stop until they had reached the ferry landing and boarded the boat for the quick ride across the river to Manhattan.





Chapter 16

A CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE

Un Tartufo di Cioccolata

There was no place more serene on Christmas morning than New York City; the streets were so quiet, it was as if they were carpeted in velvet.

Ciro maneuvered the repair cart into the carriage house on Hester Street. He removed his sleep roll, lunch tin, and a box of chocolate truffles he’d purchased in Astoria before he headed back to Mulberry Street.

Carla and Remo attended Christmas mass at the church of Saint Francis Xavier, after which they took the train to visit Signora’s cousins in Brooklyn.

Ciro unlocked the door of the shop and went to his room. He laid out his best shirt, pants, socks, and underwear on the cot and removed his signet ring, placing it on the nightstand. He took a fresh towel and went upstairs, to the alcove off the kitchen. As the water filled in the four-legged tub, he shaved, careful not to nick himself. He brushed his teeth with a paste of baking soda and salt, rinsing thoroughly. He took off his clothes, stacked them in a neat pile, climbed into the tub, and, beginning with his face, neck, and hair, lathered up and scrubbed down his body, careful to take the small brush and clean under his nails, down to his feet, where he spent extra time on his heels. Proper fitting shoes had changed his feet—no calluses or blisters, even though he was on his feet thirteen hours a day. If Ciro had learned anything, proper fitting shoes, made with good leather, could change a man’s life, or at least his ability to withstand long hours on his feet.

He emptied the tub and scrubbed it down, leaving it spotless and dry, as though he hadn’t bathed in it. This was a habit from the convent. Wherever Ciro went, including the cart with his sleep roll, he neatened up after himself, leaving the premises better than he’d found them. This was also the mark of the orphan, who never wanted to appear to use anything beyond the portion assigned, including bathwater.

Ciro picked up his clothes, wrapped the towel around his waist, and went quickly back down the stairs to his room, where he dressed, careful to lay the collar flat on his shirt and make the knot in his silk tie square. He placed his gold signet ring back on his finger. He pulled on his jacket, then his coat. Finally, he grabbed the chocolates.

On the ferry to New Jersey, he sat back on the bench and took in the Hudson River. This morning, the foamy white waves of the water matched the overhead sky. He remembered how Stream Vò had poured in a waterfall over the mountain, then thinned out in the distant valley, flat and gray, like the scribble of a lead pencil. He wondered if anyone had thought to make cleansing mud to wash down the church statues with ingredients dug from the bottom of the Hudson River. Memories of Iggy, his short cigarettes and happy laughter, made him smile.

The streets of Hoboken were filled with people on the move this Christmas morning. Freshly scrubbed, his clothes neatly pressed, Ciro stood out, looking robust and healthy in a neighborhood where the people were anything but. He moved through the crowd, checking the numbers on every building until he found 318 Adams Street. He climbed the steps and rang the bell.

A woman came to the door. She looked at Ciro through the screen, which was odd, as it was winter, and the screen door had not yet been taken down. There must not be a man on the premises to do the chores, he thought.

“Ciao, Signora.”

Anna Buffa smiled at him. Her shirtwaist skirt and blouse looked as though she had slept in them. He noticed that she was missing two teeth from the side of her mouth. Ciro could see she once had been attractive, but no more. “Buon Natale.”

“Buon Natale, Signora. I am looking for Enza Ravanelli.” When Ciro said her name aloud, his voice caught. Weeks of preparation had brought him to her doorstep. He had broken off his relationship with Felicitá, put money in the bank, and was ready to court her with the dream of marriage, when and if that was her desire. He’d thought of every conversation they had, and reread the letter she had written to him in response to his, in which he had begged her to be patient. Now it was he who couldn’t wait to see her and tell her his feelings.

“Who are you looking for?” Signora Buffa asked.

“Enza Ravanelli.” Ciro repeated her name loudly. “Is she here?”

Anna’s smile faded. “She doesn’t live here.”

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong house.”

“You have the right house.”

“Va bene. Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Ciro Lazzari.”

“She never mentioned you.”

“Could you tell me where she’s gone?”

“She went back to Italy.”

“Italy?” Ciro’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Packed up and left. Just like that. She owes me rent too.” Signora Buffa eyed the box of candy.

“When did she leave?”

“Weeks and weeks ago. It was such a scene. I don’t remember. She screamed at me, upset my daughters-in-law. Disrespectful. An awful, awful girl. She had been stealing from me for months. I was glad to see her go.”

“That doesn’t sound like Enza.”