The Shoemaker's Wife(95)

But now, as she sewed the crystals on, she saw her mother’s wisdom at long last. Signora Buffa had played opera on her phonograph records constantly. The Great Caruso had accompanied all of Enza’s suffering on Adams Street—every wring of the laundry, every buff of the moppeen on the linoleum floor, the chop of every tomato, and each careful pressing of every ribbon of pasta.

As Enza labored on Adams Street, she had learned the stories of the operas—Fra Angelico, Pagliacci, Carmen, and La Bohème. She had heard the master sing the great arias of Verdi, Puccini, and Wagner. The music had become a part of her. It had earned her a place at the Metropolitan Opera House.

Enza slipped out of her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. She unzipped the mannequin’s green gown and slid into it. Lifting the hem, she hiked up onto the fitting stool and examined the gown from all angles in the three-way mirror. The drape of the green satin suggested gentle waves on a summer lake, an effect Enza had achieved by making tiny tucks along the bodice and lowering the waistline in the back. The crystal swag along the low back of the gown lay straight, and with slight movement, it threw off light that gave the silk a watery effect along the seam. Enza checked the bodice and waist, the armhole and sleeve. She bowed deeply from the waist, and slowly stood to check the drape of the skirt.

Bellissima, she thought.

Ciro sat under the old elm behind the shop on Mulberry Street and took a smooth, cool drag off his cigarette. The moon was silver, like a grommet punched into black leather. He leaned back and studied the sky with new interest. Perhaps he would read about astronomy on his way to France, so he might learn how to follow the stars. He imagined he would need the skill in an unfamiliar place; the only markers that would stay fixed would be overhead. He would not know the villages, fields, and hills of France.

Signora Zanetti washed, pressed, and hung Ciro’s uniform, an indistinct mud brown, in preparation for his departure later that week. In trench warfare, the soldiers must match the color of the earth. The field jacket fit well when belted, and the pants had too much room in the thigh, but the length was right. His height served him well, in life and in uniforms.

Remo had bought Ciro extra socks and double-lined cotton undershorts, knowing that the nights in France could be cold. Pappina had pressed handkerchiefs, and Luigi had given him a new fountain pen. Ciro smiled at the gift; both he and Luigi knew it was unlikely that any letters would cross the Atlantic, from Ciro’s end, anyway. His duffel was not packed much differently from the one he had carried from the convent when he was fifteen. A lot had changed, but not his basic needs.

Ciro imagined his mother, and wondered what she would think about the war, and about her son the soldier. She wouldn’t like the lackluster uniform, he imagined. Eduardo, a peacemaker, would be supportive, but would not want his brother to lose his life for anything but the honor and glory of God. Even Ciro could see that this venture had nothing to do with God. It was about obligation, and the repayment of a debt.

When Ciro thought about his father, he wept for all he had missed. His father would have known what to say and how to prepare him for the worst. A father is the person who teaches a son to be brave, to do the right thing, and to defend the weak. Ciro extinguished his cigarette and put his face in his hands, leaning forward under the leafy canopy of the tree. His tears flowed and turned to sobs, and soon his heart felt leaden in his chest, aching with the sadness of all he had lost.

When he had dried his tears on his sleeve, Ciro sat back in the chair, feeling no better for his outburst—a lame catharsis, he thought. He looked up at the sky. The moon was brighter now, but its glow diminished the stars, which looked like the heads of pins stuck in a great map, a plan for war.

There was no window in the kitchenette of Enrico Caruso’s hotel suite.

Enza rolled the dough to make gnocchi on the table, just as her mother had taught her. Peeling and boiling the sack of potatoes was a real chore in the efficiency kitchen, but she arrived early and took her time gently mashing the boiled potatoes, and now, as she added eggs and flour, the pasta took shape beautifully, just as it had on the old farm table in Schilpario.

“How’s it going?” Laura asked, placing bags of fresh greens on the counter.

Laura was followed by Colin Chapin, the cultivated, erudite thirty-five-year-old opera accountant who’d caught Laura’s eye in the first month on the job. Tonight he wore an elegant suit, vest, and tie. He had neatly combed blond hair and clear gray eyes, and his thick horn-rimmed glasses gave him the appearance of a studious professor.

“We went to Veniero’s for the bread.” Colin opened the brown sack and showed Enza the loaves.

“Perfect.”

“And we got sage at the Cassio market,” Laura added. “Funny, I never see Felicitá slinging basil there.”

“You won’t, either,” Enza said.

“You know the Fruit Cassios?” Colin asked.

“If they are the Fruit Cassios, then I’m a Cotton Heery, and Enza is a Burlap Ravanelli.” Laura laughed.

“I’m a little fancier than burlap.” Enza wiped her hands on her apron. She poured salt into the large pot of boiling water on the stove.

The doorbell rang. Colin went to answer it. A hotel butler pushed a rolling bar cart, filled with bottles of fine wine, cut-glass bottles of hard liquor, crystal stemware, sleek champagne flutes, and an ornate silver ice bucket. He placed it in the suite by the sofa.