The Shoemaker's Wife(97)

“Unlikely,” Antonio said drily. “He’s in Italy with his wife.”

Laura kept her head down, like a proper Irish scullery maid, and pretended not to take in the gossip as she tossed the salad.

“Please everyone, to the dining table,” said Enza.

Enza and Laura made fast work of grating fresh Parmesan cheese over the gnocchi, sprinkling it with lacy branches of browned sage.

“I’ll serve, you pick up the dishes,” Enza said.

“Happy to. But save some for us,” Laura whispered. “This smells heavenly!”

When Enrico Caruso had invited Enza to make him “a dish of macaroni,” Enza went to Serafina immediately. At first, Serafina had been against the idea. But when Caruso mentioned it to Serafina himself, she knew she had to allow Enza to prepare the meal. Caruso was never to be denied any request, great or small, by the staff of the Metropolitan Opera. Serafina reminded Enza to remember her place, to serve the maestro and his friends but not to join them at the table, or assume that to be Caruso’s intent.

Enza stopped short when she saw Vito Blazek sitting to Caruso’s right, across from Geraldine. Antonio sat at the head of the table, opposite Caruso. Vito looked up and winked at Enza. She blushed.

“Delizioso, Enza!” Caruso said, when Enza brought the salad plates to the server.

Enza quickly served the meal and went back into the kitchen. “Did you see?” She placed the dishes in the sink.

Laura peered out the door. “Vito Blazek. Publicity. He’s everywhere. But I guess that’s the point.”

“He’ll think I’m scullery,” Enza said, disappointed.

“You are scullery. And so am I, for that matter.”

“Is he dating Geraldine?” Enza asked.

“I doubt it. Signor Scotti said she had a lover in Italy. Don’t you listen?”

“I try not to.”

Laura poured Enza a glass of wine, and they listened to the conversation beyond the kitchen doors. Antonio talked about the changes in England since they’d entered the war, and how the audiences craved music now more than ever. Caruso said that war was good for nothing except the arts that flourished in bleak times. Geraldine spoke up about her concerns for Italy. Laura and Enza looked at one another, taking in the dinner conversation. Laura got the giggles when she realized that they had just made gnocchi in a kitchenette for the biggest musical star in the world, and last winter, they had been running through the streets of Hoboken in boiled wool, wearing bad hats. Enza shushed her, so she could continue to eavesdrop.

Caruso waved a dumpling of gnocchi on the end of his fork.

“My good friend Otto Kahn cannot sit in a viewing box because he’s a Jew. And yet he paid for everything you see, including the box, the draperies, the set, the costumes, and the singers. Without him, no grand opera.”

“Why does he give the money to the Met when he’s treated that way?” Vito asked.

“Love.” Caruso smiled. “He loves art like I love life.”

“You mean he loves art like you love women,” Antonio said.

“Women are life, Antonio.” Caruso laughed.

“Mr. Kahn said that a piano in every apartment would do more to prevent crime than a policeman on every corner,” Vito said.

“And he’s the man to buy those pianos. Believe me. I’d like to be Mrs. Kahn, but he already has a wife. A beauty named Addie. As usual, I’m a day late and an aria short.” Geraldine toasted herself with her wine.

“Poor Gerry,” Enrico said, not meaning it.

Enza and Laura prepared a dish of gnocchi to share. They sat at the kitchen table. Laura reached for a dumpling and tasted it. “This is divine!” Laura whispered.

The girls ate their meal slowly, savoring every bite.

“Well, hello. I didn’t realize you were the Italian girl making dinner for Caruso when he invited me.” Vito stood in the doorway. He placed his arms casually over the saloon doors of the kitchen. “That was the best meal I ever had.”

“She may leave the sewing needle behind and take up the spatula,” Laura said.

“Never,” said Enza.

“Whatever man is lucky enough to marry you will eat well for a lifetime.”

“And any man that marries me . . . will have a clean sink,” Laura said.

“What are you doing after dinner?” Vito asked.

“I’m busy,” Laura joked.

“Are you busy too, Enza?” Vito wanted to know.

Enza smiled but did not answer him. Maybe Laura was right. Vito Blazek showed up wherever Enza happened to be, whether it was backstage, in the workroom, or up in the mezzanine. Enza had never been so ardently pursued, and she liked it. Vito was polished, beautifully groomed, and handsome, but even more alluring to Enza, he was persistent. This quality she understood and appreciated.

Laura nudged Enza. “Answer the man. He just asked you out for a date.”

“I’m not busy later, Mr. Blazek.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled.

As Enza and Laura straightened the kitchen, the scent of cigarette smoke and freshly brewed espresso wafted through the suite. Enza was thinking about Anna Buffa’s kitchen, and how the meals she prepared there had never been appreciated, only criticized. Enza realized that a grateful person was a happy one.