The Shoemaker's Wife(99)

“You sound so sure,” Enza said.

“It only takes one special girl to love.” He placed his hands on her face.

“You believe in love like I believe in the saints.”

“What else do you believe in?” Vito hoped Enza believed in him.

“Family.”

“No, you. Just you. Apart from your family.”

Enza had to think. Her first thought was always of her family, her mother’s needs and her father’s health. She worried about her brothers and sisters, their welfare and future. She had lived so long for them, she didn’t know how to live without them. She had crossed the ocean to give them security. If she would do that, she would do anything for them. They had always been her purpose.

Vito took this in. “You should think about what you want, Enza. What do you want from your life? Besides sewing Signor Caruso’s costumes, and letting them out because you make him too much macaroni?”

“No one has ever asked me that.”

“Maybe no one ever loved you enough to put you first,” Vito said.

“Maybe not. You take me to all these exciting places, but you also push me to think. That’s just as important.”

“You’re important,” Vito assured her. “To me.”

On the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, he stopped and kissed her. Enza didn’t know where this would lead, and for once, she didn’t question it. She just kissed him and lived.





Chapter 19

A CALLING CARD

Un Biglietto da Visita

Garlands of purple wisteria were draped along the velvet ropes at the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House, bringing to mind a grape trellis in a Tuscan garden.

As the society ladies took their places in line to enter, their brooches of emeralds and sapphires, their platinum tiaras shimmering with diamonds and pearls, created the impression of an enchanted forest, filled with wingless fairies under a night sky.

Inside, orderly pandemonium ensued as the costume crew handed off last-minute fixes to the dressing crew, who ran the costumes through the catacombs and up to the actors, who reviewed their sheet music and ran scales before the performance.

Signor Caruso was nervous.

The United States had entered World War I, and Caruso wanted to show his appreciation. Antonio Scotti and Caruso had put the show together, using arias from their favorite operas, enlisting the help of the Met chorus and friends like Geraldine Farrar. Even Elia Palma had arrived from the Philadelphia Opera House, with his favorite sopranos in tow, to be part of the star-studded evening. Every friend Caruso had would either appear onstage or play in the orchestra pit. No one would ever deny a request from the Great Caruso.

Caruso enjoyed playing several parts in one evening, but it was something he did in private homes or performing at smaller gatherings. His costumes hung on a free-standing rolling rack. He sat in his white cotton undershorts and shirt, beige silk dress socks and braces, smoking a cigar, checking the show order, a handwritten list of numbers he was to sing. Caruso’s secretary, Bruno Zirato, took notes to deliver to the conductor.

The orchestra seats were a sea of crisp brown uniforms, as soldiers shipping off to Europe were given priority, with complimentary tickets to the show. They poured into the rows with military precision, as if they were running a maneuver.

The diamond horseshoe overflowed with members of New York society, their elaborate evening gowns of coral, turquoise, and grass green tulle gave the effect of opulent windowboxes in full bloom.

Calling cards, hand-printed on linen paper, were placed on a round table in the vestibule outside the boxed seats. The names written in midnight blue calligraphy included royalty and the political and military elite, as well as the families who had built the city and sustained its culture: Vanderbilt, Cushing, Ellsworth, Whitney, Cravath, Steele, and Greenough. They slipped into their box seats, were served champagne and strawberries, and waited for the curtain to lift with the same giddy anticipation felt by the working people who’d bought single tickets to stand in the back of the theater to hear the Great Voice.

Geraldine Farrar slipped into her satin gown, wriggling her hips, then pulling the bodice over her bosom.

“I don’t miss the blue,” she said. “Serafina, you were right.”

“Thank you.” Serafina crossed her arms and nodded appreciatively at Geraldine.

The dresser adjusted the mirrors so Geraldine might see the gown from the rear. She nodded, pleased with the results, as the dresser handed her a pair of diamond drop earrings, which she clipped onto her ears as if she were fastening the snaps of a work smock.

Antonio Scotti, in full tuxedo, placed a clean moppeen over his shirt and cummerbund and slowly sipped warm chicken consommé from a cup as he flipped through the sheet music for his selections, stopping to ponder a particular chord.

Enza and Laura lifted the hems of their evening gowns and ran at full speed through the catacombs beneath the stage. Enza wore a pink drop-waist satin gown, cut on the bias, while Laura wore a structured yellow silk skirt, tied at the waist with an enormous bow made of lilac tulle and topped with a white silk blouse with covered buttons.

“Let’s go, butterflies,” Colin hollered from the end of the catacomb.

The girls reached him, laughing.

“Vito’s waiting for us in the light lift.”

Enza and Laura followed Colin through the hidden passages, up the stairs, until they were behind the diamond horseshoe. They could hear the heavy footfall of evening shoes above them from the balcony, as the patrons took their seats for the show.