The Shoemaker's Wife Read online

  “Yes.”

  “What a beauty. That blond hair. That face.” Ciro looked off, remembering her. “And that figure.” Ciro whistled.

  “She’s been in the same class at Santa Maria Assunta for three years. She’s not very bright.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to sit around and read all the time. Maybe she wants to see the world. Maybe she wants me to take her for a ride.”

  “Take her on your bicycle.”

  “You really don’t know anything about girls. You have to offer them the best and nothing less.”

  “Who’s teaching you the ways of women? Iggy?”

  “Sister Teresa. She told me that women deserve respect.”

  “She’s correct.”

  “I don’t know about all of that.” It seemed to Ciro that respect wasn’t something to spread around like hay on the icy walkways in winter. Maybe it should be earned.

  “If you showed a little spiritual initiative, if you bothered to go to mass once in a while, maybe Don Gregorio would loan you the cart,” Eduardo said.

  “You’re on good terms with him. Ask him if I can borrow it.”

  “You’ll have to walk, then. I’m not asking him.”

  “Saving your favors for something more important?”

  “What could be more important than Concetta Martocci?” Eduardo said drily. “Let’s think. The priest’s cart delivers medicine to the sick. Takes old people to see the doctor. Takes food to the poor—”

  “All right, all right. I understand. My heart’s desire is not an act of mercy.”

  “Not even close.”

  “I’ll just have to think of other ways to impress her.”

  “You work on that, and I’ll study Pliny,” Eduardo said, pulling the lamp close to his book.

  Every Friday morning, Don Gregorio said mass for the children of the school. They walked into church silently and reverently, in two lines, the youngest students first, led by Sister Domenica and Sister Ercolina.

  The girls wore gray wool jumpers, white blouses, and blue muslin aprons, while the boys wore dark blue slacks and white shirts. On weekends their mothers washed the navy-and-white uniforms and hung them on clotheslines throughout the village. From a distance, drying in the sun, they resembled maritime flags.

  Ciro stood behind a pillar in the overhead gallery of San Nicola, above the pews and out of the sight line of Don Gregorio. Only two boys Ciro’s age remained in school; most had quit by the age of eleven to work in the mines. Roberto LaPenna and Antonio Baratta were the exception, and at fifteen, they planned to become doctors. Roberto and Antonio processed to the front of the church, genuflected, and went into the sacristy to put on their red robes to serve the mass for Don Gregorio.

  Ciro watched the teenage girls file into a pew. Anna Calabrese, studious and plain, had lovely legs, slender ankles, and small feet; Maria DeCaro, lanky and nervous, had a long waist and slim hips; chubby Liliana Gandolfo had full breasts, nice hands, and a perpetual look of indifference in her brown eyes.

  Finally, Concetta Martocci, the most beautiful girl in Vilminore, slipped into the pew on the end. The sight of her filled Ciro with longing. Concetta was usually late to mass, so Ciro figured she was about as devout as he was. Her nonchalance extended to every aspect of her unstudied beauty.

  Concetta’s blond hair, the exact color of the gold embroidery on Don Gregorio’s vestments, hung loosely over her shoulders, pulled off her face with two slim braids wrapped around her head like a laurel wreath. She was delicate and pale, her coloring like vanilla cake with a dusting of powdered sugar. Her deep blue eyes were the shade of the ripples on Lake Endine, her inky eyelashes like the black sand that colored the shoreline. She was curvy but small-boned. Ciro imagined he could carry her easily.

  Ciro slid down the pillar to the floor, leaned back against the column, and peered through the railing as he reveled in the unobstructed view of his object of desire for a full, uninterrupted hour.

  As Concetta followed the mass, she would glance up and look at the rose window over the altar, then down to the words in the open missal in her hands.

  O salutaris Hostia,

  Quae caeli pandas ostium,

  Bella premut hostilia,

  Da robur, fer auxilium.

  Ciro imagined kissing Concetta’s dewy pink lips as they pronounced the rote Latin. Who invented women? Ciro wondered as he observed her. Ciro may not have believed in the promises of the Holy Roman Church, but he had to admit that God was on to something if He invented beauty.

  God made girls, and that made Him a genius, Ciro thought as the girls rose from the kneeler and filed into the main aisle.

  Ciro peered around the column to watch Concetta kneel at the communion rail. Don Gregorio slipped the small communion wafer onto Concetta’s tongue, and she bowed her head and made the sign of the cross before rising. Her smallest movements had an anticipatory quality. Ciro didn’t take his eyes off her as she followed the other girls back to the pew.

  Sensing his stare, Concetta looked up into the gallery. Ciro caught her eye and smiled at her. Concetta pursed her lips, then bowed her head in prayer.

  Don Gregorio intoned, “Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

  The students responded, “Amen.” They rose from the kneelers and sat back in the pews.

  Liliana leaned over and whispered something to Concetta, who smiled. Ciro took in the smile, a bonus on this spring morning—usually there were no smiles during mass. One brief glimpse of her white teeth and perfect dimple made getting up at dawn to open the church worth the effort.

  Ciro planned his day around the hope of running into Concetta. He might change course on a morning errand for a glimpse of her walking from the school to the church. He’d go hungry and miss supper for a quick “Ciao, Concetta” as she strolled by with her family during la passeggiata. One smile from her was enough to keep him going; she inspired him to do better, to be better. He hoped to impress Concetta with aspects of his character she might not have seen, like the fine manners drilled into him by the nuns. Good manners in young men seemed to matter to young ladies. If Ciro got the chance, he knew he could make Concetta happy. He remembered, in the deepest shadows of his memory, his father doing the same for his mother.

  The students knelt for the final blessing.

  “Dominus vobiscum.” Don Gregorio extended his arms heavenward.

  The students responded, “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  “Vade in pace.” Don Gregorio made the sign of the cross in the air.

  Ciro watched as Concetta slipped the missal into the holder in the back of the pew. Mass had ended. Ciro was to go in peace. But he wouldn’t, not anytime soon, not as long as Concetta Martocci was in the world.

  There was a field of orange lilies near the waterfall above Schilpario where the Ravanelli children played. When the spring came, the sun burned hot, but the mountain breezes were cool and invigorating. Those days di caldo e freddo only lasted until Easter, and Enza took full advantage of them. She gathered up her brothers and sisters every afternoon and took them up the mountain.

  The aftereffects of the harsh winter were apparent in the landscape, mottled from the assault of heavy rain, snow, and ice. Pale green shoots pushed through the brown branches as tangled mounds of low brush in the ravines thawed out in the sun. The depressions in the earth along the trail where water had pooled and frozen were now pits of black mud. The rushing waters had left thick striae of silt as the snow melted too fast and overflowed down the cliffs. But it didn’t matter; after months of gray, everywhere she looked, Enza saw green.

  Enza was relieved every year when spring arrived at last. These majestic mountains were terrifying in the winter; the glittering snow could turn dangerous as wily avalanches buried houses and rendered roads impassable. There was the constant fear of sudden and prolonged isolation, food shortages, and sickness gripping families who might need medicine and had no access to a doctor.

  It was as if the sun set the village f
ree.

  In spring, the children scattered through the Alps like dandelion puffs. The mornings were filled with chores—fetching water, gathering sticks, scrubbing clothes, hanging the wash, and prepping the garden. The afternoons were spent at play, as the children flew kites made of strips of old muslin, floated in the shallow pool under the waterfall, or read in the shade of the pine trees.

  Primavera in the Italian Alps was like a jewelry box opened in sunlight. Clusters of red peonies like ruffles of taffeta framed pale green fields, while wild white orchids climbed up the glittering graphite mountain walls. The first buds of white allium lined the trail as clusters of pink rhododendron blossoms burst through the dark green foliage.

  There was no hunger in the spring and summer; the mountain provided food and drink, as the children plucked sweet blackberries from the thickets and cupped their hands and drank the clean, cold water of the streams.

  The girls collected baskets of wild pink asters to place in the outdoor shrine at the feet of the statue of Mary while the boys found smooth lavender fieldstones to haul down the mountain to enclose their families’ garden. The children took all their meals alfresco, and their naps in the mountain grass.

  Spring was the gift after the deprivation of the long winter, and summer was the highest dream of all, with its hot sun, sapphire sky and blue lakes, and tourists with their pockets full of silver to spend on holiday. The children welcomed the visitors, who generously tipped them for carrying their bags or running errands. In return, the children offered them small baskets of raspberries and fresh lemonade.

  Enza hauled the food hamper up the mountain, following the path to the lake. She inhaled the crisp mountain air tinged with sweet pine and felt the hot sun on her neck. She smiled because the chores of the morning were behind her, and she had a new book to read. The Scarlet Pimpernel was nestled in the basket next to the fresh cakes her mother baked. Her teacher, Professore Mauricio Trabuco, had given it to her as a prize for having the best marks in her class.

  “Come on, Stella.” Enza turned to look for her baby sister, who lagged behind. Stella was five years old, with long, wavy hair that Enza braided every morning. She had stopped on the path and picked a yellow buttercup. “There are lots of flowers in the field.”

  “But I like this one,” Stella said.

  “So pick it,” Enza said impatiently. “Andiamo.”

  Stella yanked the yellow buttercup, held it tightly, and ran ahead of her sister on the path, scrambling up a steep knob on all fours and disappearing through the brush to follow her brothers and sisters.

  “Be careful!” Enza called to her as she took the hike up the path herself. When Enza reached the top, she saw her brothers and sisters running across the green field to the waterfall. Battista rolled the cuffs of his pants. Vittorio did the same, then followed Battista into the shallow wading pool, which came up past his ankles. They began to splash, then wrestle in the water, laughing as they went.

  Eliana climbed a tree in the distance, looping her long arms around the branches and hoisting herself higher and higher. Alma and Stella, on the ground, clapped for their sister to reach the top.

  Enza put the basket down beside a wild thatch of orange blossoms. She flipped the lid, pulled out a muslin tablecloth, unfolded it, and laid it out on the ground, smoothing the edges. She dug in the basket for her book while keeping her eyes on her brothers and sisters, and pulled it out to read. When she saw that the children were safe at play, she lay down on her back on the edge of the cloth.

  Enza held the book over her face as she read, blocking the bright sun. Soon she was in France, in the times of guillotines, palace intrigue, and a mysterious man who signs his name with a quick sketch of a red flower.

  Enza read the first chapter, and then the second. She rested the book on her chest, closed her eyes. She saw herself in the book wearing a red silk shantung gown, with hair that twirled up like smooth meringue, her cheeks powdered with hot pink rouge. Enza wondered what it would be like if she lived in another place at another time, with another family, fulfilling a destiny different from her own. Who would she be? What might she become?

  “We’re hungry,” Alma said.

  “Is it time to eat?” Enza asked.

  Alma looked up at the sun. “It’s one o’clock.”

  “That looks like a pretty good guess. You’re right. It’s lunchtime. Go and get your brothers and sisters.”

  Alma ran off to do as she was told while Enza unloaded the hamper. Mama had made sandwiches of mozzarella, tomato, and fresh dandelion drizzled in honey and wrapped them in fresh linen napkins. There were two sandwiches for each child, and an extra for each of the boys. There was a jug with fresh lemonade, and slices of golden pound cake.

  Enza set out the feast as her brothers and sisters gathered around. The boys, wet from wading in the pool, were careful to kneel on the outer edge of the cloth. Enza pulled Stella onto her lap.

  “She’s not a baby anymore,” Alma said to Enza.

  “I’m going to keep her a baby forever,” Enza said. “Every family needs a baby.”

  “I’m five.” Stella held up five fingers.

  “This is going to be a bad year for porcini,” Battista said as he ate his sandwich. “This ground is too wet.”

  “It’s too soon,” Enza told him. “Don’t worry about the porcini. You have to help Papa this summer.”

  “I’d rather hunt truffles.”

  “You can do both.”

  “I want to make lots and lots of money. I’m gonna sell truffles to the Frenchmen. They’re suckers,” Battista said.

  “You have such big plans. I’m impressed,” Eliana said, though clearly she was not.

  “I’ll help Papa,” Vittorio said.

  “We’ll all help Papa. He’s going to get a lot of fares this summer,” Enza said.

  “Good luck. Cipi won’t last the summer,” Battista said.

  “Don’t say that.” Alma’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t upset your sister,” Enza said. “Nobody knows how long Cipi will be around. You have to leave that up to God and Saint Francis.”

  “Will Cipi go to heaven?” Stella asked.

  “Someday he will,” Enza answered quietly.

  “I want to go wading.” Alma stood.

  The sun, high on the ridge, burned hot on the children. Even Enza felt the heat as she followed the children to the wading pool, where she took off her shoes and long woolen knee socks. She hiked up her skirt, tied it under her shirtwaist, and waded into the pool. The cold water grazed her ankles. Enza jumped as the frigid water tickled her feet.

  “Let’s dance!” Stella said. Soon all the children were splashing in the cold, shallow water. Stella fell into the pool and laughed. Enza scooped her up, holding her close as Alma, Eliana, Battista, and Vittorio waded over to the waterfall to let the cold water rush over them.

  Through the clear water of the pool, Enza saw something odd. As Enza leaned over to set Stella down, the child’s thin legs were magnified in the sunlight. Enza saw blue veins and splotchy maroon pools underneath Stella’s skin, darker in places, a network of them from ankle to thigh.

  “Stand up, Stella.”

  Stella stood in the water, the ends of her pigtails dripping like wet paintbrushes. Enza checked the back of her legs in the unforgiving light, where she saw more bruises that extended up to the top of Stella’s thighs. In a panic, Enza checked her sister’s back, and upper arms. There, too, were the bruises, like blue stones visible on the lake bottom in shallow waters.

  “Eli, come here!” Enza shouted to her sister. Eliana, reedy, tall, and athletic at thirteen, trudged over in the shallow water.

  “What?” She looked at Enza, pushing her hair off her face.

  “Do you see these bruises?”

  Eliana looked at them.

  “Who hit her?” Enza insisted.

  “Nobody hits Stella.”

  “Did she fall?”

  “I don’t know.”


  “Battista!” Enza shouted. Battista and Vittorio were at the far end of the falls, peeling lichen off the stones. Enza waved them over. She gathered up Stella, took her to the cloth spread on the ground, and dried her off with her apron. Stella’s teeth chattered, and, frightened by Enza’s quick movements, she began to cry.

  “What did I do?” Stella wailed.

  Enza pulled her close. “Nothing, bella, nothing.” She looked up at Eliana. “We have to go home.” Her tone changed. “Now.”

  A feeling of dread came over Enza as she watched her sister gather the children.

  Enza counted the heads of her brothers and sisters just as her mother did when they went to neighboring villages for feast days, careful to keep track of every child, careful not to lose one to the gypsies, or in a large crowd.

  Stella nestled into the warmth of her older sister, holding her tight.

  Mama always said a good family has one heartbeat. No one knows you like the people you live with, and no one will take up your cause to the outside world quite like your blood relatives. Enza knew Battista’s moods, Eliana’s courage, Vittorio’s ego, Alma’s restlessness, and Stella’s peaceful nature. When one laughed, eventually they all did. When one was afraid, they did whatever they could do to shore up the other’s courage. When one was sick, soon they all felt the pain.

  There was an especially deep bond between the eldest and the youngest. Enza and Stella were the beginning and end, the alpha and omega, the bookends that held all the family stories from start to finish as well as the various shades and hues of personality and temperament. As Enza held Stella closely and rocked her, the children silently gathered the lunch, cleaned up the napkins, and repacked the basket. Enza could feel Stella’s warm breath in the crook of her neck.

  The boys hoisted the food hamper, while the girls helped Stella onto Enza’s back, to carry her back down the mountain. Eliana followed, keeping her hand on the small of Stella’s back, while Alma led them, kicking away any rocks or sticks on the path that could trip Enza as she carried Stella. A small tear trickled down Enza’s face. She had prayed for spring to come, but now she was afraid it had brought with it the worst of luck.