The Shoemaker's Wife Page 6

  Chapter 4

  A POT DE CRÈME

  Vasotto di Budino

  There was a strange moon the night after Stella got the bruises. Filmy and mustard colored, it flickered in and out of the clouds like a warning light, reminding Enza of the oil lamp Marco used when he traveled by cart in bad weather.

  Enza hoped the moon was a sign that the angels were present, hovering over Stella, ambivalent about whether to take her sister’s soul or leave her behind on earth. Enza kneeled at the head of the bed, wove her fingers together, closed her eyes, and prayed. Certainly the angels would hear her and let her sister stay on the mountain. She wished she could shoo the angel of death away like a fat winter fly.

  Marco and Giacomina sat on either side of Stella’s makeshift bed in the main room, never taking their eyes from their daughter. The boys, unable to sit still, stayed busy doing chores. Battista, tall and lean, stooped over and stoked the fire, while Vittorio hauled the wood. Eliana and Alma sat in the corner, knees to their chests, watching, hoping.

  The local priest, Don Federico Martinelli, was an old man. He had no hair and a long face whose expression did little to comfort them. He knelt at the foot of Stella’s bed through the night, praying the rosary. The soft drone of his voice did not waver as he pinched his shiny green beads one after the other, kissing the soft silver cross, and beginning the Hail Marys anew as the hours passed.

  Marco had gone to Signor Arduini as Stella grew weaker, begging for any help he might provide. Signor Arduini sent for the doctor in Lizzola, who came quickly by horse. The doctor examined Stella, gave her medicine for fever, spoke with Marco and Giacomina, and promised to return in the morning.

  Enza tried to read the doctor’s face as he whispered with her parents, but he gave no indication what the outcome would be. There appeared to be no urgency, but Enza knew that didn’t mean anything. Doctors are like priests, she knew. Whether it’s an affliction of the body or the soul, there is little that surprises them, and they rarely, if ever, show what they are thinking.

  Enza grabbed the doctor’s arm as he went through the door. He turned to look at her, but she could not speak. He nodded kindly and went outside.

  Enza peered out into the night through the window slats, certain that if Stella made it until sunrise, she would live; the doctor would return as promised, declare a miracle, and life would be as it always had been. Hadn’t this been true for the Maj boy, who was lost on the road to Trescore for three days, then found? Hadn’t the Ferrante baby, sick with jaundice for sixteen days, eventually recovered? Hadn’t the Capovilla family survived after four children had the whooping cough in the winter of 1903? There were so many stories of miracles on the mountain. Surely Stella Ravanelli would become one of those stories told over and over again in the villages, assuring everyone who lived so high and close to the sky that God would not abandon them. Years from now, when Stella was grown and had her own family, wouldn’t she tell the story of the night she survived the terrible bruises and the fever?

  Enza couldn’t imagine their home without Stella, who had always been special. Stella wasn’t named for a saint or a relative like the rest of the children, but for the stars that had shimmered overhead on the summer night she was born.

  Enza pictured Stella healthy, but she could not maintain the image, her mind filling with doubt. She battled helpless feelings of injustice through the night. In her mind, Stella’s dilemma was unfair. After all, her family had paid their marker in this life. They were poor, humble hard workers who helped others and lived the gospel. They had done everything right. Now it was God’s turn to reward them for their piety. Enza closed her eyes and imagined the angels and saints surrounding her sister, making her well.

  Enza even pictured her family in the future. She imagined her mother and father as grandparents and her brothers and sisters with families of their own. Battista would teach the children the trails, Eliana would show them how to balance on the stone fence on one foot, Alma would instruct the girls in sewing, Vittorio would teach the boys how to shoe the horse, Stella would show them how to paint, Mama would keep the garden, and Papa would hitch the cart and take the children for rides. Their lives on the mountain would go forward as they always had; they would grow old together and happily in greater numbers, with a homestead that they owned free and clear.

  La famiglia èterna.

  Enza was mystified as she watched Stella’s labored breathing. She had taken the medicine from the doctor. Why was her sister getting worse?

  Stella’s color was all but gone, the pink of her cheeks now an odd gray and her lips turned chalky white. When she opened her eyes, they were unfocused, the pupils like two black rosary beads.

  Giacomina dabbed her daughter’s lips with a damp cloth and stroked her hair. Occasionally the soft din of Hail Marys said in unison was cut by a moan from Stella that sent a knife through Enza’s heart. Finally, unable to take another moment of watching her sister wither away, Enza stood and ran outside.

  Enza ran to the end of Via Scalina. She buried her face in her hands and wept for Stella. There is no worse feeling than being unable to assuage the suffering of the innocent. Enza could not erase Stella’s expression of fear as she grew weaker, and the helpless look on her mother’s face. Giacomina had been through many fevers and long nights of worry for her children, but this time was altogether different; it had a velocity of its own.

  Enza soon felt her father’s hands on her shoulders. As she turned, Marco took her into his arms and wept with her.

  God had abandoned them, the angels had taken their leave, and the saints had turned away. Now Enza understood the truth of those terrible hours. They had not been waiting for Stella to get well; they were watching her die. For the first time in her life, in almost sixteen years of surviving blizzards, spring floods, and want, Enza was unlucky. The strong arms of her father could no longer protect her, and her mother’s touch had lost its power to heal.

  Enza and Marco returned to the house. The fire had all but died out, and the morning sun was pulling itself up over Pizzo Camino, flooding the room with light. Eliana and Alma stood at the head of the bed, Vittorio and Battista on either side. After hours on his knees, the old priest stood up and kissed the silver cross on his rosary for the last time.

  Giacomina draped herself over Stella’s body as she wept into her daughter’s hair. The mother then lifted her child into her arms, pulling her close and rocking her as she had done every night before the child went to sleep. Stella’s lifeless arms dangled outstretched from her mother’s body, palms up as if to be received by the angels who were nowhere to be found in the hours before her death. Stella’s brown eyes were open, her thick eyelashes framing her vacant stare. Her lips had turned pale blue like the underside of a shell.

  Marco leaned over his wife and put his arms around her, unable to comfort her. He felt the strong hand of miserable failure upon him. Not only had the doctor in Lizzola, the priest, and the church failed him; he had not been pious enough in the eyes of God to spare his own daughter.

  There was a sacrament happening in their midst, the uninvited moment of complete surrender to the spirit world, as life passes and death takes its hold. It was a sacred pause, a swinging bridge over the most perilous chasm, a moment that lasted only a second or two, where Stella was still theirs before she was gone to God. It was in this moment that Enza screamed, loud enough for God to hear, “No!” But it was too late; the little girl was gone, her soul returned to the stars she had been named for just five years ago.

  Was all of this somehow her fault? Enza had planned the picnic that day. As the eldest, she had packed the hamper and led them up the mountain. She had wanted to read a book in the bright sun. She had allowed the children to play in the pond under the rush of the spring waterfalls. She had failed Stella, and now she had failed the whole family. Now Enza looked around for someone to absolve her of her irresponsibility, to forgive her for the mistakes she had made, but no one stepped forward to
break the bondage of her massive guilt. She needed the arms of her mother and father around her, but they were filled with Stella.

  Giacomina’s pain was so deep that her back began to heave, her entire body to rise and fall, just as it had when she birthed this child. She cradled her daughter’s lifeless body, feeling the last warmth of her. A father mourns, but a mother, whose child is born of her body, remembers the soft kisses that become the act of two loving bodies joined together in sweet privacy, which begets the first flutter of joyous pregnancy, to the soft, slippery kicks as the baby grows in her belly, to the moment when her body opens up to bring a new life to the world, and yields to a despair that will never leave her.

  Stella was Giacomina’s winged angel child, quick to laugh, impertinent with facts she learned from her less wise older siblings, and in total tune with the magic of the world, a curly-haired fairy who danced on the surface of life, soaking up the details of the world around her with a sense of wonder, identifying the possibilities in everything she touched, as she examined glittery mountain grass, hummed along with musical night winds, or embraced the miracle of water at every opportunity, to splash, bathe, and revel in it. And, as fleeting as a sun shower that moves through quickly on the sweet breath of a summer breeze, she was gone.

  The hand-painted statues of Saint Michael the warrior, Saint Francis of Assisi with the lamb, Mary the Mother of Jesus crushing the green snake, Saint Anthony holding lilies in one hand and the baby Jesus in the other, Saint Joseph in a carpenter’s apron, and the Pietà, a grieving mother holding her dying son in shades of gray, were lined up in the bright sun in the garden at the church of San Nicola for their annual bath.

  Ciro imagined that this was what the devout think heaven will be. Upon their deaths, they will proceed to a garden, filled with a seraphim of perfect saints, with unlined faces and thick hair, waiting to greet them in white light, wearing robes of purple, blue, and green, their smooth, long-fingered plaster hands indicating where to go.

  Don Gregorio may have found Ciro’s lack of devotion odd, but Ciro thought the believers were the strange ones, with their relics, incense, and holy oils whose mystical powers did more to raise questions in his mind than provide answers.

  Ciro mixed the special cleaning paste he had invented in an old tin drum. Through trial and error, Ciro had created this paste to clean and polish the statues and delicate ornamentation of the church. For this special chore, Ciro mixed a cup of fresh, wet clay from the riverbed of Stream Vò, a few drops of olive oil, and a handful of crushed lavender buds in a drum. He put his hands in the mixture and squeezed it through his fingers until it became a soft putty. After rinsing his hands in a bucket of cold water, he picked up a moppeen, twisted the end around three fingers, and dipped the cloth into the paste.

  “Va bene, Saint Michael, you’re first.” Ciro made small circular motions, gently rubbing the paste onto the base of the statue. The gold lettering, “San Michele,” gleamed as Ciro polished the surface.

  Of all the statues in San Nicola, Ciro felt the closest kinship with Saint Michael. His strong legs, broad shoulders, and silver sword raised high to battle evil appealed to Ciro’s sense of adventure and aspirations for courage. Plus, Saint Michael’s sandy hair and blue-green eyes reminded Ciro of his own. As he buffed the golden jaw of the saint, he decided that of all of God’s army, this was the man who could win Concetta Martocci. The rest of the male saints, holding doves or walking with lambs or balancing a baby on one arm, would not be as effective. Saint Anthony was too gentle, Saint Joseph was too old, and Saint John, too angry. No, Michael was the only warrior who could have wooed a beautiful girl and won her heart.

  Ignazio Farino rounded the corner, pushing a small handcart loaded with small blue river stones. Slight of build, with a long nose and thin lips, Iggy wore lederhosen with thick wool knee socks and an alpine hat with a merlo feather stuck in the faded band. He looked more like an old boy than an old man.

  “Che bella.” He looked up at the statue of Mary perched upon the globe and gave a whistle.

  “Is she your favorite, Iggy?” Ciro asked.

  “She’s the Queen of Heaven, isn’t she?” Ignazio sat down on the garden wall and looked up at the statue. “I used to gaze—I mean, gaze—at her face when I was a boy. And I used to pray to God to send me a beautiful wife that looked like the Virgin Mary in the church of San Nicola. The prettiest girl in Vilminore was taken, so I took a hike up the mountain and married the prettiest girl in Azzone. She had the golden hair. Pretty on the outside, but”—he pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket—“so complicated within. Don’t marry a beautiful woman, Ciro. It’s too much work.”

  “I know how to take care of a woman,” Ciro said confidently.

  “You think you do. Then you get the ring on her hand, and the story changes. Women change. Men stay as they are, and women change.”

  “How so?”

  “In every way. In manner.” Iggy bowed from the waist. “In personality. In their desire for you.” He thrust his body forward as if to stop a runaway wheelbarrow. “At first, oh, si, si, si, they want you. Then they want the garden, the home, the children. And then they weary of their own dreams and look to you to make them happy.” He threw up his hands. “It’s never enough, Ciro. Never enough. Believe me, eventually, you run out of ways to make a woman happy.”

  “I don’t care. It would be my honor to try.”

  “You say that now,” Ignazio said. “Don’t do as I did. Do better. Fall in love with a plain girl. Plain girls never turn bitter. They appreciate their portion, no matter how meager. A small pearl is enough. They never long for the diamond. Beautiful girls have high expectations. You bring them daisies, and they want roses. You buy them a hat, and they want the matching coat. It’s a well so deep you cannot fill it. I know. I’ve tried.”

  “Plain or pretty, I don’t care. I just want a girl to love. And I want her to love me.” Ciro rinsed Saint Michael’s cape with clean water.

  “You want. You want. You just wait.” Iggy puffed.

  Ciro buffed the plaster with a dry towel. “I’m finding it very difficult to wait.”

  “Because you’re young. The young have everything but wisdom.”

  “What does wisdom get you?” Ciro asked.

  “Patience.”

  “I don’t want wisdom. I don’t want to grow old to get it. I just want to be happy.”

  “I wish I could give you my experience, so you might not have to endure what I have known in my life. I was like you. I didn’t believe the old men. I should have listened to them.”

  “Tell me what I don’t know, Iggy.”

  “Love is like pot de crème.” Iggy stirred an imaginary pot with a spoon. “You see Signora Maria Nilo make it in the window of her pasticceria.” Iggy wiggled his hips like Signora. “You see her stir the chocolate. You see the caramel cascade from the spoon into the baking dish. It looks delicioso. You want it, you can taste it. You pass by the shop every day and think, I want that pot de crème more than anything. I would fight for it. I would kill for it. I would die for one taste. One day, you get paid, you go for your pot de crème. You eat it fast, you go for another, and another. You eat every spoonful in the bowl. And soon the thing you wanted most in the world has made you sick. Love and pot de crème—the same.”

  Ciro laughed. “You’d have a hard time convincing a starving man when he hasn’t had his fill. Love is the only dream worth pursuing. I’d work so hard for love. I’d make a future! I’d build her a house with seven fireplaces. We would have a big family—five sons and one daughter. You need at least one daughter to tend to the mother in old age.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, Ciro,” Ignazio said. “I’ve taken what life has given me”—Ignazio put his hands in the air as if to measure the scope of his world—“and I did not ask for more. It’s more that will get you in trouble.”

  “That’s a shame,” Ciro said. “All I want is more. I earn my room and board, but I w
ant to earn money.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “If I had a lira for starters, that would be good.”

  “Really? One lira?” Ignazio smiled. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Ciro washed down the Pietà with a damp cloth. “I’m listening.”

  “Father Martinelli needs a grave dug up in Schilpario.” Iggy lit his cigarette.

  “How much?”

  “He’ll give you two lire, and you kick back one. The church always has to get their cut.”

  “Of course they do.” Ciro nodded. “But only one lira to dig a grave?” Ciro couldn’t help but wonder why Ignazio couldn’t cut a better deal. Now he understood why Ignazio hadn’t graduated beyond his job as convent handyman.

  Ignazio took a smooth drag off of his cigarette. “Hey, better than nothing.” He offered Ciro a puff of his cigarette. Ciro took it, inhaling the smooth tobacco. “Don Gregorio has you dig for nothing. What are you going to do with your lira? You need shoes.” Ignazio looked down at Ciro’s shoes.

  “I’m going to buy Concetta Martocci a cameo brooch.”

  “Don’t waste your money. You need new shoes!”

  “I can go barefoot, but I can’t live without love.” Ciro laughs. “How will I get to Schilpario?”

  “Don Gregorio says you can take the cart.”

  Ciro’s eyes lit up. If he could take the cart, maybe he could work in a ride with Concetta. “I’ll do it. But I want the cart for the whole day.”

  “Va bene.”

  “You’ll fix it with Don Gregorio?” Ciro asked.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Ignazio threw the butt of his cigarette onto the path. He stamped it and kicked it into the shrubs, where one small orange ember released its last spark and went out.

  Ciro propped open the front doors of San Nicola to let the crisp spring air play through the church like the chords of the Lenten kyries. Every surface gleamed. The nuns would like to believe their ward scrubbed the church and everything in it for the honor and glory of God, but the truth was, Ciro was hoping to impress Don Gregorio so he’d give him use of the rectory cart and horse whenever he asked.