The Shoemaker's Wife Page 9

  Chapter 6

  A BLUE ANGEL

  Un Angelo Azzurro

  A silver mist settled over the cemetery of Sant’Antonio da Padova as the sun sank behind the mountain. The wrought-iron gates of the cemetery were propped open, revealing a flat field cluttered with headstones and surrounded along the periphery by a series of crypts.

  Prominent families had built ornate marble and granite mausoleums that featured outdoor altars, open porticoes, and hand-painted frescoes. There were also simple, spare structures in the Roman style, with columns offsetting crypts inlaid with gold lettering.

  Ciro knew that grave-digging in Schilpario would be difficult. Barite and iron mines lay beneath the village, which meant that the ground was loaded with shale. Even as his shovel struck rock again and again, he persisted, excavating white limestone hunks that looked like oversize pearls and stacked them by the grave.

  Stella’s casket rested nearby on the marble floor of a mausoleum entrance. It was covered in a blessed cloth, ready to be placed in the grave when Ciro’s work was done.

  Spruzzo sat on the edge of the open grave and watched his new master make steady progress, the mound of dirt next to the headstone growing higher and higher. Earlier, after final rites were performed at the graveside, the casket had been lowered into the shallow grave and covered with greenery. As soon as the last mourners left, Ciro removed the spray, lifted the casket out of the grave, and commenced digging seven feet into the earth. After two hours of digging, the shale gave way to dry earth, and Ciro dug the last two feet into the pit in no time at all.

  Ciro climbed out of the grave to retrieve the casket.

  Years ago, the Ravanelli family had purchased a small plot and marked it with a delicate sculpted angel of blue marble. Ciro preferred the Ravanellis’ plot, elegant in its simplicity, to the fancy mausoleums.

  Ciro lifted the small casket and set it down beside the pit. He placed it gently on the ground and jumped into the grave.

  “Here. Let me help,” a girl said.

  Ciro peeked up from the ragged hem of the grave to see the eldest Ravanelli daughter standing over him. In this light, she seemed ethereal, like an angel herself. Her long black hair was loose, and her eyes pierced through the mist, black as jet beads. She wore a starched white apron over her paisley dress. Wiping her tears away with her handkerchief, she stuffed it into her sleeve before kneeling.

  Ciro could see that the girl needed to help, that the finality of burying the casket would give her some peace. “Okay,” he said. “You lift one end, and I’ll take the other.”

  Carefully, they lifted Stella’s casket together. Ciro placed it gently in the grave and positioned it in the earth firmly before climbing out. Enza knelt on the ground and bowed her head. Ciro waited for her to finish her prayer.

  “You might want to go now,” Ciro said softly.

  “I want to be here.”

  Ciro looked around. “But I have to cover the casket now,” he said gently, as he leaned against the shovel.

  “I know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Enza nodded that she was sure. “I don’t want to leave my sister.”

  Spruzzo whined. Enza extended her hand, and the dog trotted over to her.

  “There’s some food in my knapsack,” Ciro told her.

  Enza opened the burlap sack and found the end of the sausage Sister Teresa had packed for him.

  “If you’re hungry, help yourself,” he offered.

  “Grazie.” She smiled at him.

  Enza’s smile filled Ciro with a feeling of warmth as he stood next to the mound of cold earth. He smiled back at her.

  Enza fed Spruzzo bits of sausage as Ciro shoveled. He layered the ground evenly, until the surface on top was smooth and level with the other graves. When he was done, Enza helped him move the limestone rocks off to the side.

  When they were done, Enza replaced the spray over the fresh grave until barely any earth showed through the quilt of green juniper and pine that the ladies of the church had gathered. Enza lifted long, fresh green branches of myrtle from a stack she had gathered that morning and made an edge around the grave, framing the grave in deepest green. She stood back; it looked lovely, she thought.

  Ciro gathered the shovel and pick as Enza folded the holy cloth carefully.

  “I have to return that to the priest,” Ciro said.

  “I know.” Enza tucked it under her arm. “They use it at every funeral.”

  “Do you press the linens?” Ciro asked.

  “Sometimes. The ladies of the village alternate between the linens and tending to meals for the priest.”

  “No nuns in Schilpario?”

  “Just the one who runs the orphanage. And she’s too busy to do extra chores.”

  Enza led Ciro out of the cemetery. Spruzzo followed behind, wagging his tail as he went.

  “I can take it from here,” Ciro said to her. “Unless . . . you want to show me the way.” He smiled to invite her along.

  “The rectory is behind the church,” Enza said. “Like it is in every village in every province in Italy.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about churches.”

  “Are you studying to be a priest?” Enza assumed he might be because he wore the clothes of the poor, and many entered the religious life because it was a good alternative to a life in the mines, or other hard-labor jobs on the mountain like stonecutting.

  “Do I look like a priest?” Ciro asked her.

  “I don’t know. Priests look like everyone else.”

  “Well, let’s just say I will never be a priest.”

  “So you’re a grave digger?”

  “This is my first, and hopefully my last, time.” He realized how that sounded, so he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand. It’s not a pleasant job.” Enza smiled. “I’m Enza.”

  “I’m Ciro.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Vilminore.”

  “We go there during the feast. Do you live in the village or on a farm?”

  “I live in the convent.” It surprised him that he so readily admitted where he lived. Usually, when talking to girls, he was reluctant to tell them about San Nicola and how he had grown up.

  “Are you an orphan?” Enza asked.

  “My mother left us there.”

  “Us? You have brothers and sisters?”

  “One brother, Eduardo,” he said. “Not like you. What’s that like, to be from a big family?” he asked.

  “Noisy.” She smiled.

  “Like the convent.”

  “I thought the nuns were quiet.”

  “Me too. Until I lived with them.”

  “So none of the piety rubbed off on you?”

  “Not much.” Ciro smiled. “But that’s not their fault. It’s just that I don’t think prayers are answered very often, if at all.”

  “But that’s why you need faith.”

  “The nuns keep telling me I need it, but where am I supposed to find it?”

  “In your heart, I guess.”

  “There are other things in my heart.”

  “Like what?” Enza asked.

  “Maybe you’ll find out someday,” Ciro said shyly. Enza picked up a stick and tossed it up the road, and Spruzzo ran to fetch it.

  They walked up the road and into town. Enza noticed that their strides were similar as they walked together. She didn’t find herself skipping to keep up with him, even though he was bigger and taller than she.

  “Was your mother ill?” Enza asked.

  “No. My father died, and she couldn’t take care of us anymore.”

  “How sad for her,” Enza said.

  In all these years, Ciro had never thought about his mother’s feelings. Enza’s observation opened up his heart to think about what his mother had gone through. Maybe she missed her sons as much as they longed for her.

  “How did you come to dig my sister’s grave?” Enza asked.

  “Igg
y Farino sent me. He’s the caretaker at San Nicola. I work for him.” Throughout the long day, Ciro had wondered what had caused Stella’s death. Even though he overheard conversations, little was said when it came to the death of children. “I don’t mean to cause you any further sadness. But I’d like to know what happened to your sister.”

  “A fever. And she had terrible bruises. It happened so fast. By the time I carried her from the waterfall back to our house, the fever had consumed her. I kept hoping the doctor could help,” Enza said. “But he couldn’t. We’ll never know.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” Ciro said gently.

  “There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who want to know the facts, and those who want to make up a nice story to feel better. I wish I was the kind who made up stories,” Enza admitted. “I was taking care of Stella the day before she died.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Ciro said. “Maybe you shouldn’t blame anyone, but accept that this is your sister’s story, and the ending belongs to her.”

  “I wish I believed that.”

  “If you look around to find meaning in everything that happens, you will end up disappointed. Sometimes there aren’t reasons behind the terrible things that go on. I ask myself, If I knew all the answers, would it help? I lie awake and wonder why I don’t have parents and wonder what will become of my brother and me. But when the morning comes, I realize that there’s nothing to be done about what has already happened. I can only get up and do my chores and push through the day and find the good in it.”

  “Stella was a big part of our happiness.” Enza’s voice broke. “I never want to forget her.” Enza stifled her tears.

  “You won’t. I know a little about that. When you lose someone, they take a bigger place in your heart, not a smaller one. Every day it grows, because you don’t stop loving them. You wish you could talk to them. You need their advice. But life doesn’t always give us what we need, and it’s difficult. It is for me, anyway.”

  “Me too,” Enza said.

  As they walked in the twilight, Ciro decided that Enza was more beautiful than Concetta Martocci. Enza was dark, like an inky lake in the moonlight, whereas Concetta was lacy and airy, like columbine in the spring. Ciro decided he preferred the mystery.

  Enza had slender limbs and lovely hands. She moved gracefully and was well-spoken. Her cheekbones, straight nose, and strong chin were typically northern Italian. But she had something that Ciro had not seen in any girl before—she was curious. Enza was alert; she drank in the details of the world around her, sensitive to the feelings of others and quick to respond to them. He saw this in church that morning, and now, in conversation. In contrast, Concetta Martocci poured her energy into the cultivation of her beauty and the power it brought her.

  Ciro had met Enza at her most vulnerable, and he wanted to help her. He felt compelled to do whatever he could for her. He had used his physical power when he worked, but now he wanted to share his emotional strength. There were no awkward moments with Enza; they seemed to have an immediate and comfortable connection. He hoped the walk back to the rectory took longer than he remembered; he wanted more time with this beautiful girl.

  “Are you in school?” he asked.

  “I’m fifteen. I finished school last year.”

  He noted happily that they were the same age. “You help your mother with the house?”

  “I help my father in the stable.”

  “But you’re a girl.”

  Enza shrugged. “I’ve always helped my father.”

  “Is your father a blacksmith?”

  “He drives a carriage to and from Bergamo. We have an old horse and a pretty nice carriage.”

  “You’re lucky to have a carriage.” Ciro smiled. “If I had a carriage and horse, I would go to every village in the Alps. I’d take trips to Bergamo and Milan every chance I got.”

  “How about over the border to Switzerland? You look like the Swiss. The light hair.”

  “No, I’m Italian. Lazzari is my name.”

  “The Swiss have Italian surnames sometimes.”

  “You like the Swiss? Then I’ll be Swiss,” Ciro teased.

  Enza walked ahead of Ciro, then turned on her heel to him. “Do you flirt with all the girls you meet?”

  “Some.” He laughed. “You just ask a question like that?”

  “Only when I’m interested in the answer.”

  “There’s a girl I know,” Ciro admitted. He thought of Concetta, and he was disappointed all over again. The kiss between Don Gregorio and the girl he was enamored of burned in his memory like the image of hell in the fresco over the altar.

  “Just one?”

  “Concetta Martocci,” Ciro said softly.

  “Concetta. What a beautiful name.”

  “Si,” he said. “It suits her. She’s small and blond.” He glanced at Enza, who was almost as tall as he was. Ciro continued, “And I used to watch her in church. The truth is, I looked for her everywhere. I’d wait on the colonnade for her to go by. Sometimes for hours.”

  “Did she return your feelings?”

  “Almost.”

  It was Enza’s turn to laugh. “I’m sorry, I just never heard anyone describe love in terms of almost.”

  “Well, I loved her from afar, let’s say. But it turns out that she loves someone else.”

  “So your love story has a sad ending.”

  Ciro shrugged. “She’s not the only girl in Vilminore.”

  “You keep telling yourself that,” Enza said. “You can be the Prince of the Alps, wooing girls with your charm and your shovel.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me!” Ciro cried.

  “Not at all. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. There are lots of girls in the Alps. Pretty ones in Azzone, and more up the mountain. Or go to Lucerne. The girls are blond there, and petite and pretty. Just like you like them.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” Ciro stopped and put his hands in his pockets.

  Enza faced Ciro. She reached behind her apron and tightened the bow. Then she smoothed the front placket with her hands. “You should have what you want. Everyone should.”

  “And what do you want?” Ciro asked her.

  “I want to stay on this mountain. And I want to be with my parents until they’re old.” Enza took a breath. “Before I go to sleep, I picture my family. Everyone is safe and healthy. There’s enough flour in the bin and sugar in the jar. Our chickens decide it’s a good day, and they lay enough eggs to make a cake. That’s all I want.”

  “You don’t wish for a gold chain or a new hat?”

  “Sometimes. I like pretty things. But if I had to choose, I’d rather have my family.” Enza put her hands in her apron pockets.

  “Have your parents made a match for you?”

  “If they have, they haven’t told me who he is.” Enza smiled. How odd that Ciro asked her this question on this day, of all days. Stella’s death had forced her to grow up, or at least ponder the choices that lay ahead in adulthood. But now she realized that to have a full life, you must commit to building one.

  “Maybe they haven’t chosen him yet.” Ciro leaned against the shovel.

  “I wouldn’t want my parents to make a match for me. I want to choose who I will love. And I want—more than anything—to see my sister again.” Enza began to cry but stopped herself. “So I’m going to do my best in this life so that I’m sure to see her in the next one. I’m going to work hard, tell the truth, and be of some use to the people who care about me. I’m going to try, anyway.” Enza took the handkerchief out of her sleeve, turned away from Ciro, and wiped her tears away.

  Ciro instinctively moved toward her and put his arms around her. Even though he had been thinking for the past several minutes how to get his arms around her, he was surprised to realize that the urge to comfort her came from a place of authentic compassion, not simply desire.

  The scent of the earth and his skin enfolded her as
he pulled her close.

  Enza felt a sense of relief in his arms. This kindness from Ciro felt good after a day of comforting others. She leaned into him and released her burdens, crying until the tears stopped. She closed her eyes and let him hold her tight.

  A feeling of contentment washed over Ciro as he held her. Enza seemed to fit naturally in his arms. There was a familiarity between them that made him feel useful. He discovered a purpose in her arms that he had never known before.

  Ciro’s worth had always been measured by how hard he worked, how many chores he could complete from the time the sun came up until it went down. His diligence was his calling card and the foundation of his fine reputation; he had built his sense of self-worth one task at a time.

  Ciro hadn’t had any idea how capable he would feel, caring for a person rather than completing a chore. He felt a deep well open in his heart. He believed that a girl could be a thrilling mystery, but he couldn’t have guessed she could also be a true companion, that conversation with her would fulfill him, or that he might even learn something from her.

  Enza pulled away from his embrace. “You came to dig a grave, not to talk to me.”

  “But I found you,” he said, took her into his arms, and kissed her. As his lips caressed hers, his mind rushed over the events of the day. He tried to remember when he had first seen her. Had he seen other girls in the crowd first and then found her, or was she the only girl he noticed? How did he get this far, how was she allowing him to kiss her when his hands were dirty and he was hardly at his best? Would there ever come a time when he would woo a girl pressed, polished, and as shiny as a glass button?

  Enza felt her heart race as their lips touched, the sadness of the day quelled by the unexpected meeting with this boy from Vilminore. Maybe their kisses, breath exchanged for breath, could show her a way to live in the shadow of the sorrow of this day. Maybe her darkest moments had found some light; perhaps he could redeem her grief and replace it with connection. Maybe this boy was some kind of peculiar angel, tall and strong, with freckles from working in the sun and calluses on his hands, so unlike the soft hands of the wealthy and learned. After all, he had made Stella secure in the earth. Maybe he had been sent to place her sister in the mountain she knew and loved, making her an eternal part of it.