PART THREE
Minnesota
Chapter 22
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS
Un Mazzolino di Viole
A ribbon of light cut through the darkness into Laura and Enza’s bedroom window in the Milbank House. Enza, in her nightgown, shifted in her bed. “My mother said it was bad luck to sleep in the moonlight.”
“Too late for that,” Laura said, kneeling before the fireplace. “Luck took a powder today.” Laura stoked the fire with a poker, the small orange embers on the floor of the grid bursting into flames. She threw another log on the fire and climbed into bed. “This time last night, we were hemming the skirt on your wedding suit.” Laura lay back on her pillow. “So much for me coming home to a single. What in the Sam Hill were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry.” Enza moved the violets on her nightstand so their small velvet petals faced her.
“It’s Vito that deserves an apology,” Laura said.
“He’ll never forgive me, and he shouldn’t,” Enza said as she leaned back on the pillow. She couldn’t believe that she had made Vito so unhappy, when all she had done her whole life was put others’ happiness before her own. But something had shifted within her in a profound way. When a devout girl is about to make an irreversible, lifelong vow, she must be honest. When Enza searched her heart, she knew that she could only marry for love, and that meant choosing Ciro.
“Vito left Our Lady of Pompeii like it was on fire. Ran out of there like a shot.”
“ . . . After he let me have it. Did you hear what he said?”
“The doors of the sacristy at Our Lady of Pompeii aren’t very thick. But I couldn’t blame him for being angry.”
“Neither could I. Then, it was so strange, he got very quiet and sat down. And then he said, ‘I never really had you. And I knew it.’ ”
“This is so unlike you, Enza. You’re not impulsive. This is the act of a flighty girl.”
“But I’ve loved Ciro since I was fifteen years old. He’s had my heart all along. I tried to create a kind of happiness with Vito by putting Ciro out of my mind. But he came for me, Laura. Today, he came for me. He chose me.”
“But you have a choice in the matter.”
“You know, back on our mountain they have tried to build dams to harness the power of the waterfalls. But sooner or later, there’s always a leak or a flood or something else to make the structure come crashing down. The water seems to have a will of its own. The engineers can’t figure out a way to stop nature. That’s exactly what it was like when I saw Ciro this morning. I can’t fight the power of it.”
“And you don’t want to try.” Laura sighed. “What was wrong with the life Vito offered you?” she asked as she sat up and pulled the blanket around her.
“Nothing,” Enza said quietly.
“Then why would you throw it away? Are you sure about Ciro? When we were working in Hoboken, you talked about him. And when we saw him on Columbus Day so many years ago, you told him your feelings, and he never came for you. I remember how miserable you were for months after that. I thought he was a heel. Doesn’t that worry you? Is he reliable?”
Enza sat up in her bed. “He has a plan.”
“Oh joy,” Laura said, lying back on her pillow. The tone of her voice made Enza laugh for the first time that day.
“Ciro is ambitious,” Enza continued. “He talks about opening his own shop someday. He’d like to learn how to make women’s shoes. But he’s not just a shoemaker, Laura. Spending time with him today, I realized he has an artist’s view of the world.”
“So do you! Does he have any idea of what you can do? Has he ever seen your work up close, like I have, or from a distance, from the diamond horseshoe, like a society matron? You’re a masterful seamstress. You make the rest of us in the costume shop look like a pack of amateurs. Signor Caruso may like the way you boil macaroni, but that’s not why you were chosen to work for him. He saw how you built a costume, and that’s why he selected you to head up his crew. You’re inventive. You’re the artist! You took scraps from the floor during the war rationing and made them into glorious capes and suits for Caruso! Does Ciro know who you are and how far you’ve come since he left you on the roof?” Laura pummeled her pillow into a fluffy circle and rolled onto her side to face Enza.
“I’m not going to stop working,” Enza vowed.
“I hope you like making shoes.”
“I’ll help him, and he’ll help me.”
“Really. A man is going to put your work on a par with his? I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“I have hope, Laura.”
“Yeah. Hope is wonderful thing. It has no memory. It fills you with possibility. Whatever your imagination can conjure, hope will design and deliver.”
“You just don’t like him,” Enza said.
“I don’t know him. But it’s not about liking Ciro. It’s about loving my friend and wanting the best for her. You have no idea what you’re getting into. You’ll be living on Mulberry Street, doing his boss’s laundry. I don’t know how he convinced you to change your life, one that you created over years, in a matter of minutes. He must have made some pretty big promises.”
“He promised to love me. And for once in my life, I’m going to do the impractical, unwise, ill-advised thing. I’m going to make a decision based upon the feeling I have in my heart, and not what looks good on paper or makes anyone else happy. I’m going to do something for me, and I’ll live with whatever Ciro brings into my life and be happy that I did.”
Laura sighed. “You’ve gone over the cliff. He’s got you. I have to hand it to him. For a woman, love is the highest dream, and if a man promises to build a ladder tall enough to reach it, she believes him, hikes up her skirt, and follows him to the stars. Now it’s my turn to hope. I’m going to hope Signor Lazzari doesn’t disappoint you.”
Laura rolled over in her bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
Enza didn’t sleep that night. She spent the late night hours thinking about Vito and Ciro and the life she had chosen.
The fire threw a soft glow onto the walls, illuminating the cracks in the old paint. There were no shapes or strange shadows to portend Enza’s future, no signs whatsoever. On what should have been the happiest day of her life, Enza cried silent tears so as not to wake Laura.
Ciro stretched out on his cot at the Zanetti Shoe Shop. He crossed his arms and stared up at the squares of the tin ceiling, as he had done for many nights before he left for the war.
Remo and Carla had gone to bed after a supper of steak and onions, fresh bread, coffee, and cake. Ciro talked for hours about the war and his travels to Rome. He thought about telling them about Enza, but decided not to, as Carla seemed to expect him to get back to work immediately. Her bank purse was never so thick as when Ciro made excellent-quality work boots at the pace of a machine. Signora wanted the old profits back, the sooner the better.
Ciro heard a key turn in the front door of the shop. He stood and looked out from behind the curtain.
“Don’t shoot,” Luigi said, holding up the key. He looked at Ciro. “My God, you’re thin,” he said as he embraced his friend.
“You’re not. How’s married life?”
“Pappina is expecting.”
“Auguri!”
“Grazie. Grazie. We’re living on Hester Street.”
“How is it?”
“It’s no good. It’s noisy. There’s no garden. I want to get Pappina out of here.”
“Where would you go?”
“We thought about going home to Italy, but there’s no work there. The war made it worse.” He lowered his voice. “And I’m tired of making money for them.” He pointed upstairs. “I work seven days a week, and she pays me for five.”
“Signora wants me back on the machines in the morning—at the same salary. Says times are tough.”
“For us. Not for her,” Luigi said. “She couldn’t wait for you to return. I’m surprised she didn’t rent a mule and do a search for you in the fields of France. Did she make you steak?”
Ciro nodded.
“That’s how she keeps us under her thumb.” He patted his stomach. “When she expects double time at the same rate, you get tenderloin. We need to make a break.”
“Remo says he wants to go home to Italy.”
“And you think they’ll sell us the business? It will never happen. Signora loves the cash too much. She’ll work him to death and then spend the rest of her time counting the money.”
“I’ve thought about opening our own shop,” Ciro said. “What do you think?”
“We work well together. I’d love it.”
“Where should we go? Brooklyn? New Jersey?”
“I want to get as far from the city as possible,” Luigi insisted. “I want land. Fresh air. Don’t you?”
Ciro had given a lot of thought about where to live during his endless nights in France. When Enza embraced him that afternoon, she had no idea the gift she had given him. Ciro was ready to make a life for her that he had never dared imagine alone. With Luigi as a partner, they could go anywhere. “How about California?”
“Half of Calabria is in California. There are more shoemakers than feet out west.”
Ciro nodded. “There are mines in Kentucky and West Virginia. Maybe they need shoemakers,” he offered.
“I don’t want to go south,” Luigi said. “I’m from southern Italy, and I’ve had enough heat and humidity to last me a lifetime.”
“We could go north. I’d love a place like Vilminore. Someplace green, where there are lakes.”
“There are plenty of lakes in Minnesota.”
“That’s where my father went to work,” Ciro said quietly, an expression of unresolved pain crossing his face. “And he never came back to us.”
“What happened?” Luigi asked gently.
“We don’t know. And you know what, Luigi? I don’t want to know. They say he died in a mine, but all we know is that he never came home. It broke up our family, ruined my mother’s health, and split up my brother and me.”
“All right. We’ll never go to Minnesota.”
“No, no, we should consider every possibility,” Ciro said slowly. Minnesota had always had a mythical quality to him. It was the place that had swallowed up his father without apology. Yet it held a certain fascination for Ciro because his father had chosen it. Would it be fate or sheer folly to offer up another Lazzari to the Iron Range? Choosing Minnesota might tempt fate—or maybe it could redeem the loss of his father.
“I heard some men talking at Puglia’s,” Luigi continued, oblivious to Ciro’s internal struggle. “The iron ore mines operate around the clock. Lots of guys are heading up there. We should think about it. The mines employ thousands, and somebody’s got to build the boots and repair them. We could make a good living. And you’d certainly have your lakes.”
Perhaps it was the memory of all the places Ciro had been during and after the war—the romantic hills of England, the pristine vineyards of France, and the stately antiquities of Rome—that gave him the desire to leave New York City. Or maybe it was sleeping in the same cot behind a thin privacy curtain, as he had done since he was a teenager, that made him long for a home of his own. Suddenly the old ways, the way things had always been, were not enough. He intended to give Enza a good life and a home of her own. He needed to be bold in his thinking, open to new ideas; and he hoped she, too, might think beyond the borders of Manhattan Island. He shook his head at the odds of his plan succeeding. “Enza will never leave New York City,” he said finally.
“Who?”
“Enza Ravanelli,” Ciro announced. “I’m going to marry her.”
“Marry her?” Luigi was stunned. “Enza . . .” He remembered. “The nice girl from the Alps? I can’t believe it. She’s a glove-and-hat girl. She’s not like any of the girls you used to see.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re like every other doughboy home from the front. You turned in your rifle and went shopping for wedding rings. How did you pull this off so fast?”
“I don’t know,” Ciro lied. He had planned to return to New York and win Enza’s heart from the first moment his boots hit the ground in France. The complete chaos of war had helped him think clearly and to define life for himself in a plain way. It was either yes or no, life or death, love or loneliness. War had taught him that everything was absolute. So he too began to think like a general, even when it came to his own heart. He had nothing to gain by taking more time to make what was, for him, an obvious decision. “She wants to be with me,” Ciro said.
“So does every other girl between here and Bushwick. But you never gave Enza a tumble. Why now?”
“I’ve changed, Luigi.”
“I’ll say. Did you get hit on the head in France? You’re the man who always got the girl. Any girl. All of them,” Luigi marveled.
“There’s only one girl for me. And that’s Enza.”
“A masher no more. Va bene. I hope you know what you’re giving up. When you were gone, there wasn’t a day in this shop when the bells on the door didn’t jingle and some ragazza come to the front desk and ask where to write to you.”
“I didn’t get a single letter,” Ciro said with false indignation.
“That’s because Signora told them you were in Tangiers.”
“I never went to Tangiers.” Ciro threw his hands in the air. “I doubt I could find it on a map.”
“Yeah, well, there’s some tent in Tangiers filled with love letters to Ciro Lazzari drenched in rosewater that will never see the light of day. What a shame.”
Later that night, after Luigi left, Ciro lit a cigarette under the old elm in the courtyard. He propped his feet on the trunk of the tree and leaned back in the chair just as he had done every night before he left for the war. He had always enjoyed a hard day’s work in the shoe shop, followed by a smooth, sweet cigarette under the tree after supper. But since he returned, it wasn’t the same. It seemed to Ciro that everything had changed in Little Italy while he was away, including the tree. The old bark on the trunk had begun to peel away, revealing a layer of gray underneath with deep rivulets in the surface that looked like old candle wax. The autumn leaves had skipped their brilliant golden phase; instead they’d turned a dingy brown and fallen to the ground, leaving barren, dry branches.
Ciro acknowledged how important this old tree had been to him; it had given him a cover of green in a city of stone, a place to prop his boots and have a smoke, but now he knew it had never been beautiful in its own right. It had only given him pleasure because he leaned against it to remind him of home.
In the time it took to smoke one cigarette, Ciro realized that he wanted to take Enza to live and work in a new place that would be wholly their own. They needed land and sky and lakes. Fertile earth can produce many crops. If a man walks in beauty, he will create, and when he creates, he prospers. He and Enza did not belong on Mulberry Street. He could not offer her a grand apartment on the Upper East Side, as Vito Blazek might have, and he did not want to join the Italians in Brooklyn and Queens. Nor could he picture them in New Jersey, Rhode Island, or New Haven, Connecticut, all filled with every manner of Italian craftsmen. The best Ciro could hope for would be to work for one of the many established shoemakers in one of those places. But why trade a position at Zanetti’s for a similar one? Besides, it was the city life that Ciro wanted to leave behind. One tree in a concrete courtyard would not satisfy him any longer, and he hoped Enza felt the same.
He wondered what she would say about giving up her position at the Metropolitan Opera, and he had doubts about asking her to do so. But he also knew that if he could make a success of himself in a place that needed his services, they would have the freedom to decide where they would live in the years to come. He would be able to return to Italy and offer her life on the mountain once his pockets were full of American dollars. It was time for Ciro to become a padrone; nothing less would do, and there was not enough he could do for Enza.
Thoughts of the Iron Range played through his mind. Minnesota was like the title of an unread book he knew he would eventually pick up and devour by lamplight. Here in America, his father had died. The fortunes of his family had been changed by events in that distant state. Perhaps it was time he finally cleaned the wound of his father’s death. Perhaps he would find peace if he walked in his father’s steps along the shorelines of Minnesota’s crystal lakes. Maybe that’s where he belonged, where they could be happy.
As Ciro put out the cigarette, he thought of Eduardo. His brother would see to it that their mother was taken care of. What Ciro needed to do was simple: make a good living to take care of his wife and their future children. For him, that meant embracing a new chapter, while filling the void the absence of his father had made. It meant Minnesota.
Laura, dressed and ready for work, joined Enza at the breakfast table in the dining room of the Milbank House. Enza had woken early, bathed, and dressed before Laura had risen. Enza was having her third cup of coffee when Laura joined her.
“I think we should post a summons on the bulletin board regarding your wedding. There’s more whispering going on around here than there was when housekeeper Emmerson took a drunken tumble down the front stairs last New Year’s Eve.”
“You don’t have to answer for me,” Enza assured her.
“I don’t? Isn’t that what best friends are for?”
Enza put down her coffee cup and looked up at Laura. Laura had slept soundly through the night; she always did whenever she had been honest and cleared her conscience. Enza, however, was the opposite; she spent many nights wrestling with decisions, last night among the most difficult. She needed Laura and couldn’t imagine her life without her. “Are we still best friends?” Enza asked. She had hoped that Laura would not make her choose between her lifelong friendship and her lifelong love.
“Yes.” Laura sat down. “I’m just wondering what you’re going to tell your father when he gets here this afternoon. You’ve swapped out one groom for another. And that might make your dear old dad dizzy.”
“I’ll do what I’ve done my whole life. I’ll tell him the truth.”
“I’ve got to get to work. Anything you want me to say to the girls? They think you’re on your honeymoon.”
“Just tell them that I’m happy.”
“Can do.” Laura stood and drank the last sip of her coffee. She pulled on her gloves. “Should I tell Serafina that you’ll be back sooner than you had planned?”
“Don’t let her assign my machine to anyone else,” Enza said.
“Hallelujah!” Laura clapped her gloved hands together.
The clock over the mantel in the beau parlor at the Milbank House ticked loudly as Enza prepared a tray with tea. She folded the linen napkins, angled the china platter filled with delicate cookies and small sandwiches. She checked the sugar bowl and the cream pitcher. She lifted the silver tea ball out of the pot and placed it on the silver coaster.
The bell rang. Miss DeCoursey answered the door. Enza didn’t wait for her father; she sprang off the sofa and ran to him. Father and daughter held one another a long time.
Marco took a good look at Enza, and then stepped back to look at her surroundings. The Milbank House was beautifully appointed. Behind Enza in the foyer, the wide staircase that curved over the second floor had a polished mahogany railing and balusters. The pocket doors were open to the entrance to the living room and beau parlor. The library, with its lavish black marble fireplace and mantel, was lush by any standards. He had not seen opulence like this since he dropped a package at the cardinal’s residence in Brescia many years ago. It comforted him to know that his daughter lived in this stately brownstone.
Marco also noticed that his daughter had acquired a worldly sophistication since he left her with the Buffa family eight years ago. He wondered if that didn’t have something to do with her recent change of heart.
“Why did you call off your wedding? What did he do?” Marco asked, and made a fist. “I’ll take care of him if he hurt you.”
“No, Papa, I hurt him.”
“What happened?”
Marco was now in his late forties. He was not the robust man Enza remembered. He had the stoop of a stonecutter and the bronze skin that came from doing hard labor outdoors in a place where there was summer year-round. Now, at long last, the house in Schilpario had been built. He had fulfilled his contract to the California Department of Highways and was ready to return to the mountain for the rest of his life. Any spring in his step and smile upon his face were in anticipation of returning home to his wife and children; they no longer came from ambition, drive, or exuberance, but from the desire to see his home again.
“Papa, come and sit with me.” Enza led him into the beau parlor and motioned for him to sit on the chair before the game table in the window.
Marco took her hands into his. “Tell me everything.”
“Eliana wrote a long letter about the house. Vittorio painted it yellow like the sunflowers. He put in cabinets, and the doors are thick. There are many windows. The root cellar is filled with sweet potatoes and chestnuts. Mama put up peppers and cherries for the winter.”
“Enza, did you know that Battista made a deal with the Ardingos? He bartered free carriage rides down the mountain for all the prosciutto and sausage our family could eat.”
“Battista was always a schemer.” Enza laughed.
“And he always will be. I can’t wait to see my children. But mostly, I can’t wait to see your mother again,” Marco said. “Do you want to brave the ocean with me now that you’re not getting married?”
“I wish I could, Papa.”
“The old mountain can’t compete with Caruso’s opera house.”
“It’s not that.” Enza looked down at her hands, unsure of what to say.
“Are you going to give Signor Blazek another chance?”
“No. It’s done.”
“Then you’ll come home with me,” Marco said quietly.
“Papa, you know it’s not possible.”
Marco took his daughter’s hand. “ I know you got very ill on the way over,” he began.
“Papa, I almost died,” she said softly. The only person on earth who understood what had happened to her on the crossing would also understand why she could never make that trip again.
“We’ll go right to the doctor and make sure he can help before the ship ever leaves the harbor,” Marco said.
“And what if he can’t help, Papa? What if I get so sick I don’t make it across? I want you to go home and be with Mama and our family and revel in every corner of that house. I want you to throw open the windows and light the fire, and plant the garden and fill it with love. That will make me happy.”
“But that house belongs to you too. You worked harder than I did to build it. I don’t want to believe you won’t ever live in it.”
“But it’s my choice, Papa. I’m going to stay here. And it’s more than my job. Do you remember a boy named Lazzari? He was sent from Vilminore to dig Stella’s grave. I brought him home to meet you?”
“I don’t remember much about that time, Enza.”
“And you met him again at Saint Vincent’s Hospital in the chapel when I was ill. Ciro is from a good family. His brother has become a priest. They lived at San Nicola when they were boys.”
“The Lazzaris of Vilminore.” Marco pondered the name. “I once drove a widow Lazzari down to Bergamo. I remember it was snowing. She had sons, and she had taken them to the convent. I remember that. And the nuns paid me three lire. It was a fortune then.”
Enza took in a breath. The threads that connected her to Ciro were so strong, it seemed inevitable that they would have found one another again and after so long. “Another sign that we are meant to be together.”
“What makes you think that this young man knows how to treat you? Just because he’s from the mountain doesn’t mean he’s good enough for you. He was raised in a convent. That’s not his doing, but how would he know how to take care of a family if he’s never been a part of one? How can you be sure that he won’t leave you, as his mother left him?”
“I’m very sure of him, Papa.”
“But can he be a good husband?”
Marco knew his daughter. She’d had a mind of her own since she was a girl, and she had always honored her own heart. Marco stood and went to the window. He surveyed the street below, buying time to find the right words to say to his daughter. She was at a turning point in her life, and needed her mother’s wisdom, but she was not there to provide it. Marco would have to do his best.
Ciro, polished and neat, wearing a suit, was bounding up the front stairs to the entrance door of the boardinghouse. “Is this Lazzari coming to meet me?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“You have chosen a tall one, haven’t you?”
Miss DeCoursey brought Ciro into the beau parlor. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, vest, and tie. His oxblood shoes were laced in navy. Marco turned to meet his future son-in-law, and they shook hands. “It’s good to see you again, Signore.”
“Enza, I’d like to speak privately with Signor Lazzari,” Marco said.
Enza deferred to her father and left the room, closing the door behind her.
“Lazzari,” Marco said aloud.
“Yes, Signore.”
“What did your father do?”
“He was a miner. He worked in the marble mines in Foggia, and then went up the mountain to work in the iron ore mines in the Alps.”
“What happened to him?”
“He came to America almost twenty years ago to find work. I was told he died in an iron ore mine in Minnesota.”
“And your mother?”
“The Montinis.”
“The printers?”
“Yes, Signore.”
“They made the missals for Holy Week,” Marco remembered.
“For all the churches on the mountain, and in Bergamo and Citta Alta.”
“Why aren’t you a printmaker?”
Ciro looked down at his big hands, not exactly the best tools for pen-and-ink calligraphy. “I’m not delicato, sir.”
Marco took a seat and motioned for Ciro to join him. “How do you earn your living?” Marco asked.
“I apprenticed to Signor Zanetti on Mulberry Street. I’m a shoemaker.”
“Are you a master?”
“Yes. I’ve completed my apprenticeship to Signor Zanetti. My debt to him is paid, and I’m ready to go into business for myself.”
“A lot of competition in this city. They say you can throw a rock in Brooklyn and you’ll hit a shoemaker.”
“I know, Signore. I have a partner, Luigi Latini, and we’re looking to get a loan and start a business where shoemakers are needed.”
“You need a partner?”
“I prefer it, Signore. I grew up with a brother to whom I was devoted. And when I went to enlist in the Great War, I made good friends. One in particular, Signor Juan Torres, looked out for me, and I did the same for him. Sadly, he didn’t come home, but that does not lessen the bond I have to him. I’ve made my way alone for a very long time and it comes naturally for me to seek a partner. Luigi Latini is a good man, and I work well with him. I think we could build a good business together.”
Marco took this in and reflected upon his own experience since he’d come to America. It had been a long and lonely slog. A partner in business was a sounding board, the work was cut in half, and life was less isolated. Ciro made sense.
Marco leaned over the chair and looked at Ciro critically. Ciro’s size and strength designated him as a natural leader. He was an attractive young man, probably popular with the ladies. “Have you had many girlfriends?”
“A few, sir.”
“My daughter was engaged to Vito Blazek.”
“I know. I must have had an angel with me that morning. I got to the church moments before she went inside.”
“When Signor Blazek wrote to me for Enza’s hand, I was impressed with him,” Marco said. “He wrote a very moving letter.”
“It’s better we meet in person, sir. I couldn’t begin to impress you on paper, and I probably wouldn’t try. I used to count on my brother Eduardo to do the writing in the family.” Ciro smiled.
Marco sat back in his chair and took Ciro in. “I can see what kind of a man you are, Ciro.”
“I hope you will trust me with Enza.”
Marco looked down at his hands. The strings within his heart tightened. He did not want to let Enza go, and yet he trusted her judgment. He wondered if Ciro Lazzari had any idea how strong his eldest was. “My daughter is independent. She has made her own decisions for a long time now.”
“I love her because she is so strong. It’s one of the things I most admire about her. When I think of marriage and a long life ahead, I want to know that my wife could take care of my family if something happened to me.”
Marco smiled. He thought of his own Giacomina, who had taken care of the family while he and Enza lived in America. So he said, “We work hard in my family. Do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re people of faith. Are you?”
Ciro swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to mislead his future father-in-law either. “I try, sir.”
“Try harder,” Marco admonished.
“I will, Signore.”
“We’re also loyal. I’ve been away from my wife for more than a few years now, and I haven’t been with another woman. Would such devotion to my daughter be possible under similar circumstances?”
“Yes, Signore.” Ciro began to sweat.
“May I have your word?”
“You have my word, sir.” Ciro’s voice broke.
“There is one more thing I need to know before I would agree to entrust my daughter to you.”
“Anything, sir.” A sliver of panic sliced through Ciro’s chest. Could he have come this far, only to have Enza’s father reject him?
“I want to know why you love my daughter.”
Ciro leaned forward in his chair. He had to think about why he loved Enza because he hadn’t questioned it. Ciro knew that there was a correct answer. He knew that men learned how to love; they weren’t born with that capacity. He knew the qualities of a good man included all the aspects that concerned Marco: loyalty, fidelity, ambition, and gentleness. As a man, Ciro had been shaped by the loss of his father, the absence of his mother, the ordination of his brother, and his decision to volunteer to fight in the Great War. Each of Ciro’s choices had changed the landscape of his heart and his ability to love. In many ways, he felt lucky he still could.
As a boy, Ciro had learned how to give of himself generously in the convent. He knew how to be loyal because he had grown up with Eduardo, who taught him the nuances of what it meant to be a loving brother. Ciro had given up searching for love, hoping it would fill that deep well of regret that he still carried at having been abandoned by his mother, but he was wise enough to know that you can’t always blame your parents for your sadness. After so much rejection, and periods of emotional drift and loneliness, Ciro had finally found what was missing. He didn’t want Marco to think that he’d chosen Enza to save himself, but deep down, he believed it was true. Ciro loved Enza, but was that enough for Marco, who had put everything he was into his family? There was no building, bridge, ocean liner, or shoe with Marco Ravanelli’s name on it, just the quiet and exemplary life of a good man who lived in service to the family he created. Ciro hesitated to tell Marco what was in his heart, because he knew more than Ciro ever would about what it takes to love one woman and build a life with her.
So Ciro said, “I traveled far, Signor Ravanelli. I have never met a woman like Enza. She’s intelligent without being condescending. She’s beautiful without vanity. And she’s funny when she isn’t trying to be. I love her and will give her a good life. Your daughter encourages the best in me. When I’m with her, I’m in the presence of grace, and she makes me aspire to it.”
Marco took a moment to think about Ciro’s words. He saw that an honest young man sat before him. If Marco were completely honest, he would admit that he saw also a sadness in Ciro, one that he could not name. Marco didn’t know if that meant Ciro hadn’t made peace with the past, or if it might portend something grave in the future. He knew there was a certain seriousness about Ciro, born of a life experience that Marco himself had not endured. On the surface of things, it appeared to Marco that this was a solid match, and one that Giacomina would endorse. Ciro was from the mountain, and he knew Enza’s dialect and way of life. That accounted for something on this unexpected morning. He would find comfort in the knowledge that his daughter would marry a man who understood what she came from, and for Marco Ravanelli, this tipped his decision in Ciro’s favor.
Ciro still sat on the edge of the chair. His future and the fulfillment of all his dreams were at the mercy of another.
Marco slowly reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. He placed the envelope on the table and rested his hand upon it. He looked at Ciro. “For Enza.”
“This is not necessary,” Ciro said.
“It is to me. I am giving you permission to marry my firstborn daughter. Men hope for sons, but I will tell you that there was never a son who brought a father more joy than my Enza did for me. There are daughters and daughters, but there is only one Enza. I entrust you with my own flesh and blood. I expect you to honor that trust.”
“I will, sir.”
“Our home on the mountain was completed nearly one year ago. I could have gone home then. Instead, I stayed on to make this purse for my daughter’s dowry. It brings me contentment to know that this small sacrifice will make it easier for my daughter as she starts her new life. One year of my forty-six on this earth is a pittance compared to what she means to me.”
“I thank you, Signore. And I won’t forget how hard you worked to provide this for Enza.”
Marco rose from his chair. Ciro stood. Enza pushed the door open and peeked into the room.
“It’s all settled, Enza,” Marco said.
Enza ran to her father and put her arms around him. “Your happiness is mine,” he whispered in his daughter’s ear. “Be happy, Enza.”
Later that same night, Enza slipped down to the library in the Milbank House, striking a match to light a small work lamp on the writing table. She pulled a clean sheet of linen paper out of the desk drawer, along with a fountain pen.
November 30, 1918
Dear Signora Ramunni,
It is with a heavy heart that I resign my position as seamstress in the costume shop of the Metropolitan Opera House. I have loved every moment of my job, even when the hours were long and it seemed we might not finish a project in time for the opening night curtain. I will never forget the privilege of standing in the wings and watching as costumes we created by the labor of our own hands delight the audience through color, line, shape, drape, and form, the essential elements you taught me.
Laura and I often reminisce about the day you hired us. We thought then, as we do today, that no greater lady ever graced the opera. In every way, you made our work sing, which was always the point.
As I leave you, the staff, my coworkers, and the great singers, please know you will always be in my heart, and when I think of you, I will say a prayer of gratitude. I wish you the best in all aspects of your life, as I know no one is more deserving of happiness than you. Your generosity to me will hopefully be repaid tenfold in the years to come. Mille grazie, Signora. Auguri! Auguri!
Sincerely yours,
Enza Ravanelli
Station 3, Singer machine 17
Enza carefully placed the letter on the blotter. As the ink dried, her eyes filled with tears. This was the true meaning of sacrifice. Ciro had made a plan to start their life together in Minnesota, and Enza had agreed. Ciro had laid out the plan like a cartographer, explaining where in Minnesota they would go, and how he and Luigi planned to start their business. Enza had liked Pappina from the first moment she met her at the Zanetti’s shop so many years ago, so she knew that she would begin this journey with a good friend who would be there for her.
She had no regrets about her choice to go to Minnesota, or about marriage to Ciro, but she knew she would always pine for the Metropolitan Opera. Enza remembered sitting at this very desk and writing a letter seeking employment at the opera house. She smiled when she thought about the silly samples she had placed in the envelope, showing off her technique with beadwork and embroidery, along with Laura’s effortless stitchwork. Serafina Ramunni had overlooked Enza’s insouciance and hired them anyway. And what a glorious career path had ensued, in service to great singers and actors, who relied on the costumes they built to tell the timeless stories in song of the great operas. It was a small thing, Enza knew, and yet, it wasn’t. Their garments were part of the spectacle, and the show had been spectacular.
Enza knew what it was to stand in the pale blue edge of the spotlight, to serve the Great Voice, and now, hopeful she had made the right decision, she was more than ready to serve another, this time around: the man she loved.
Ciro Augustus Lazzari and Vincenza Ravanelli were married at Holy Rosary Church on Pearl Street in lower Manhattan on December 7, 1918. Luigi Latini served as best man, while Laura Heery was maid of honor.
Colin Chapin read the scripture. Pappina Latini laid a bouquet at the feet of the shrine of the Blessed Lady, unable to walk behind the communion rail because she was with child. Enza wore blue and carried the black leather-bound prayer book that Eduardo had given to Ciro, over which she placed a bouquet of red roses.
After the ceremony, they brought Marco to Pier 43 to board the SS Taormina for Naples. After the nine-day crossing, he would take the train north to Bergamo, where he would be reunited with his wife and children, who could not wait to show him the house he and Enza had made possible.
Enza stood at the foot of the gangplank to say good-bye to her father. She pulled a red rose from her bouquet, snapped off the stem, and placed it in the buttonhole of her father’s coat.
Marco remembered standing on this pier years ago, afraid that Enza had died and he would never see her again. He also remembered putting his hand in the pocket of his old boiled-wool coat and feeling a small patch of fine silk where Enza had lined the inside. This was a girl who sought in every way she could to make the world beautiful, to give comfort when it was least expected and joy where it was most needed. His heart was breaking that he could not take her home, but he knew that a good father would support her desire to build her own house and a new life with the man she loved. And so he did.
“Papa, write to me.”
“I will. And you must write to me,” he said through his tears.
“I will,” she promised, reaching into her pocket for the wedding handkerchief that Laura had made, with her initials and Ciro’s intertwined.
Marco put his arms around his daughter. She took in the scent of the tobacco and clean lemon that she had come to know as his, and held on just a moment longer until the horn sounded aboard the ship. Marco turned and went up the gangplank. As the aisle of metal was lifted and secured, Enza didn’t move from her spot on the pier. She stood and searched the layers of the decks, until she found her father and the red rose. He took off his hat and waved it in her direction. She waved good-bye to him and smiled, and knew that from this great distance, he would not be able to see her tears. And she couldn’t see his either, but she knew for sure he would not stop weeping for the loss of her for the rest of his life.
Enza joined her new husband and friends behind the fishing net that separated the pier from the docks. Ciro put his arms around Enza and held her for a long time. To her relief and delight, his embrace helped her endure what she had just lost.
Afterward, Laura, Colin, Luigi, Pappina, Enza, and Ciro celebrated their nuptials with a breakfast feast in the atrium of the Plaza Hotel under the Tiffany skylight. Ciro outlined his business plan, while Colin offered suggestions. Laura looked over at Enza, who smiled blissfully at the ring on her finger, a glistening gold signet ring with a C engraved upon it, which Ciro had worn since he was a boy.
There were many toasts at their table, wishes for long lives and many years of happiness. But there was one very special toast in honor of Enza’s new citizenship. Ciro’s citizenship had been awarded to him on the day he received his honorable discharge from the U.S. Army. Now, his legal wife shared in that gift. The sacrament, the vows, the ring, and the license made Enza an American at last.
The entrance to the Plaza Hotel was heated by small cast-iron ovens tucked discreetly behind velvet ropes along the red-carpeted stairs of the entry. A soft snow had begun to fall. Colin pulled Ciro, Luigi, and Pappina aside so Laura would be able to say good-bye to Enza.
“Are you happy?” Laura asked. “Don’t answer that. You’d better be, and I know you are.” Her voice broke.
“Please don’t cry.” Enza tried to reassure her. “I swear. This is not the end of anything.”
“But we had our beginning together. And I can’t imagine my life without you.” Laura fished in her purse for her handkerchief. “I don’t want you to go. It’s so selfish of me.”
“There is no way I could ever thank you for all you’ve done for me. You made me the most beautiful hats I’ll ever wear. You always split your pie with me at the Automat, even when you were very hungry. You almost killed a man for my honor with a pair of factory scissors. You gave me words. I couldn’t read or write English until I met you.”
“And I wouldn’t have been able to speak to Enrico Caruso without the Italian you taught me. So you see, we’re even.”
“Are we?” Enza cried.
“All right, maybe I pictured us together forever, and maybe someday, we will be. But I want you to know, if you need me, any time, you write to me and I’ll run to Minnesota. On foot. You understand?”
“And the same goes for me. I’ll come back when you need me,” Enza promised.
“And start writing me a letter first thing in the morning on the train. You can mail it in Chicago.”
“Come on, girls, we have to make the train,” Colin said. He loaded everyone into his Ardsley. There were a lot of laughs in the ride between Fifty-ninth Street and Penn Station—not enough to last a lifetime, but enough to have made this wedding-day departure end on a joyous and gay note.
At three o’clock that afternoon under a gray sky the color of old velvet, the Latinis and the Lazzaris arrived at Penn Station, bought four one-way tickets on the Broadway Limited, and boarded the train for Chicago, where they would transfer trains to take them to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Colin and Laura saw them off, watching until the silver train disappeared like a sewing needle into thick wool.
Ciro and Luigi were business partners. They would make shoes and repair them, just as they had on Mulberry Street, except this time, the purse would be theirs to keep.
The Caterina Shoe Company was born.
The dining car on the Broadway Limited was elegant, with polished walnut walls and leather banquettes, like a sophisticated Manhattan restaurant on wheels. The tables were dressed in starched white linen, crystal glasses, white china trimmed in green, and silverware buffed to a sparkling sheen.
Small vases with white roses were clipped to the window sashes. A series of eight booths, four on either side, with an aisle down the center, were connected to the kitchen car. The leather seats in the booths were forest green to match the china.
“I can barely fit in the booth,” Pappina said, laughing. “How long is this ride?”
“Twenty hours,” Luigi said as he adjusted the cushion on the seat to make his wife more comfortable.
Enza and Ciro slipped into the booth across from them.
“They just got married,” Luigi said to the Negro waiter.
“Congratulations,” the waiter said to Enza and Ciro. His crisp black uniform with a gold bar on the chest made him look like a general. “I’ll see you have some cake.”
Ciro kissed Enza on her cheek.
“Okay, boys. You’ve got us where you want us. We know what you’re going to do in Minnesota, but what about us? You’ll be busy very soon”—Enza smiled at Pappina, happy for the new baby—“but what am I going to do?”
“Be my wife,” Ciro said.
“I like to work. There’s no opera company in Hibbing, but I could sew for a living. After all, we’ve been living in New York City, and I could keep track of the latest fashions before they go west. I could sew some lovely dresses and coats with a Paris flair for the girls on the Iron Range.”
“I sew a little,” Pappina offered. “But nothing fancy.”
“Well, we’ll sew clothes, curtains, layettes—whatever they need, we’ll make,” Enza said warmly.
Ciro took Enza’s hand and kissed it.
Enza was surprised that she was filled with anticipation for their new life together in a new place. New York City had meant everything to her. She had reveled in the excitement, glamour, and sophistication of the port city, and she couldn’t, before Ciro returned, have imagined living anywhere else in the United States.
But she was beginning to understand that her great love for Ciro transcended every other desire. She had heard of the power of this kind of love, but was certain it would never happen to her. Now she understood why her father could leave the mountain and the woman he loved for so many years. It was only to serve her that he could leave her. And now Enza was in the same position. Building a new life meant sacrifice, but it also meant that fulfillment and surprise would be hers, and she would have a wonderful husband to share it with. She couldn’t imagine a better reason to start over again.
Enza trusted Ciro with her future. This did not mean a vow of obedience like the one the priest intoned at their wedding. Enza had long ago rejected second-class status for women; she’d left those notions behind when she earned her first paycheck. Her plans for sewing on the Iron Range weren’t about busywork, or keeping up with her craft, or earning pocket money. In fact, she intended to contribute to their home life and be a full and equal partner in the young marriage that they had yet to define.
Ciro had made a bet in proposing to her, and on that same day, Enza made a bet of her own. She was putting her money, effort, and future into a partnership that she believed could not fail. She was going to pour all of herself into her marriage: love would sustain them, and trust would see them through. That was her belief, and that’s how she was raised. When she spun the gold ring on her finger, it was as though it was made for her, but it meant even more that her husband had worn it since he was a boy. She was a part of his history now.
Ciro held Enza in his arms in the top berth of the sleeping car. He pushed the curtains over the window aside. The countryside of Pennsylvania, with its low rolling hills, was purple in the moonlight as they sped through it.
Occasionally a flicker of light from the lamp of a distant barn or the glimmer from the flame of a candle in a window lit up the dark briefly like the dance of a firefly. But mostly, the world rolled away from them as they pressed forward to their future.
They had celebrated their wedding with cake and champagne, and a silver dish filled with small chocolates dusted in powdered sugar and dressed with small candy violets. They laughed and told stories in Italian, immersed in the rhythms of the language of their birth.
When they returned to the sleeping cars, Enza changed into a peignoir set that Laura had made for her, a floor-length white satin gown with a ruched bed jacket. Enza thought it too fancy for the train, but she knew Laura would be upset if she didn’t wear it. Plus, she felt like Mae Murray in the arms of Rudolph Valentino.
The steady purr of the engine and the smooth coasting of the wheels made a kind of music as the train moved through the night. As they made love for the first time, Enza thought it was like flying, and love felt like a dream state, where she was safe, in a place and time she hoped never to leave. She understood at long last why this act, at once so natural and so universal, was also considered sacred.
Ciro was experienced in these matters, but he felt enveloped by Enza and treasured each of her kisses. Her expression of love for him meant even more in reality than it had in his imagination. His body wasn’t his own anymore, but hers, and there was nothing he would deny her; whatever she wanted, whatever small happiness he could provide, he would search the world to bring it to her. Ciro knew Enza had sacrificed for him; she had given up a good life on the gamble that he could build one. He held her trust in the highest regard, and he knew it was on loan.
Enza responded to him without restraint. Her love filled the deepest places in his heart, healing the loneliness that had followed him since he left Eduardo at the train station in Bergamo. In Enza’s arms, Ciro felt whole. He could feel the possibilities of what they could become together, the thing he had reached for, and hoped for, a family of his own.
La famiglia.
Ciro slid his hand up Enza’s hip to her waist and pulled her close. “When you love someone, you think you know everything about them. Tell me one thing I don’t know about you.” Ciro kissed her neck.
“I have one hundred and six dollars in my purse.”
Ciro laughed. “Good for you.”
“It’s yours to open the shoe shop.”
“Ours, you mean,” he corrected her.
“Ours.” She laughed.
“Have I taken you away from a life you loved?” Ciro asked her.
“I’ll miss Laura and the opera. And the candied peanuts on the corner of Fortieth Street and Broadway.”
“I’ll make sure you have your peanuts.”
“Thank you, husband.”
“How about Signor Caruso?”
“Yes, I’ll miss him, too. But I guess I understood the words in the arias he sang. A happy life is about love—every note he sang reinforced it. I’ll miss how he made every person he met feel special. He made us all laugh. I’ve come to appreciate a good joke and the conversation of intelligent people. But I have that with you.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Why would I be afraid?”
“We might get to Hibbing, and you won’t like it.”
“Well, if I don’t like it, we’ll have to move.”
Ciro laughed. “Va bene.”
“It wasn’t at all like I thought it would be,” Enza said.
“Getting married?”
“Making love. It’s really a blessing, you know. To be that close. It has a certain beauty to it.”
“Like you,” he said. “You know, my father said something to my brother, and I never realized what it meant until now. He said, ‘Beware the things of this world that can mean everything or nothing.’ But now I know it’s better when it means everything.” Ciro kissed her. He traced the small scar over her eye. It was barely discernible, the width of a thread and as long as an eyelash. “Where did you get this scar?”
“In Hoboken.”
“Did you fall?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I want to know everything about you.”
“Well, there was a man at the Meta Walker factory who was awful to all the girls, and one night, he grabbed me. After months of putting up with his slurs, I fought back. I was so angry, I thought I could take him. I went to kick him, but I fell against the wood planks of the floor, and I cut my eye on a nail. But Laura saved me. She threatened him with a pair of cutting shears.”
“I would have killed him.”
“She almost did.” Enza smiled at Laura’s bravery, the moment that had cemented their friendship. “I look at the scar every morning when I wash my face. It reminds me of how lucky I am. I don’t think about the wrong that was done to me, I remember my friend and how brave she was. She taught me English, but I realize now, she taught me the words that I needed to know, not so much the ones I wanted to learn. Those would come later when she gave me Jane Eyre. She used to make me read it aloud to her. Sometimes she would make a comment when Rochester was surly, and we’d laugh about that. Like Jane, we had no connections, but Laura taught me to act like we did. Laura tapped my creative vein, pushing me to sew a straighter seam, choose a daring fabric, and to never be afraid of color. My world went from the hues and tones of our mountain to this great American palette, and I would have never had the guts to try if it weren’t for Laura. I walk in the world with confidence today because of her.”
“You must always stay close. And we’ll visit them, and they’ll come to our house.”
“Of course, I would like that. But we’ll be happy to write to one another, because that’s how we learned to be friends, on the page, with words. I imagine that won’t change.”
Ciro kissed her. “I don’t think a man could ever come between you. Or two, if you’re counting Colin.”
Enza looked through the window as Ciro fell asleep, his face nestled into her neck. She imagined there would be many nights like this ahead, just the two of them, holding tight in a world that was flying by.
Until she met Ciro, Enza had spent her spare time contemplating facts and figures, thinking up sensible solutions to her problems, estimating how many feet of fabric she needed for a particular garment or how to send a little extra money home to the mountain. Her dreams were about the safety and comfort of her family. This great romantic love shared with Ciro was mystical to her. He had finally made a dreamer of her, but at the same time, love felt as practical and durable as a sturdy velvet that only gets softer and lovelier with age. Without knowing the future, she was assured, in the deepest place in her heart, that this love would last.
There was something constant and reliable about Ciro Lazzari. He made her feel no harm would come to her as long as she loved him.
As Enza said her prayers that night, she pictured her father’s safe passage on the steamship to Naples, and a speedy train ride from the south to Bergamo in the north. She imagined the entire family there to greet him by the garden of their new home, built by the labor of their own hands and lit by the light of the winter moon.