The Shoemaker's Wife (10 page)

Don Gregorio kissed her neck. Concetta let him; then, slowly, she pulled away. She did not linger, but pulled the lace mantilla over her head and slipped out of the sacristy into the night.

Chapter 5

A STRAY DOG
Un Cane Randagio

T
hree small roast chickens surrounded by strips of potatoes and cubes of carrots rested in the center of a platter. Several large ceramic bowls were filled with a puree of chestnuts, made with butter, cream, and salt. Sister Teresa had learned to stretch meals with chestnuts, which were roasted to make crust in place of flour, pureed to fill tortellini, or boiled, mashed, and served as a hearty side dish. By spring, the nuns and Lazzari boys had had their fill of them.

Ciro burst into the kitchen. “Sister?” he cried out.

Sister Teresa emerged from the pantry. “What’s the matter?”

“We must go to Sister Ercolina,” he said, out of breath. “
Now
.”

“What happened?” Sister Teresa handed Ciro a hot towel.

“I saw something at San Nicola.” Ciro mopped his face, and then cleaned his hands. “Don Gregorio. He was with Concetta Martocci.” Ciro felt his face flush with embarrassment. “In the sacristy. I just caught them.”

“I see.” Sister Teresa took the towel from Ciro and threw it back into the pot of hot water on the fire. She poured Ciro a glass of water and motioned for him to sit. “You don’t have to explain.”

“You
know
?”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, evenly.

Frustrated, Ciro raised his voice. “Are you telling me that vows have no meaning?”

“Some of us struggle with vows; for others, it’s easier,” she said carefully. “Humans are capable of divine acts. But sometimes they sin.”

“There’s no excuse for him. Do something!”

“I have no sway over the priest.”

“Then go to Sister Ercolina and tell her what I saw. Bring me in. I’ll give her the details. She can go to the Mother Abbess. She’ll punish him but good!”

“Oh, I see. You want him punished.” Sister Teresa sat. “Is it your love for Concetta Martocci that drives you, or your dislike of Don Gregorio?”

“I am done with Concetta, after what I saw—how could I . . .” Ciro held his head in his hands. The pangs of unrequited love stung his heart for the first time. There was nothing worse than never having the opportunity to express true romantic feelings to the person who inspired them. Today, he had been as close as he had ever been! For months, he had imagined Concetta getting to know him, returning his feelings, eventually falling in love with him. How many kisses he had planned, in as many places as he could imagine. To know that she had chosen another was almost too much for his young heart to bear. And the village priest, no less!

“Poor girl. She believes whatever he’s telling her.”

“I knew he was a fake. There is nothing mystical happening in San Nicola. It’s all a show. A pageant of perfection. He cares too much about his vestments and the linens and what flowers will grow along the path in the garden. He’s particular about the wrong things. He runs San Nicola like a storefront! That priest is like one of those oily peddlers from the south who come north to the lakes to sell cheap jewelry during the summer. They sweet-talk the ladies and take their good money for glass beads. The way the schoolgirls gather around Don Gregorio, fawning over him, is no different.”

“Yes, it’s true, he’s handsome and he uses it,” Sister said. “Concetta is being duped. But you should never look down on someone for trusting the wrong person. It could happen to any of us.”

“I thought she was intelligent.”

“And why did you think that?” Sister Teresa had tutored Concetta since she was six years old. She knew exactly how little interest Concetta had taken in her studies and how much energy she had expended in the quest for physical beauty and sartorial elegance. Far more effort went into her pursuit of glamour than into developing her intellect, character, or common sense.

“I thought she was . . . everything.”

“I’m sorry. Even those we love can disappoint us.”

“I know that now,” Ciro said.

“Priests aren’t perfect . . . ,” Sister Teresa began. “Ciro, Don Gregorio already knows his shortcomings, far better than you ever will.”

“He doesn’t think he has any! He runs the church like he’s king.”

Sister Teresa took a deep breath. “Don Raphael Gregorio was neither distinguished academically nor admired for his spiritual acumen in the seminary. From all reports, he glided through on his good manners and pleasant personality. After he took his final vows, he wasn’t assigned to the cathedral in Milan. He was not chosen to write for the Vatican newspaper. He was not selected to be the bishop’s envoy or the cardinal’s secretary. He was sent to the poorest village on the highest peak in the most northern Alps of Italy. He’s a good-looking sap, and he knows it. He’s just exactly smart enough to know that he can only be important in a place where he has no competition. He says mass like I read a recipe aloud as I’m cooking.”

“He’s a consecrated man! He’s supposed to be better!”

“Ciro, you can’t go by the costume.”

“Then why does Sister take pains ironing his vestments? Why do I have to carry the altar linens on a dowel? We make the man look good.”

“A cassock does not make a man a priest, any more than a fine dress makes a woman truly beautiful—or good or generous or intelligent. Don’t confuse the way someone looks with the way they
are.
Grace is a rare thing. I wear the habit not because I
am
pious but because I’m
trying
to be. I left my mother and father when I was twelve years old to become a nun. I had a great desire to see the world, and now, I am doing penance for my selfishness. Who knew I’d see the world through the drain of an old sink and across the surface of a wooden chopping board? But here it is, and here I am. In my zeal to be a part of a grand adventure, I traded my mother’s kitchen for this one.”

Sister Teresa cooked three meals a day for the nuns, and also prepared the meals for Don Gregorio. She was up at 3:00 a.m. baking bread, which Ciro knew because he was up milking the cows. It seemed that Sister Teresa had the workload of a wife and mother, without the love and respect that went with it.

“Why do you stay?” Ciro asked.

Sister Teresa smiled. She really was beautiful when she smiled; her pink cheeks glowed, and her brown eyes twinkled. She placed her hands on Ciro’s. “I’m hoping that God will find me.”

Sister Teresa stood and threw a moppeen over her shoulder. She handed Ciro the platter to carry to the dining room and loaded the bowls of chestnut puree onto a large tray.

“It’s not so bad. We eat, don’t we?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“There’s never enough chicken, but we manage. God’s love fills us up, that’s what Sister Ercolina says. You have to find the thing that fills you up, Ciro. What fills you up? Do you know?”

Ciro Lazzari thought he knew what filled him up, but the last person he would tell was a nun. If Ciro understood anything about himself, it was his desire to woo and win a girl’s heart. “I thought it was Concetta,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes we get our hearts broken, only to have the right person come along to mend them,” Sister said.

Ciro wasn’t ready to let go of Concetta Martocci. He couldn’t say why he loved her, he only knew that he did. The goal of winning her heart inspired him to work harder, longer, and more diligently so he might make enough money to take her places and buy her pretty things. Now what would he work for?

Ciro imagined Concetta in full, filling in the details of her life outside of what he observed in fleeting glimpses of her on the piazza, in school, or in church. He wondered how she spent her time away from San Nicola. He imagined her bedroom, with a round window, a white rocking chair, and a soft feather bed surrounded by a wallpaper of tiny pink roses. He wondered what she wished for—an elegant gold chain, a small emerald ring, or a fur capelet to wear over her winter coat? What would she become? Did she see herself working in a shop on the colonnade? Would she want a house on Via Donzetti or a farm above the village in Alta Vilminore?

Ciro pleaded, “Let’s get rid of Don Gregorio. Help me do it. He’s an infidel. You know how the church works. Help me get the job done. I would do it for you.”

“Let me think about it,” Sister Teresa said.

Seeing Concetta in the arms of another did not make Ciro jealous, it made him sad. He had hoped for a kiss for so long, and now he would never know one from the girl he had longed for from the first moment he saw her. The village priest had stolen any chance for his happiness outright, and Ciro wanted Don Gregorio to pay.

Ciro set off on foot for Schilpario to the north. The five-mile hike over the pass would take him about an hour, so he gave himself plenty of time to make it to the church to speak with Don Martinelli after the funeral and receive instructions for the grave-digging.

Sister Teresa packed a few fresh rolls, sliced salami, a hunk of Parmesan cheese, and a canteen of water. Ciro was frustrated that he was forced to walk to Schilpario, but after his run-in with Don Gregorio, he knew he would never ride in the church carriage again. He wondered who would take care of the rectory stable now that he had been fired. He felt for Iggy, who was getting older and counted on his young companion to do the heavy lifting. The word had spread quickly that Ciro was no longer working at the church, a bit of news in a village longing for it.

The Passo Presolana curved like a copper coil up the perimeter of the mountain, snaking under stone overpasses and widening where the lip of the gorge extended over the rocks. Ciro walked through a long tunnel carved into the mountain, its stone walls once jagged from dynamite blasts but now covered in green moss. Ciro kept his eyes on the far entrance, an oval of bright light capping the darkness.

Suddenly he heard the pounding of hooves. Ciro could make out the silhouettes of a team of horses pulling a covered carriage as it entered the tunnel. The horses plowed on at full gallop. Ciro heard the driver shout, “
Sbrigati!
” to him as he froze in their sightline. Ciro threw himself against the wet wall of the tunnel, clinging to it, arms outstretched. The galloping horses raced past, the wheels of the carriage inches from Ciro’s feet as it barely negotiated the hairpin turn.

The deafening sound of the hooves diminished in the distance, and Ciro leaned over, placed his hands on his knees, and attempted to regain his breath, his heart pounding. The idea of certain death skirted only seconds ago sent a chill through him.

As soon as he had regained his composure, he made his way out of the tunnel and continued his climb up the mountain. The Alps blossomed with the fresh buds of spring; on one side the cliffs were draped in white button daisies, while on the other, the rocky sides of the perilous gorge were blanketed in a mesh of vines. Ciro wished he had taken Eduardo up on his offer of company, as the journey was turning out to be longer and more treacherous than he imagined, but his brother was busy preparing the liturgy for Easter week.

Ciro whistled, climbing a steep crook in the road. As he passed a deep gulley where the road dropped off, he heard something rustle in the brush. He looked down into the pit, a crevice filled with thick foliage, and stepped back. There were wolves in these mountains, and he imagined that if they were half as hungry as the poor people who lived in these villages, he might not make it to Schilpario after all. He sprinted up the road when he heard another rustling, this time closer, as if he were being followed. Ciro broke into a run and was soon followed by a small barking dog, a wiry black-and-white mutt with a long face and alert brown eyes.

Ciro stopped. Catching his breath, he asked, “Who are you?”

The dog barked.

“Go home, boy.” Ciro surveyed the stretch of road. He was too far outside Vilminore for the dog to belong to anyone there, and besides, the dog was thin, so it was doubtful he’d been in the care of an owner for a while.

Ciro knelt. “I have to dig a grave, boy.”

The dog looked up at him.

“Where do you live?”

The dog stuck out his pink tongue and panted.

“Oh, I get it. You’re an orphan boy like me.” Ciro scratched the dog behind the ears. His fur was clean, but matted tightly, like thick wool. Ciro opened his canteen of water and poured some into his hand for the dog to drink. The dog lapped up the water and then shook his head, splashing the remains all over Ciro.

“Hey!” Ciro stood, wiping his face with his sleeve. “
Non
spruzzarmi!
”

He turned to walk up the road. The dog followed him.

“Go home, boy.”

The dog ignored the command and followed Ciro up the mountain. The rest of the climb went by quickly as Ciro tossed sticks for his new friend to fetch. Back and forth, back and forth, the dog made a game of Ciro’s climb higher and higher into the Alps. Ciro had begun to appreciate the dog’s company just as the journey ended. The entrance to the village of Schilpario was in sight.

Ciro’s destination, the church of Sant’Antonio da Padova, built with large blocks of sandstone from the mountain, anchored the entrance to the village. From the church courtyard Ciro saw an enormous waterwheel below, spinning furiously as rushing torrents from the mountain streams spilled over the slats and into a clear pool. The deep field behind the waterwheel gave a sense of length and breadth to this village, nestled at the foot of Pizzo Camino.

Ciro peered down the empty street. The town was eerily quiet. He looked up at the windows and saw no faces in them. The shop doors were locked, and the shades were down. It was as though the village had been abandoned. Ciro began to doubt Iggy’s instructions.

The stray dog followed Ciro to the entrance of the church. Ciro looked down at him. “Look, I have a job here. Go find a family to take you in.”

The dog looked up at Ciro as if to say, What family?

Ciro opened the door to the church. He looked back at the dog, who sat back on his hind legs to wait. Ciro shook his head and smiled.