The Shoemaker's Wife (37 page)

Caruso knew what the audience wanted: they wanted to
feel
something, and they wanted him to take them there, so he gave of himself from the depths of his talent, from a bottomless well of sound, willingly and generously. He was the first opera singer to make phonograph records and sell them in the millions. He saw art as a gift to the masses, not simply a diversion for the upper classes. Giulio Gatti-Casazza, the general manager of the Met during Caruso’s reign, marveled at Caruso’s ability to fill every seat and satisfy every customer. It would have been difficult to find anyone who didn’t love Caruso, and he liked it that way.

Caruso could move an audience with a simple gesture, a wink, or a single tear. The occasional improvisation was not beyond him, as his good friend Antonio Scotti had experienced onstage with the master. Once Scotti had entered a scene early; instead of being thrown off, the master went to Scotti, embraced him, and invented an a cappella greeting that Scotti sang back to him. The audience went wild.

“I demanded an Italian girl.” Caruso blew a cloud of gray smoke up to the ceiling as he stood in a pair of navy military pants with runners of ruby red satin down the sides. Enza marked the hems with chalk.

“There are lots of us in the workroom, Signor Caruso,” Enza said.

“But Serafina tells me you’re the best.”

“That’s very kind of her, sir.”

“You like the opera, Vincenza?”

“Very much, sir. I used to work for a woman in Hoboken who played your records. Sometimes she played them so much, the neighbors would all shout, ‘
Basta!
’ until she was forced to stop.”

Caruso laughed heartily. “You mean every house in Hoboken isn’t filled with fans of the Great Caruso? You have a musical soul, Vincenza. You know how I can tell? Your eyebrows. They’re like D minor notes. They shoot up high, and drop low on the staff. Do you cook?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What can you make?”

“Macaroni.”

“Be more specific.”

“Gnocchi.”

“Ah, peasant food to survive a long winter. Good. You make it with potatoes?”

“Of course.”

“What sauce?”

“Butter and sage are my favorites. And I use a pinch of cinnamon sometimes.”

“Very good! You will make gnocchi for the cast!” he exclaimed.

“For everyone?” Enza put her hands on her face.

“Yes. Antonio, Gerry. The chorus. They sing. They need to eat.”

“But where will I cook?”

“Do you have a kitchen?”

“I live in a boardinghouse.”

“And I live in the Knickerbocker Hotel, which is getting to be like a boardinghouse. All the grandeur has left this city.”

“I still think it’s grand.”

“I’m spoiled, Vincenza. It’s a terrible thing to be old and spoiled.”

“You’re not old, sir.”

“I’m bald.”

“Young men go bald too.”

“It’s hitting the high notes—I blow the hair off my head when I hit them.”

Enza smiled.

“See there, you can smile. You’re too serious, Vincenza. We’re in show business. This is smoke, mirrors, rouge, and girdles. I wear one of those, too, you know.”

“Not if I’m tailoring your costumes,” Enza promised him.

“Really?”

“Really, sir. All it takes is proportion. If I build your smock for
Tosca
, I raise the shoulder, drop the sleeve, nip the waist in the back, pipe it boldly, and use double-size buttons. You will shrink underneath it. If I make the pants the same fabric as the smock, and give you a shoe with a pointed toe, it will slim you out even more.”

“Ah,
la bella figura
, Caruso style! I need to be slimmed out, but I don’t want to give up the gnocchi.”

“You don’t have to. I will achieve everything you hope for with illusion.”

“Jesus. Tell the old man whatever he wants to hear.” Geraldine Farrar stood in the doorway, puffing a cigarette.

Geraldine wore a long muslin skirt for rehearsal. Her light brown hair, braided like a milkmaid’s, lay on her chest on a white cotton blouse, over which she had tied the sleeves of a black cashmere shrug. Enza had never seen a woman so beautiful, and yet so completely unaware of it. Her style was casual, thrown on like an old sweater. Geraldine had the coloring of a gold pearl: tawny skin, offset by pale blue eyes. She possessed the ready and wide smile of an American girl.

“Get out, Gerry,” Caruso said.

“I’m looking for some amusement.” She rifled through the button box on the table.

“You won’t find it here.”

“No kidding.”

“Vincenza is going to make us gnocchi.”

“You’re supposed to drink warm tea and eat lettuce. The doctor has you on a diet,” Geraldine reminded him.

“Vincenza is going to make me magic costumes. I will look thinner from the mezzanine.”

“An elephant looks thinner from the mezzanine,” Geraldine reminded him. She scooted up on to the worktable. “What am I wearing for this shindig?”

“Crimson satin.”

“I’d rather wear blue. Cornflower blue. Who do I tell?”

“Miss Ramunni.”

“That old battle-ax?”

“You’re exactly one year younger than me, Miss Farrar,” Serafina Ramunni said from the doorway.

“Oh, you got me.” Geraldine fell back against the pattern table as though she had been shot.

“And you’re not wearing crimson or blue, you’re wearing green,” Serafina announced. “The set is raspberry red, and I won’t have the soprano looking like a cheap blue horn against the damask. Green will pop.”

“Ugh. For once, let me wear what I want!” Geraldine carped.

“She’s so dramatic,” Caruso said to Enza. “Demanding too.”

“Hey, watch it. I don’t need the criticism. I’m doing you a favor with this benefit,” Gerry said. “You owe me.”

“May I remind you, I’m Italian, and I’m doing this for the American soldiers. This is an act of generosity on my part.
You
owe
me
. ”

“Last time I checked, you Italians were on our side in the war,” Gerry said.

“So I’m killing two birds with two stones.”

“Two birds with
one
stone! God, I hate it when you people don’t learn the idioms.”

“I try to teach the Great Caruso, but the Great Caruso doesn’t want to learn,” Serafina said.

“At least she calls me the Great Caruso.” He winked at Vincenza. “When they start calling me Enrico, I worry.”

Enza stood in front of Geraldine Farrar’s dress dummy, over which was draped an A-line gown of emerald green satin, with pale green satin lining.

A series of small X’s across the bodice indicated where the paillettes would be sewn; a triangle, a drop crystal. Enza had been sewing the beadwork for two days, hoping to finish by the end of this long night. She picked up a needle and began to attach the delicate embellishments. She would sew each sequin on with precision, looping it twice through, to make sure Geraldine Farrar sparkled from the mezzanine as the lights danced off the surface of the beads.

Enza did some of her best thinking when she did detail work. Giacomina had taught her daughter that you must dig constantly for meaning in the sorrow of this life, and that this sorrow must galvanize you, not define you. During her years with the Buffa family, Enza had tried to find some meaning in her mistreatment, but she never could.

But now, as she sewed the crystals on, she saw her mother’s wisdom at long last. Signora Buffa had played opera on her phonograph records constantly. The Great Caruso had accompanied all of Enza’s suffering on Adams Street—every wring of the laundry, every buff of the moppeen on the linoleum floor, the chop of every tomato, and each careful pressing of every ribbon of pasta.

As Enza labored on Adams Street, she had learned the stories of the operas—
Fra Angelico
,
Pagliacci
,
Carmen
, and
La Bohème
. She had heard the master sing the great arias of Verdi, Puccini, and Wagner. The music had become a part of her. It had earned her a place at the Metropolitan Opera House.

Enza slipped out of her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. She unzipped the mannequin’s green gown and slid into it. Lifting the hem, she hiked up onto the fitting stool and examined the gown from all angles in the three-way mirror. The drape of the green satin suggested gentle waves on a summer lake, an effect Enza had achieved by making tiny tucks along the bodice and lowering the waistline in the back. The crystal swag along the low back of the gown lay straight, and with slight movement, it threw off light that gave the silk a watery effect along the seam. Enza checked the bodice and waist, the armhole and sleeve. She bowed deeply from the waist, and slowly stood to check the drape of the skirt.

Bellissima
, she thought.

Ciro sat under the old elm behind the shop on Mulberry Street and took a smooth, cool drag off his cigarette. The moon was silver, like a grommet punched into black leather. He leaned back and studied the sky with new interest. Perhaps he would read about astronomy on his way to France, so he might learn how to follow the stars. He imagined he would need the skill in an unfamiliar place; the only markers that would stay fixed would be overhead. He would not know the villages, fields, and hills of France.

Signora Zanetti washed, pressed, and hung Ciro’s uniform, an indistinct mud brown, in preparation for his departure later that week. In trench warfare, the soldiers must match the color of the earth. The field jacket fit well when belted, and the pants had too much room in the thigh, but the length was right. His height served him well, in life and in uniforms.

Remo had bought Ciro extra socks and double-lined cotton undershorts, knowing that the nights in France could be cold. Pappina had pressed handkerchiefs, and Luigi had given him a new fountain pen. Ciro smiled at the gift; both he and Luigi knew it was unlikely that any letters would cross the Atlantic, from Ciro’s end, anyway. His duffel was not packed much differently from the one he had carried from the convent when he was fifteen. A lot had changed, but not his basic needs.

Ciro imagined his mother, and wondered what she would think about the war, and about her son the soldier. She wouldn’t like the lackluster uniform, he imagined. Eduardo, a peacemaker, would be supportive, but would not want his brother to lose his life for anything but the honor and glory of God. Even Ciro could see that this venture had nothing to do with God. It was about obligation, and the repayment of a debt.

When Ciro thought about his father, he wept for all he had missed. His father would have known what to say and how to prepare him for the worst. A father is the person who teaches a son to be brave, to do the right thing, and to defend the weak. Ciro extinguished his cigarette and put his face in his hands, leaning forward under the leafy canopy of the tree. His tears flowed and turned to sobs, and soon his heart felt leaden in his chest, aching with the sadness of all he had lost.

When he had dried his tears on his sleeve, Ciro sat back in the chair, feeling no better for his outburst—a lame catharsis, he thought. He looked up at the sky. The moon was brighter now, but its glow diminished the stars, which looked like the heads of pins stuck in a great map, a plan for war.

There was no window in the kitchenette of Enrico Caruso’s hotel suite.

Enza rolled the dough to make gnocchi on the table, just as her mother had taught her. Peeling and boiling the sack of potatoes was a real chore in the efficiency kitchen, but she arrived early and took her time gently mashing the boiled potatoes, and now, as she added eggs and flour, the pasta took shape beautifully, just as it had on the old farm table in Schilpario.

“How’s it going?” Laura asked, placing bags of fresh greens on the counter.

Laura was followed by Colin Chapin, the cultivated, erudite thirty-five-year-old opera accountant who’d caught Laura’s eye in the first month on the job. Tonight he wore an elegant suit, vest, and tie. He had neatly combed blond hair and clear gray eyes, and his thick horn-rimmed glasses gave him the appearance of a studious professor.

“We went to Veniero’s for the bread.” Colin opened the brown sack and showed Enza the loaves.

“Perfect.”

“And we got sage at the Cassio market,” Laura added. “Funny, I never see Felicitá slinging basil there.”

“You won’t, either,” Enza said.

“You know the Fruit Cassios?” Colin asked.

“If they are the Fruit Cassios, then I’m a Cotton Heery, and Enza is a Burlap Ravanelli.” Laura laughed.

“I’m a little fancier than burlap.” Enza wiped her hands on her apron. She poured salt into the large pot of boiling water on the stove.

The doorbell rang. Colin went to answer it. A hotel butler pushed a rolling bar cart, filled with bottles of fine wine, cut-glass bottles of hard liquor, crystal stemware, sleek champagne flutes, and an ornate silver ice bucket. He placed it in the suite by the sofa.

“It’s the booze cart,” Colin called out happily as Laura peered adoringly at him through the pantry doors.

“You’re in love,” Enza said with a smile.

“Falling like a sack of buttons,” Laura said dreamily.

“I’m not going to need a single at the Milbank House, am I? When is he going to introduce you to his sons?”

“Hopefully soon, but don’t go roommate-shopping just yet.”

Enza rolled the last of the gnocchi, cut it into pieces, and made an impression with the fork in each doughy puff, while Laura washed and sorted the fresh greens in the sink.

Enza prepared the sauce, cleaning the sage and placing it on the stove in a pan with olive oil and garlic. She turned on a low flame and slowly added butter to the mixture. The suite filled with the scent of an Italian farmhouse at suppertime.

“You girls all right?” Colin asked.

“We have everything, I think,” Laura said, looking around the kitchen, taking a quick inventory.

“I’m going to blow,” Colin said.

“Thank you,” Enza said. “You were a big help.”

“My pleasure.” He winked at Laura, took his hat, and went.

“That man is
not
going to fit in with my family in New Jersey. He went to boarding school at Phillips Exeter, graduated from Amherst, and he’s captained a ship in a regatta somewhere off the coast of Rhode Island. His mother descended from people that have been here so long, they had mailboxes at the Jamestown settlement. I am out of my league. I am in over my head. And I am completely besotted. Trust me, when he meets my family and finds out we brew our own beer, he’ll never ask me out again.”