The Shoemaker's Wife (60 page)

Chapter 27

A BLUE CAMEO
Un Cammeo Blu

T
here was a loud and persistent knock on Ciro’s door at the convent. He sat up, grabbed his pocket watch, and checked the time. He had slept uninterrupted through the night, a delicious nine hours. He had not slept this well since before his diagnosis at the Mayo Clinic.

“Yes?” he called out.

“It’s Iggy.”

Ciro leaped out of bed and threw the door open. Twenty-one years later, Ignazio Farino stood before him, wearing the same hat.

“Same hat, Iggy?”

Iggy shrugged. “It still fits.”

Ciro embraced him.

“Be careful. My bones are like breadsticks,” Iggy said. “I could snap in two right before your eyes.”

“You look good, Iggy.”

“You’re thin.”

“I know.” Ciro pulled on his pants and shirt and slipped into his shoes. “I looked better before I was hit with mustard gas. But I still eat like a horse. Let’s go raid the pantry for some breakfast.”

Ciro followed Iggy down the hallway. Except for the bow in his knees, he moved well for a man in his eighties.

“Can you believe I’m not dead?” Iggy said. “I’m as old as the bell in San Nicola.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I still visit my wife.” Iggy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Iggy, I just got up the mountain, and the first thing you tell me is that you still make love to your wife.”

“I have not withered,” Iggy promised him. “Besides, she says she doesn’t mind.”

“Well, if she doesn’t mind, why not?”

“That’s what I say—why not? It’s one of the joys of marriage. I still get as hard as
torrone
. Not as often, but enough. How’s Enza?”

“She’s a great wife, Iggy.”

“Good for you.”

Iggy took a seat in the convent kitchen. He lit up a cigarette as the young nun came in from the main convent to make them breakfast. She poured them each a cup of coffee. Ciro poured cream into both cups, and Iggy ladled three teaspoons of sugar into his. The nun served them bread, butter, and jam, placed hard-boiled eggs in a clear glass bowl on the table, and sliced off a hunk of cheese for each of them. She picked up her moppeen and went into the main convent to help with the chores.

“Don Gregorio . . .” Iggy clucked.

“I know. Went to Sicily.”

“I had words with him after you left.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him, You’ll have to answer to God someday for what you’ve done.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Nah. He probably has every priest in Rome praying for him. That’s how they do it, you know. They do a bad thing, they say they’re sorry, and they get some
ninelle
to pray for them, wiping the slate clean. What a racket.” Iggy handed the cigarette to Ciro, who took a puff. “If he’s ahead of me in line to get into heaven, I’ll raise holy hell. This guy we have now, he’s all right.”

“Don—”

“Yeah—Don Baci-ma-coolie. I see him kneel in the garden and say his rosary. I’ve been in his room, and there’s nothing askew. He’s neat as wire. I think he’s all right. Finally after all these years, an actual pious priest. Didn’t think
that
card trick was possible.”

Ciro laughed. He took a sip of the coffee and turned to his old friend. “I don’t pray, Iggy.”

“You have to get it down to the bones, otherwise it doesn’t work.” Iggy waved his cigarette.

“What do you mean?”

“Be clear. Ask God for exactly what you want. Forget all the poor slobs of the world—their lot in life is not your problem. Who is starving has to find their own food. Who is broken-hearted has to find his own woman. Thirsty? Jump in a lake. Worry about yourself. You pray for what you need, and see if you don’t get it.”

“Did you miss me, Iggy?”

“I worried about you like a son. Eduardo too.”

“Did you get my letters?”

“In twenty years, I got three. Not so good.” Iggy smiled.

“Not so good. But you knew I was thinking of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I knew. I could feel it.”

Ciro was walking the piazza as he waited for Eduardo to arrive with their mother. He paced under the colonnade, resisting the urge to run down the mountain to meet the carriage. He checked his watch repeatedly, hoping that time would pass more quickly if he did. He thought of this for a moment. Enza wanted to stop the clock, and here he was, bidding it to speed up toward the reunion he had dreamed about.

At the appointed hour, a black carriage pulled into the piazza, headed toward the convent. Ciro, at the far side of the colonnade, broke into a run to meet the carriage.

When it stopped, Ciro reached up and opened the shiny black door. Twenty-six years had come and gone since Ciro last saw his mother. She emerged from the carriage, dressed in blue, just as she had been when she left. Her hair was gray now, but still long, and braided, twisted into a chignon.

Her face was still beautiful. The arc of her nose, the fullness of her lips, all was as he remembered. Age had faded the intensity and colors of her beauty, but not the structure. Her long tapered fingers, graceful carriage, and slim figure were still hers. But her hands shook, and she was anxious, neither characteristics that had been apparent before.

“Mama,” Ciro said. He cried, though he had promised himself he wouldn’t.

“Help your mother, Ciro.” She smiled as Ciro helped her to step out of the carriage and onto the cobblestones. He took his mother in his arms and rested his head against her neck. She still had the same scent of freesia. Ciro took it in and did not want to let go.

Eduardo emerged from the carriage, in the plain, mud-brown robe of the Franciscans. Ciro was so happy to see him that he shouted, “My brother!”

Eduardo threw his arms around Ciro.

“Please, let’s go inside,” Ciro said.

The sisters had prepared a room for Caterina, for Ciro would stay with Eduardo. Sister Teresa showed them to the library, where she had placed a tray with coffee and pastries. The Lazzaris thanked her, and she caught Ciro’s eye before she left the room, closing both doors behind her.

Eduardo and Ciro knelt next to their mother as she sat in a chair. She began to weep, soft, quiet tears, like a gentle rainfall after years of torrents. She didn’t want to be sad in front of her sons; she wanted to be a good mother before them, and act as though the suffering they had endured was over, and the wounds of their childhood had healed. She knew better, but she wanted to offer them as much solace as she could, knowing she herself would never find it.

She kissed each of her boys and then stood, walking to the windows to catch her breath. Ciro and Eduardo looked at one another. Eduardo had warned Ciro that sometimes their mother’s behavior could be odd, but he was not to take it personally, as she had suffered from deep depression for so many years that she could not stand away from her own pain to ease theirs.

Caterina walked away from the windows to the bookshelves, where she perused the titles. “Some of these books were bound in our shop,” she said. “I know the endpapers and the leather. The Montinis were meticulous.”

“Would you like some coffee, Mama?” Eduardo asked.

“
Grazie
,” she said.

Eduardo looked at Ciro, who watched his mother as though he were studying a work of art from a safe distance. “Mama, Ciro came all the way from America to see us.”

Ciro could see that his mother had suffered mental trauma, but that she was still the same woman that he remembered in most ways. He decided to cling to those things that were wonderful about her, and to ignore the ravages of time and insecurity, instability, and anxiety. He had so much to say to her.

“I have something for you, Mama.” Ciro reached into his pocket and removed the tracing of his father’s grave, with the date of his death upon it. “My wife, Enza, made sure Papa had a proper gravestone. He died in the Burt-Sellers mining disaster of 1904. It was a terrible fire. But now he has a proper memorial,” he said, handing her the paper.

She looked down at it. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for this.” She put her arm around Ciro.

“Mama, when he died, the company issued reparations. Stock. We cashed it and put it in the bank. This”—he gave her an envelope—“is the balance. I paid for my ticket with some of it.”

She gave Ciro the envelope without opening it. “You keep this for my grandson. And kiss him for me.”

“Mama, don’t you need the money?”

Caterina put her hands on Ciro’s face. “You’re just like your father. He would give his last lira to someone if it might help them.”

“Keep the money for your family, Ciro,” said Eduardo. “Mama is provided for.”

“I want to hear about you, Mama. Tell me how you’ve been.”

“Tell Ciro where you were, Mama,” said Eduardo.

“I worked at the convent in Montichiari-Fontanelle on Lake Garda.”

He thought about how close his mother had been, and how as a boy, he could have hitched a ride to Lake Garda so easily and seen her. The loss of her was not only poignant; it was irreversible, and there was no healing his broken heart.

“I was too sick to find you boys again. By the time I was feeling better, you were in America, and Eduardo was in the priesthood. The sisters didn’t tell me much, because they were afraid I would try to leave the hospital. They told me to imagine you on the mountain, healthy and happy and living with the good sisters. So that’s how I got through. I prayed to be stronger and to get well so we could all be together again.”

“Mama, you’ll never be alone again. I am taking you to live near me, and I’ll be able to see you,” Eduardo promised her.

Caterina sat on the settee and pulled her sons close to sit next to her, holding their hands. “Eduardo and I will have many years together. And I’m so sorry, Ciro. We lost a lifetime. And it was all my fault. I see strong women everywhere, some with six or seven children, and I marvel at them. But I just wasn’t well enough to do it. And I knew that if you were with the sisters, they would guide you to develop your talents, as I would have had I had the strength. But when your father died, I couldn’t come up with a plan. It was only bleak and dark, and I was desperate. There was nothing.”

Ciro hadn’t known that his mother had tried her best. He had always assumed that he was too much trouble, and she couldn’t handle him. Eduardo had taken the pain and turned it inward. It made him spiritually strong, as he believed that only sacrifice leads to redemption. He gave up the idea of his mother to earn a place closer to God, while Ciro was adrift.

That night, the Lazzari boys and their mother dined on
cassoeula
, a pork stew with onions, celery, and carrots in a thick broth, poured over fresh bread. Ciro showed his mother a picture of Antonio and Enza. He explained about her friend Laura, who had worked at the Metropolitan Opera, and how they were like sisters. He explained about baby Henry. And when his mother asked about Ciro’s health, he didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he was dying; he would leave that to his brother, the priest. He wanted his mother to have as many happy moments as her sons could provide.

Ciro climbed into the cot in the convent guest room. Eduardo sat on the floor by his cot, as he had when they were boys. It didn’t matter that they were older, nearing forty, grown men. They still longed for the comfort of their boyhood connection, which was as strong as ever. Whatever their mother had done or could not do, and no matter the fate of their young father, they had always had one another, and it had made all the difference.

“Eduardo, what do you think about our mother?”

“If she stops and realizes what she did, she will collapse.”

“She seemed so prim.”

“She is. It’s her way of showing us that she’s strong.”

“She didn’t cry when she saw the tracing of Papa’s headstone.”

“Mama is angry at him still.”

“We should be angry with her.”

“What good would that do now, Ciro?”

“I missed her.”

“And so did I. By the time we were old enough to leave the convent to look for her, they had sent you away, and I was in the seminary. You have to understand that her heart is frozen. She needs love too, Ciro. We all do.”

Ciro nodded. At long last, he understood his mother. The veneer had always been the thing that held her up. The surface had been strong, but beneath it, who knew?

Caterina brushed her hair in the chamber next door. Tears flowed freely and abundantly down her face, for all she had lost, all these many years. She’d believed that someone else could raise her sons better than she could. She’d thought the church knew best, and she, as a widow without savings, was worthless to her boys. She brushed her hair, one hundred strokes, and put the hairbrush in her duffel. That night, she did not sleep. She did not sit, and she did not read. She paced the chamber like a dutiful nun, hoping that the morning would bring some clarity, guide her to say something to the boys she’d left behind. She hoped that the words would come; that she would be able to explain why she had left them in the convent, changing the course of all of their lives.

On the other side of the wall, Ciro pulled the blanket over his legs and propped the pillow on the bed. He lay on his side, as he had during his youth when he needed to talk to his brother long into the night.

“Have you told her about me?”

“You should tell her.”

“Can you believe my diagnosis, Eduardo?” Ciro asked. “Not one good thing came of that war.”

“You can’t say that. You had courage, you were brave.”

“It was either that, or die then. And at the end, when I came in, when the Americans came in, there was nothing left to fight. We had food and guns, artillery, uniforms, tanks—the Germans had nothing. And we rolled over them like a leather presser. For what? I won’t know the joy I fought for. I tell myself I did it for the future, for my son.”

“None of us can know what God has in mind for us.”

“There’s the problem, brother. God doesn’t have me in mind.”

Eduardo began to speak, but Ciro stopped him.

“You are a good man, Eduardo. Whether you wear the black biretta of a priest, or the wool cap of a farmer, in my mind, you are a duke. What you believe doesn’t matter as much to me as who you are. I have always been, in great measure, in awe of you. You’re decent and strong, which makes for a good man, never mind a good priest. But don’t try and convince me that God knows I’m here. I just don’t think it’s true.”