The Shoemaker's Wife

Chapter 14

A ROPE OF TINSEL

Una Cordia di Orpello

Columbus Day in Little Italy was an extravaganza. The streetlamps were adorned with ropes of red, white, and green tinsel. Italian flags, resplendent silk squares of bright red, emerald green, and pristine white, rustled on poles over storefronts and houses. Small paper versions of the flag were tucked into lapels on the men, and tastefully into the bands on women’s hats. Children held small flags mounted on sticks, stuffing them into their back pockets like bandanas. The autumn air felt as fresh as peppermint, and the sun flickered in the distance like a knot of gold.

“It’s velvet time,” Enza said. “Just cold enough to wear my favorite fabric.”

“Velvet is boiled wool with money,” said Laura.

Laura and Enza spent every weekend afternoon they could spare in New York City, applying for jobs. They were on waiting lists for a room at the Rosemary House, the Convent of Saint Mary, and the Evangeline Residence.

They had also applied for jobs all over the city, as nurse’s aides at the Foundling Hospital, as cooks and waitresses at social clubs on the Upper East Side, and as private maids in the mansions on Park Avenue. They applied at several tailoring shops, and at a milliner’s showroom.

Now that they had made the decision to leave the Meta Walker factory, their new lives could not come fast enough. Laura rushed home every day, hoping the mail would bring them good news. Enza had nothing sent to Adams Street, as she knew the ruckus that would ensue if Anna Buffa thought that her personal maid might leave her.

Today, however, was not a day for filling out forms or checking vacancies in boardinghouses; it was a day of celebration. Every street in the neighborhood between lower Broadway and the Bowery was filled with proud Italian immigrants in their best clothing, proper gloves, and hats, parading in from every borough of the city, along with the crowds who had come to sample the delicacies of southern Italy and celebrate Columbus Day.

Enza and Laura walked across Grand Street, turning heads, in Laura’s case because of her pale beauty and her height, and in Enza’s because of her dark beauty and trim figure. They wore their own creations; for Enza, a skirt of brushed gray velvet with a fawn-colored jacket trimmed in lavender, while Laura wore a green silk skirt and a matching brocade coat, belted with wide gold cording. Enza’s hat was woven of gray and beige satin, while Laura’s was a wide-brimmed gold felt. They looked every bit as stylish as the women who had their clothing made in the ateliers on Fifth Avenue.

The girls joined the throngs in the crowded streets, who came for the food, to celebrate their ties to home, and to revel in the camaraderie of being with their own people. Vendors set up simple stands along the avenue, tall whitewashed poles suspending canvas awnings over slim plank counters notched to the poles.

Customers were served every Neapolitan treat imaginable, prepared before their eyes, fresh, hot, sweet, and perfect. Bubbling vats of oil bobbed with puffy clouds of white dough that turned golden brown and would be drenched in sugar to become zeppole. Sweet squares of tomato pie resembling the red squares on the Italian flag, drizzled with olive oil and decorated with fresh basil, were placed in waxed paper sleeves and sold one by one.

A booth of fresh pastries featured trays of cannoli shells filled with fresh cream and dipped in chocolate shavings; sfogliatelle, pastry seashells filled with ricotta; biscotti rolled with pignoli nuts; millefoglie, thin sheets of pastry interlayered with strawberry cream and dusted in powdered sugar; and every kind of gelato and granita. Hazelnut braids hung down from the canopy, to be sold by the foot. A giant slab of torrone made of honey, almonds, and egg whites was hoisted above a marble-topped table suspended overhead on rope as though it had been lifted out of a mine. The purveyor hacked away, selling generous hunks of the taffy to the hungry crowd.

“Signora Buffa loves torrone.” Enza stopped at the stand.

“You’re going to buy that witch candy?” Laura asked.

“I keep hoping she’ll change,” Enza said.

“Go ahead then. Buy it. I hope she breaks a tooth.”

“You know what? I’m not going to bring her anything,” Enza said.

“Now, that’s more like it. Do not wilt in the face of the oppressor!”

The young women wondered which delicacy to sample first. Enza steered them toward the sausage and pepper stand. They watched as the cooks tossed glistening slices of green peppers and ribbons of onions on a griddle while fragrant hot sausage, splitting its skin over the open flames, was placed in fresh, crusty rolls.

Laura took a bite. “Delizioso!” she exclaimed.

“Delicious,” Enza said in English.

“Nice. But it’s only appropriate that we speak your native language. Everything is Italian today, including me!”

A young man handed them each a flyer and disappeared into the crowd to dispense the rest. Enza saw that there was a political cartoon on the front and a caption about the evils of Germany. The Great War, as it was known, was burning through Europe; it was just beginning to touch the lives of these proud immigrants. Italy had joined the war, and talk was that the United States was next. Enza worried about her brothers, and Laura about her nephews, who longed to be soldiers.

Enza tucked the flyer into her purse to read later. She knew how poor the people of her village were. They couldn’t survive a long war, which would only make matters worse.

But today, talk of war was minimal. The Italians thriving in America didn’t have time for politics. They were hard at work, many on double shifts, making American money. They kept their eyes focused on the bobbins of sewing machines, used their might on construction sites, laid railroad tracks and built bridges, factories, and homes, and took to the sky, balancing on beams high above the city as they built skyscrapers. Here, too, war would be an unwelcome interruption.

“A lot of handsome men in Little Italy,” Laura said.

“A few.”

“That’s why you get the attention. You could care less.” Laura laughed. “I remember last summer in Atlantic City. You had a three-hour conversation with that fella from Metuchen. Whatever happened to him?”

“It was just a conversation.” Enza shrugged.

“They passed envelopes for Mary Carroll, Bernadette Malady, and the Lindas in finishing, Linda Patzelt, and Linda Faria. Everybody’s getting married. Some diamond mine in Africa has just been sucked dry, and I’m gonna go broke celebrating other girls and their happiness. When are we gonna get ours?”

“We will. You’ll be first. And I hope you don’t settle.”

“Are you kidding me? Never. I want a man with a bright future. And you don’t have to wait for that guy back home, you know. You need to live now.” Laura smiled back at a handsome young man who tipped his hat to her.

“I’m not waiting for anyone.”

“You are pining for that grave digger. Ciro, right?”

“I wonder about him. But I don’t pine for him.”

“Okay.” Laura wasn’t buying it. “Do you write to him?”

“No.”

“Letters to Italy go two ways, Enza.”

“He isn’t in Italy. He’s here.”

“In America?”

Enza nodded. “In Little Italy.”

“You’ve been holding out on me!” Laura shrieked. “Do you know his address?”

“He was a shoemaker’s apprentice on Mulberry Street. But that was so long ago.”

“He could be one block from where you’re standing, and you’re eating a sausage and pepper sandwich! I don’t believe it.”

“Who knows where he is? It’s been six years! He had a girlfriend.”

“So? You were teenagers. I think we should have a stroll on Mulberry Street.”

“He probably went back to Italy. ” Enza shrugged. “I don’t care. He never tried to find me.”

“Maybe you ought to try and find him."

“Maybe I don’t want to find him.”

“The maybe means that you do,” Laura insisted. “You’re never going to look prettier than you do today, so you might as well let the man see what he is missing.”

“I didn’t dress for him!”

“A girl never knows when fate is going to give her a tumble. Look at me. I’m always prepared.” Laura pulled a small sterling silver atomizer from her pocket. “A little mister in case I meet my future mister.” Laura spritzed the perfume on her neck. “Want some?”

“All right. But just a little. I don’t want you to waste it on me. If he’s not there, what’s the point?” Enza closed her eyes, letting a cloud of cedar and jasmine settle over her.

As the girls made the turn onto Mulberry Street, they were stunned by the size of the crowd. The street was filled with revelers, but so were the sidewalks, the stoops, and the roofs. There was barely any room to move. Enza took in a short breath as her heart beat faster.

“Do you remember the address?” Laura asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Come on. You’ve memorized every detail of every person you have ever met. Think.”

Enza surrendered. “He works for the Zanetti Shoe Shop.”

Laura squinted down the block. “There it is!” They saw the awning in the middle of the block, the name of the shop emblazoned upon it. Laura took Enza by the arm. “Come on.”

Enza had little faith in Laura’s plan, but before she could protest, Laura had grabbed her hand and pulled her headlong through the crowd until they reached the shop.

“Wait!” Enza’s intuition told her that she would not like what she found behind the door. But it was too late—a determined Laura was unstoppable, on the factory floor or the streets of Little Italy.

“Leave this to me. I’ll do the talking.” Laura climbed up the steps and poked her head inside.

Enza followed with a combination of dread and curiosity. Her thoughts raced, placing Ciro at the center of every possible scenario, with or without her. Ciro was probably married by now; after all, he was twenty-two, and he seemed hardworking and ambitious. Enza would be cordial and get out of there fast. That’s all. She smoothed the front of her skirt before entering the shop after Laura.

Carla Zanetti stood behind the counter. She handed money to a young boy as he placed a large cookie tray on the counter. “I included your tip,” Carla said to the boy as he went.

“Hello. My name is Laura Heery, and this is my friend Enza Ravanelli. We’re looking for a young man, the apprentice here . . . ,” Laura began. “Ciro Lazzari.”

“He’s out.”

“Oh,” Laura said, taken aback by the gruff manner of the old gatekeeper. “Enza knew Signor Lazzari from their province in Italy.”

“We’re from the same mountain,” Enza said quietly.

Carla waved her hands. “You see those crowds out there? We’re all from the same place. I could call any jadrool on the street a blood relative if I wanted to. But I don’t want to”—she peered over her reading glasses—“so I don’t.”

“But this is different. Ciro and Enza really do know one another from some cliff in the old country,” Laura insisted.

“We’ve met, Signora.” Enza stepped in, before Laura could do further damage. “I met you, with your husband and Ciro, on my first day in New York, at Saint Vincent’s Hospital. I was with my father.”

Carla looked at Enza, taking her in. She studied the details of Enza’s clothes and hat, deciding that this young woman was a lady.

“The day Ciro cut his hand,” Carla remembered.

“Yes, Signora.”

“How’s your father?”

“He took a position in the mines, but now he’s building roads in California.”

“Rough work.”

“Better than the coal mine.”

“We work in a blouse factory in Hoboken,” Laura said with a smile. “We’d love to bring you one some time.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Carla smiled. “But I can’t be bribed. Ciro has many girlfriends, most of whom I do not approve of—the ones I know about, anyway.”

Enza exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. Ciro was not married.

Carla continued, “Girls nowadays are so fresh. They don’t wait for proper courting. They just show up and come right out with their demands. They line up at this counter to look at Ciro Lazzari like they’re buying cheese.”

“I’m not here to buy cheese, Signora. I was looking for an old friend, just wondering how he was getting along.” She was relieved that Ciro was not there. She didn’t know if she could have borne it if he hadn’t remembered her. “Thank you, Signora. I hope you and Signor Zanetti have a lovely holiday.”

Enza and Laura turned to go.

The door of the shop opened wide, the bells on the hook jingling loudly. Signor Zanetti entered first, followed by a couple, Luigi Latini and his girlfriend, Pappina, a delicate brunette with a pink porcelain complexion. She was followed by Felicitá Cassio in a wide-brimmed red hat and matching suit. Finally Ciro Lazzari, in a fetching navy blue three-piece suit with an elegant blue-green silk tie, the exact color of his eyes, entered, carrying two bottles of cold champagne. Suddenly the room was full of people.

Enza turned away, wishing she had never set foot in this shop.

“Which one of you handsome gentlemen is Ciro Lazzari?” Laura asked.

Signor Zanetti blushed at the forward young American.

“Well, you know it’s not the old one, he’s mine,” Carla said.

“Don’t look at me. I’m Luigi Latini. I’m neither handsome”—he looked at Remo—“nor old.”

“I’m Ciro. What can I do for you?” Ciro asked.

“My friend is an old acquaintance of yours,” Laura said. “From the Alps.”

“If I’m lucky, it’s Sister Teresa from the convent kitchen of San Nicola,” Ciro joked.

“This young lady hasn’t taken the veil.” Laura pulled on her gloves.

“Not yet, anyway. Hello, Ciro,” Enza said quietly.

“Enza!” Ciro took her hands into his as he looked at her. The pretty girl from the mountain had become a beauty. Her figure was shapely and trim; in her gray and beige day suit, she looked like a sleek sparrow.

Felicitá crossed her arms across her chest as she checked her face in the mirror behind the cash register.

“Enza, this is Felicitá Cassio,” Ciro hastily introduced them. He kept his eyes on Enza, his expression one of wonder. He had so many thoughts. He was struck by how sophisticated she seemed. How far she had come in the six years since he saw her at Saint Vincent’s! Only another immigrant would understand what it took to come here so young, and grow up in a place that was so different from home. Clearly, Enza had thrived under the challenge. Ciro was impressed, and his heart was beating fast.

“Felicitá was the May Queen at Our Lady of Pompeii, six years ago,” Carla said in a tone that implied Felicitá was no longer at the peak of her desirability.

“I’ve never met a real queen before,” said Laura.

“Oh, I don’t rule a country or anything. I just crowned the Blessed Lady.”

Laura shot Enza a look.

“Well, they made a lovely choice,” Enza said generously. She looked to the door, wanting to escape this awkward situation. She was really going to let Laura Heery have it when they got back on the street.

Ciro stepped forward. “Remo, this is Enza. Remember? You met her at the hospital when I cut my hand.”

“This can’t be the same girl.” Remo sized her up. “Che bella.”

“I was very sick when you saw me,” Enza said.

“Hoboken agrees with you,” said Remo.

“Yeah. It’s the beauty capital of the world,” Laura said, causing everyone to laugh, especially Carla.

“Carla, did you offer them a drink?” Remo asked.

“I was about to take the trays to the roof. There are fireworks.” Carla turned to Laura and Enza. “Would you like to join us?”

Enza looked at Ciro, who had not taken his eyes off her. “We can’t. I need to go home.”

“No, you don’t,” said Laura. “Enough with the Cinderella routine. You work hard enough over there. This is your day to celebrate. Count us in, Signora Zanetti. And thank you. Happy Columbus Day!” She clapped her hands together.

“This is great. What a surprise.” Ciro picked up the tray for Carla. “I want to hear all about Cinderella.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Felicitá said as she adjusted her hat. “He loves a fairy tale, this one.”

The Zanettis’ roof on Mulberry Street was modest. Covered in tar paper, it had a low bench, a few straight-backed wooden chairs, distressed from rain, and a string of lights with fat clear bulbs strung across the chimney wall.

The rooftops of Little Italy were a village unto themselves, a few stories off the ground, but so close, the children could easily hop from one building to another. Most rooftops were decorated simply; some had tomato plants and herb gardens, others flowerpots and small grills for cooking. But tonight they were filled, like a choir loft, high above the action, with revelers waiting for the fireworks.

Carla balanced a cookie tray on the chimney ledge, while Remo opened a bottle of champagne. Carla handed out glasses as Remo poured.

“To Cristoforo Colombo!” Remo toasted.

Enza took a seat on the bench next to Pappina. She felt an instant affinity for the petite brunette with the sparkling black eyes. Pappina had a warm smile, and her curls reminded Enza of Stella. “You seem so familiar to me. Where are you from?”

“Brescia.”

“I’m from the north too. Schilpario.”

“Way up on the mountain,” Pappina said.

“Almost as high as you can go.”

“Not too many of us from the north,” Pappina said. She patted Enza’s hand. “We have to be friends.”

“I’d like that.”

Enza watched Ciro laugh and talk with Luigi and Remo. She could spend the entire night observing him, and she just might. His strong hands held the glass almost delicately. Happiness animated his entire body, as he threw his shoulders back, feet planted on the ground, and laughed. How lucky the girl who marries Ciro Lazzari, she thought.

Ciro excused himself from the men and joined Pappina and Enza on the bench. Pappina soon excused herself in turn and joined the girls at the edge of the roof. Shrewd Laura had Felicitá deeply engaged in conversation.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Ciro said.

“This was all Laura’s idea,” Enza confessed.

“I find that hard to believe. You’re a born leader. I remember a girl who lifted cemetery rocks like she was picking up spare change.”

“I was a sturdy mountain girl then.”

“I like the new version,” Ciro said.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Enza said drily. “You flirt with your girlfriend ten feet from you—on a roof, no less. Don’t you worry she’ll hear you and throw you off?”

“If she did, you’d catch me, wouldn’t you?”

Enza laughed, but couldn’t imagine why. She felt like crying. Maybe it was the cookies and the champagne, but she was filled with both hunger and regret. So much time had passed since she had seen Ciro, and every moment of it felt wasted.

“I miss the mountain this time of year,” he said. “Do you?”

“Stream Vò turns silvery gray, and the cliffs turn from bright green to nutmeg.”

“Do you think anyone but us thinks of Stream Vò?”

“They think the Hudson River is glorious. It’s only beautiful if you’ve never seen the rivers on the mountain. I can’t help it, I compare everything to home.”

“How’s your family?”

“Still on the mountain. Papa took a job in California. How’s your brother?”

“He’s in the seminary in Rome.”

“A priest in the family. You’re blessed.”

“You think so? I’d rather have him here in America with me. But I also know that he is doing what he loves, so I accept it.”

Enza looked off over the rooftops. She was so happy on this old bench in this moment. Ciro was sitting next to her. After years of wondering what that would feel like again, now she knew. She wished the moment could last her whole life long.

It was as if Ciro could sense what she was feeling. “The world just got smaller, didn’t it? You found me again,” he whispered.

“It wasn’t hard. I walked down Mulberry Street.”

“I know, I know, it was an accident. But really, are there accidents? Or does fate determine time and place and opportunity?”

“I don’t know—for a shoemaker’s apprentice you sound like Plutarch.”

“I don’t know him. I read Cellini.”

“Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography?” Enza asked.

“You know it?”

“I read it on the mountain. My teacher gave it to me. He thought I would grow up to be an artist.”

“And have you?”

“I don’t know. A lot of artists work in factories.” Enza smiled. “And some even make shoes.”

“I’m not nearly the artist he was,” Ciro said shyly.

“But I bet you’re a better man. Cellini was horrible to his wife and children. He was jealous, he maimed and murdered, he practically invented the vendetta. So you’d better stop talking to me and pay some attention to the May Queen, or we’ll see some old Sicilian curses thrown around here like party streamers.”

Ciro laughed. “I like your hat.”

“You would.”

Soon the fireworks filled the sky over Little Italy as swizzles of blue, yellow, and pink exploded on a swath of purple. Ciro and Enza joined the other guests. Enza drank champagne and nibbled on the biscotti with the women, while Ciro smoked with Remo and Luigi as they watched the colors ricochet overhead, an explosion of colored stars as far as their eyes could see.

Enza glanced up at the fireworks, but kept looking at Ciro, as if to memorize every detail of him. What a beautiful man he had grown up to be. No wonder the girls of Little Italy hoped to marry him. The fireworks ended with more colors and more cannon fire, the loud booms rattling Little Italy.

“That’s the show,” Carla said, throwing back the final slug of her champagne.

Enza went to the hosts. “Thank you for a wonderful night,” she said to Remo and Carla. She said her good-byes to Felicitá, Pappina, and Luigi.

Enza remembered that it was important to know when to leave a party; it was as gracious as arriving on time. Enza seized the right moment to depart, before it got awkward, before the lines were drawn among the guests and decisions were made: who left with whom. There wasn’t much to clean up on the roof, the glasses cluttered the tray, and the cookies had been eaten. It was time to go.

“I’ll walk you ladies out,” Ciro said, following Enza and Laura down the stairs, through the dark apartment and through the shop. As they reached the door, Enza turned and asked Ciro, “Where do you stay?”

“I’ll show you.”

“I’ll wait here.” Laura innocently searched through her purse for her gloves.

Ciro took Enza by the hand to the back of the store. He pulled back the curtain and showed her his cot, sink, mirror, and chair, his neat and clean corner of the world.

“It’s immaculate. The nuns would be proud of you,” Enza said.

“You haven’t seen the best part,” he said, pushing the drapery aside and opening the door to the garden. Enza followed him outside.

An accordion played in the distance, underscoring peals of laughter and the low drone of scattered conversation from the porches and yards close by. The cool night air had the scent of buttery caramel and cigar smoke. Rolling gray clouds from the last of the fireworks hung over the jagged rooftops of Little Italy as the moon, full and blue, pushed through the haze to illuminate the garden.

“You have a tree!” Enza exclaimed.

“How many trees did we have on the mountain?” Ciro asked. He put his hands in his pockets and stood back from her, observing her delight.

“A million.”

“More,” Ciro remembered. “And here, all I have is this one tree, and it’s more precious to me than all the forests below Pizzo Camino. Who would have thought that one tree could bring me so much joy? I’m almost ashamed.”

“I understand. Any small thing that reminds me of home is a treasure. Sometimes it’s small—a bowl of soup that makes me think of my mother—or it’s a color. I saw a blue parasol in the crowd this afternoon that reminded me of the lake by the waterwheel in Schilpario. It’s the kind of thing that catches you unaware and fills you with a deep longing for everything you once knew. Don’t apologize for loving this tree. If I had a tree, I’d feel the same.”

Ciro wished he had more time to talk with her.

“We should go,” Enza said, as she went through the door and back into the shop.

Ciro walked Laura and Enza out onto Mulberry Street, strewn with bits of confetti, twists of crepe paper, and pieces of ribbon. A few stragglers had found their way down to the corner of Grand Street, where a street band played into the night. Laura walked ahead, just far enough to allow Enza some privacy.

“I should say good-bye,” Enza said, even though she didn’t want to. “And you should get back to your girlfriend.”

“She’s just an old friend, I’ve known her since I came to Mulberry Street,” Ciro said. “We just have fun, Enza. We laugh. We have a good time. It’s nothing serious.”

“It’s not a romance?”

“It can’t be,” he said honestly. “She’s been betrothed since she was twelve years old.”

“Did someone remember to tell her that?” Enza laughed.

For a moment, Enza had to think about what he was saying. Fun was so low on Enza’s list of priorities, she’d practically forgotten it existed.

“You should be having fun, of course,” she said. “You work hard, it makes sense. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m too serious. I wear my responsibilities like an old saddle on an old horse.”

Ciro took her hand. “Don’t make excuses for the way you are. You’re working to take care of your family, and there’s no higher purpose than that.”

“Sometimes I’d like to be young too.” Enza spoke without thinking. She was surprised to realize that she felt this way. She never thought about what she wanted, only what was best for those she loved. And as far as her own heart was concerned, she hoped she would do the choosing.

Enza saw how it went with the girls at the mill. Some young women had been betrothed by their parents to young men who were chosen for them, making a match that served both families, pooling their meager assets to benefit both. Others chose for themselves, lucky enough to properly court and fall in love. Still others were forced to marry quickly, when they had not followed the rules of the church. When the banns of marriage went unannounced, the bride and groom were relegated to a private ceremony, deprived of a high mass and reception, taking their vows quietly behind the doors of the sacristy, hidden away in a shame that lasted a lifetime. Maybe this was why it was so hard for Enza to be young. It wasn’t just the money that had to be earned, and the house in Schilpario that needed building, there was danger in youth.

Ciro took her hands. “I don’t want you to be like them.”

“Who?”

“The girls on Mulberry Street. They just want to get married because it’s time. I want more.”

“And what is more to you, Ciro?”

“Someone I can talk to.”

“And when did you decide that was important?”

“I think just now.” He laughed. After a moment, he took her face in his hands. “You’re different, Enza.”

“Signora says you see a lot of girls.” She removed his hands from her face and held them.

“She exaggerates. But she would. Signora is worried I’ll take off after my heart’s desire and leave her with a crate of shoe tacks, and a line of angry customers.”

“And will you?”

He didn’t answer. And just as it had on the mountain, the moon shifted, its beam seeming to single out Ciro, like light through a stained-glass window in a dark chapel. It was as if her world had changed in that moment, had tilted on its axis just enough to give Enza the view she had longed for. He leaned down to her. She felt safe in his shadow, and as his lips grazed her cheek, he took in the scent of her skin, which was at once familiar and right.

Enza knew that in that moment a thousand good men could not compare to Ciro Lazzari. He was the one who owned her heart. She had known it since that night on the mountain. But thoughts of Felicitá intruded, and she wondered how she would ever know whether he truly felt the same about her. In this regard, she would not settle. Better to carry the cross of unrequited love than squander herself on someone whose heart was divided. His tender, delicate kiss emboldened her to tell him what she knew.

She took a step back, letting go of his hand. “I won’t come after you again, Ciro. I’ve had enough of chasing the things I want in this world. It’s too difficult. I’ve learned that it’s fine to have expectations, and dreams are wonderful, but once in a while, it would be good to have something come my way without having to fight for it. If you want to be friends, that’s your choice. I have nothing to offer you but understanding. And I won’t chase you down in every borough of this city to convince you that what I have to give has value to you. I think I understand what makes you who you are, what you want out of life, and I know for sure where you come from. These often aren’t the gifts a man is looking for in a woman, but it’s what I’m looking for in a man. And if you would like to be that man, it’s up to you.”

“Where do you live?”

“Three-one-eight Adams Street.”

“May I call on you?”

“Yes, you may.”

“I’ve promised Remo to run the repair cart out to Queens. We have new business there with the road. I may not be able to come to see you for a few weeks. Is that all right?”

Enza smiled. “Of course.” She had waited all her life for him. A few more weeks would just make their next meeting sweeter.