The Shoemaker's Wife

Chapter 18

A CHAMPAGNE FLUTE

Un Bicchiere da Spumante

Enrico Caruso stood on the fitting stool in his spacious dressing room in the Metropolitan Opera House, puffing a cigar.

Hoping to please their star, the set decorator had poached the best ideas from interior designer Elsie de Wolfe, creating a lair for the singer inspired by the colors of the Mediterranean on the southern coast of Italy, where Caruso was born. The decor was all sun, sea foam, and sand.

A seven-foot sofa, covered in turquoise chenille and studded with large coral buttons, conjured the waters of the port of Sorrento. The lamps were milk-glass globes topped with tangerine shades. Overhead, the light fixture was a brass sunburst with round white bulbs on the tips. An Italian summer was tucked away behind the scenery, costumes, and props.

“I live in a seashell,” Caruso remarked. “I'm a real scungeel.”

Enrico’s makeup table was oversize, painted white, with large lightbulbs encircling an enormous round mirror. On the table, laid out with the precision of surgical equipment on pristine starched cotton towels, were vanity tools, brushes, powders, black kohl pencils, and tins of hair pomade. A small tin of glue for hairpieces, mustaches, and beards was open on the table. A low gilded stool covered in coral-and-white-striped fabric was tucked under the table.

“I have a bagno like the pope,” Caruso said as he stood on the fitting stool. “Have you met him, Vincenza?”

“No, Signore.” Enza smiled at the thought of ever meeting a pope, as she pinned the darts in the back of the costume.

“I have the same bathroom,” Caruso said. “But where I have silver fixtures, he has gold.”

Caruso was five foot ten. He had a thick waist and a barrel chest that could expand four inches when his lungs were inflated with enough air for the trademark power of his tenor. His legs were powerful, with muscular calves and substantial thighs, like the men who hauled marble and lifted granite in the villages of southern Italy. Expressive hands, muscular biceps, and slim forearms were grace notes on his physique. He acted with the dimensions of his body, just as he sang through them.

The most memorable feature of the Great Caruso’s face were his eyes, large, dark brown, dramatic, and expressive. His gaze was so penetrating, the whites of his eyes could be seen clearly from the mezzanine, as if the beams of the spotlights originated within him, instead of simply illuminating him from the rafters above. The intelligence behind his eyes made Caruso an artist of emotional scope and power, and a brilliant actor as well as the greatest opera singer of his time.

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.”

“So bring them to Manhattan to meet him.”

“All seventy thousand of them? I’ll need a barge, not a ferry. No, thank you, I’m keeping my family under wraps. If he gets a load of them, he’ll run.”

“The entire population of Ireland won’t bother him if he loves you.”

“That’s where you’re naive,” Laura sighed. “When it comes to high society, the only things they mix are their drinks.”

The door to the suite blew open, bringing the best voices of the Metropolitan Opera into the room.

The suite was decorated in white damask silk with accents of black velvet, a color scheme borrowed from Caruso’s sheet music. The furniture had sleek lines and curves, like musical instruments. A pair of deep-cushioned English sofas in white chenille faced one another, separated by an upholstered ottoman with pearl buttons. The only color in the room was a large silver vase filled with blood red roses nestled in waxy green leaves.

The table in the alcove was set for dinner, with the hotel’s fine bone china, edged in silver, and sterling silver serving pieces. Water glasses were filled, and wineglasses were empty, ready for the Chianti.

“I am in heaven!” Enrico Caruso said from the foyer. “Sage! Garlic! Burro!”

“They’re early!” Laura said, stirring the sauce. “We have so much left to do!”

“Stay calm,” Enza told her.

“This better be good, Erri,” Geraldine said, throwing off her sweater and reaching into the pocket of her skirt for her cigarettes.

“I need a glass of wine,” Antonio Scotti said to the host, removing his hat. Scotti was of medium height, with classic southern Italian features—a nose that extended far like an alpine road, lovely lips, and small brown eyes like a bird’s.

“I’ll pour,” Caruso said, uncorking a bottle.

Caruso poured the wine, including a glass for himself, and joined the girls in the kitchen. Enza dropped the puffs of gnocchi into the boiling water.

“At last, I eat like the peasant I am!” Caruso said.

Antonio joined them. “Where did you find the cook?”

“At the sewing machine.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” Antonio said.

“Women have more than one skill, Antonio. And if you’re lucky, they have two. They can make both gnocchi . . . and meatballs.”

“Watch it, boys. You’re in the presence of a lady or three.” Gerry sipped her wine. “What are you making?”

“Gnocchi with sage,” Enza said.

Caruso dipped his fingers in the bowl of freshly shaved Parmesan cheese. “I travel with a wheel of my own cheese.”

“Better than a wife,” Geraldine said.

“Weighs more,” said Caruso. “My little Doro prefers to stay in Italy. She’s painting the villa.”

“We work, and your Doro redecorates.” Antonio shrugged.

“You need a wife, Antonio,” Caruso said.

“Never. I’ll paint my own villa.”

“Women give a life shape and purpose,” Caruso said.

“You should know. You’re never without one,” Antonio remarked.

Enza ladled the steaming puffs of pasta into a serving bowl, as Laura slowly stirred the sauce. Laura gave the spoon to Enza, who added a cup of cream to the pan, then wrapped the dish towel around the handle and ladled the sauce over the steaming gnocchi.

“Italians always wind up in the kitchen,” Antonio said. “It’s our destiny.”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it—it may be my true love calling,” Geraldine said as she pushed through the saloon style doors.

“Unlikely,” Antonio said drily. “He’s in Italy with his wife.”

Laura kept her head down, like a proper Irish scullery maid, and pretended not to take in the gossip as she tossed the salad.

“Please everyone, to the dining table,” said Enza.

Enza and Laura made fast work of grating fresh Parmesan cheese over the gnocchi, sprinkling it with lacy branches of browned sage.

“I’ll serve, you pick up the dishes,” Enza said.

“Happy to. But save some for us,” Laura whispered. “This smells heavenly!”

When Enrico Caruso had invited Enza to make him “a dish of macaroni,” Enza went to Serafina immediately. At first, Serafina had been against the idea. But when Caruso mentioned it to Serafina himself, she knew she had to allow Enza to prepare the meal. Caruso was never to be denied any request, great or small, by the staff of the Metropolitan Opera. Serafina reminded Enza to remember her place, to serve the maestro and his friends but not to join them at the table, or assume that to be Caruso’s intent.

Enza stopped short when she saw Vito Blazek sitting to Caruso’s right, across from Geraldine. Antonio sat at the head of the table, opposite Caruso. Vito looked up and winked at Enza. She blushed.

“Delizioso, Enza!” Caruso said, when Enza brought the salad plates to the server.

Enza quickly served the meal and went back into the kitchen. “Did you see?” She placed the dishes in the sink.

Laura peered out the door. “Vito Blazek. Publicity. He’s everywhere. But I guess that’s the point.”

“He’ll think I’m scullery,” Enza said, disappointed.

“You are scullery. And so am I, for that matter.”

“Is he dating Geraldine?” Enza asked.

“I doubt it. Signor Scotti said she had a lover in Italy. Don’t you listen?”

“I try not to.”

Laura poured Enza a glass of wine, and they listened to the conversation beyond the kitchen doors. Antonio talked about the changes in England since they’d entered the war, and how the audiences craved music now more than ever. Caruso said that war was good for nothing except the arts that flourished in bleak times. Geraldine spoke up about her concerns for Italy. Laura and Enza looked at one another, taking in the dinner conversation. Laura got the giggles when she realized that they had just made gnocchi in a kitchenette for the biggest musical star in the world, and last winter, they had been running through the streets of Hoboken in boiled wool, wearing bad hats. Enza shushed her, so she could continue to eavesdrop.

Caruso waved a dumpling of gnocchi on the end of his fork.

“My good friend Otto Kahn cannot sit in a viewing box because he’s a Jew. And yet he paid for everything you see, including the box, the draperies, the set, the costumes, and the singers. Without him, no grand opera.”

“Why does he give the money to the Met when he’s treated that way?” Vito asked.

“Love.” Caruso smiled. “He loves art like I love life.”

“You mean he loves art like you love women,” Antonio said.

“Women are life, Antonio.” Caruso laughed.

“Mr. Kahn said that a piano in every apartment would do more to prevent crime than a policeman on every corner,” Vito said.

“And he’s the man to buy those pianos. Believe me. I’d like to be Mrs. Kahn, but he already has a wife. A beauty named Addie. As usual, I’m a day late and an aria short.” Geraldine toasted herself with her wine.

“Poor Gerry,” Enrico said, not meaning it.

Enza and Laura prepared a dish of gnocchi to share. They sat at the kitchen table. Laura reached for a dumpling and tasted it. “This is divine!” Laura whispered.

The girls ate their meal slowly, savoring every bite.

“Well, hello. I didn’t realize you were the Italian girl making dinner for Caruso when he invited me.” Vito stood in the doorway. He placed his arms casually over the saloon doors of the kitchen. “That was the best meal I ever had.”

“She may leave the sewing needle behind and take up the spatula,” Laura said.

“Never,” said Enza.

“Whatever man is lucky enough to marry you will eat well for a lifetime.”

“And any man that marries me . . . will have a clean sink,” Laura said.

“What are you doing after dinner?” Vito asked.

“I’m busy,” Laura joked.

“Are you busy too, Enza?” Vito wanted to know.

Enza smiled but did not answer him. Maybe Laura was right. Vito Blazek showed up wherever Enza happened to be, whether it was backstage, in the workroom, or up in the mezzanine. Enza had never been so ardently pursued, and she liked it. Vito was polished, beautifully groomed, and handsome, but even more alluring to Enza, he was persistent. This quality she understood and appreciated.

Laura nudged Enza. “Answer the man. He just asked you out for a date.”

“I’m not busy later, Mr. Blazek.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled.

As Enza and Laura straightened the kitchen, the scent of cigarette smoke and freshly brewed espresso wafted through the suite. Enza was thinking about Anna Buffa’s kitchen, and how the meals she prepared there had never been appreciated, only criticized. Enza realized that a grateful person was a happy one.

Signor Caruso asked Enza to prepare him a dish of macaroni on many more occasions, and the girls found themselves making spaghetti in unlikely places—the cafeteria of the Met, or on a hot plate in Caruso’s dressing room. Many nights, Enza prepared a dish for Signore to carry with him back to the hotel after rehearsal. The great stars, out of touch with people except for those moments when they were onstage, reaching out to the audience in their velvet seats, longed for home when they couldn’t have it. Caruso was always thinking of Italy’s warm sun and soft golden Caravaggio moons, and he was just a little closer to them when the seamstress made macaroni.

Once she agreed to date him, Vito Blazek pursued Enza relentlessly, as if she were a good story that would make hot copy. He gave her the best of Manhattan, as though it was a crystal flute overflowing with champagne, never in need of a refill. He had tickets to opening nights on Broadway, invitations to posh parties in penthouses, and box seats for concerts at Carnegie Hall. They spent long hours at the Automat, talking into the night about art. He gave her books to read, and took her to the Bronx Zoo and for long walks down Fifth Avenue. Enza was being properly courted, and she enjoyed every second of it.

Vito handed Enza a box of popcorn as he took his seat on the aisle next to her at the Fountain Theatre on West Forty-fifth Street. This movie house had shows around the clock; the best times to go were afternoons, when you could stay to watch the movie a second time, because most of the world was at work. The late shows were convenient for the artisans who worked at the Met, as their hours were long, and fittings and rehearsals could run late. Vito stole Enza away for the midnight show, knowing that he’d have to keep her out all night, because the doors of the Milbank were locked until breakfast. Vito managed to fill the wee hours of the morning with wonderful excursions. Enza could not believe the places Vito had taken her. She’d had no idea such fun existed when she was indentured to the Buffas in Hoboken. There was nothing like this on the mountain. It was all new; at long last Enza could be young, on the arm of a gentleman who knew how to live. He relished showing her his world, and it delighted him to know she enjoyed it.

“I hope you like the show,” Vito whispered.

“It’s my first,” Enza admitted.

“You haven’t been to the movies?”

“I saw some shorts with Laura in Atlantic City. But never a whole movie.” She smiled.

“Charlie Chaplin is my religion,” he said. “He makes me laugh almost as much as you do.”

Enza smiled to herself. It seemed that she could never find a pious man. Maybe, she decided, she wasn't supposed to.

An attendant in a burgundy uniform pulled the curtain weights. As the massive gold draperies moved aside, an enormous silver screen was revealed behind it. Enza felt her heart beat faster, with the same thrilling sense of anticipation that turning the first page of a new book can bring. The screen read:

The Immigrant

A film by Charlie Chaplin

The screen filled with the image of a steamship as it sailed across the Atlantic, plowing through turbulent whitecaps. The deck of the ship was revealed; Chaplin, dressed as the little Tramp, cavorted with the poor immigrants, who wore the same kind of clothing Enza’s fellow passengers had worn on her passage aboard the Rochambeau. When the audience roared with laughter at the image of a fish Chaplin caught and tossed onto a sleeping immigrant, whose nose it bit, Enza didn’t find it funny. Soon the image of the rocking ship brought back the spinning, tossing, and delirium she had endured. Afraid she might faint, she pulled on her gloves and buried her hands in her coat pockets. Eventually, she excused herself and ran from the theater into the lobby.

“Enza.” Vito joined her. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t watch it—I’m so sorry.”

Vito put his arms around Enza. “No, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. You came over on a ship like that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember much of it. I got very sick.”

“I should have asked. Come on. You need air.”

Vito led Enza outside, putting his arm around her shoulder. The cool summer night air revived her, and as it did, she became ashamed of herself. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “You must think I’m silly.”

“No, I don’t at all. I’d like to know why you had such a strong reaction in there.”

“I came here to make money to build a house on our mountain. We weren’t going to be here very long. And here we are, seven years later, and my papa is still on a road crew. But the house is almost finished, and then he’ll go home.”

“Will you go with him?”

“I was told I could never cross the ocean again.” Enza didn’t talk about that much. She was always busy earning money to stay afloat, sending most of it home. For the first time, she faced the fact that she might not make it back to the mountain. But she still wanted a happy life.

“I guess I’ll have to make you happy here. I’ll have to make you so happy you won’t miss your mountain.”

“Do you think one person can make another happy?”

“I know I said Charlie Chaplin was my religion, but really, love is. I lead a good life, but it can be frivolous. I’m a town crier. I talk to the press and try to fill seats at the Met. Sometimes men envy me. I know starlets and dancers and sopranos. But the truth is, it would only take one seamstress who can cook to make me happy.” Vito put his arms around Enza.

“You sound so sure,” Enza said.

“It only takes one special girl to love.” He placed his hands on her face.

“You believe in love like I believe in the saints.”

“What else do you believe in?” Vito hoped Enza believed in him.

“Family.”

“No, you. Just you. Apart from your family.”

Enza had to think. Her first thought was always of her family, her mother’s needs and her father’s health. She worried about her brothers and sisters, their welfare and future. She had lived so long for them, she didn’t know how to live without them. She had crossed the ocean to give them security. If she would do that, she would do anything for them. They had always been her purpose.

Vito took this in. “You should think about what you want, Enza. What do you want from your life? Besides sewing Signor Caruso’s costumes, and letting them out because you make him too much macaroni?”

“No one has ever asked me that.”

“Maybe no one ever loved you enough to put you first,” Vito said.

“Maybe not. You take me to all these exciting places, but you also push me to think. That’s just as important.”

“You’re important,” Vito assured her. “To me.”

On the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, he stopped and kissed her. Enza didn’t know where this would lead, and for once, she didn’t question it. She just kissed him and lived.