The Shoemaker's Wife

Chapter 6

A BLUE ANGEL

Un Angelo Azzurro

A silver mist settled over the cemetery of Sant’Antonio da Padova as the sun sank behind the mountain. The wrought-iron gates of the cemetery were propped open, revealing a flat field cluttered with headstones and surrounded along the periphery by a series of crypts.

Prominent families had built ornate marble and granite mausoleums that featured outdoor altars, open porticoes, and hand-painted frescoes. There were also simple, spare structures in the Roman style, with columns offsetting crypts inlaid with gold lettering.

Ciro knew that grave-digging in Schilpario would be difficult. Barite and iron mines lay beneath the village, which meant that the ground was loaded with shale. Even as his shovel struck rock again and again, he persisted, excavating white limestone hunks that looked like oversize pearls and stacked them by the grave.

Stella’s casket rested nearby on the marble floor of a mausoleum entrance. It was covered in a blessed cloth, ready to be placed in the grave when Ciro’s work was done.

Spruzzo sat on the edge of the open grave and watched his new master make steady progress, the mound of dirt next to the headstone growing higher and higher. Earlier, after final rites were performed at the graveside, the casket had been lowered into the shallow grave and covered with greenery. As soon as the last mourners left, Ciro removed the spray, lifted the casket out of the grave, and commenced digging seven feet into the earth. After two hours of digging, the shale gave way to dry earth, and Ciro dug the last two feet into the pit in no time at all.

Ciro climbed out of the grave to retrieve the casket.

Years ago, the Ravanelli family had purchased a small plot and marked it with a delicate sculpted angel of blue marble. Ciro preferred the Ravanellis’ plot, elegant in its simplicity, to the fancy mausoleums.

Ciro lifted the small casket and set it down beside the pit. He placed it gently on the ground and jumped into the grave.

“Here. Let me help,” a girl said.

Ciro peeked up from the ragged hem of the grave to see the eldest Ravanelli daughter standing over him. In this light, she seemed ethereal, like an angel herself. Her long black hair was loose, and her eyes pierced through the mist, black as jet beads. She wore a starched white apron over her paisley dress. Wiping her tears away with her handkerchief, she stuffed it into her sleeve before kneeling.

Ciro could see that the girl needed to help, that the finality of burying the casket would give her some peace. “Okay,” he said. “You lift one end, and I’ll take the other.”

Carefully, they lifted Stella’s casket together. Ciro placed it gently in the grave and positioned it in the earth firmly before climbing out. Enza knelt on the ground and bowed her head. Ciro waited for her to finish her prayer.

“You might want to go now,” Ciro said softly.

“I want to be here.”

Ciro looked around. “But I have to cover the casket now,” he said gently, as he leaned against the shovel.

“I know.”

“Are you sure?”

Enza nodded that she was sure. “I don’t want to leave my sister.”

Spruzzo whined. Enza extended her hand, and the dog trotted over to her.

“There’s some food in my knapsack,” Ciro told her.

Enza opened the burlap sack and found the end of the sausage Sister Teresa had packed for him.

“If you’re hungry, help yourself,” he offered.

“Grazie.” She smiled at him.

Enza’s smile filled Ciro with a feeling of warmth as he stood next to the mound of cold earth. He smiled back at her.

Enza fed Spruzzo bits of sausage as Ciro shoveled. He layered the ground evenly, until the surface on top was smooth and level with the other graves. When he was done, Enza helped him move the limestone rocks off to the side.

When they were done, Enza replaced the spray over the fresh grave until barely any earth showed through the quilt of green juniper and pine that the ladies of the church had gathered. Enza lifted long, fresh green branches of myrtle from a stack she had gathered that morning and made an edge around the grave, framing the grave in deepest green. She stood back; it looked lovely, she thought.

Ciro gathered the shovel and pick as Enza folded the holy cloth carefully.

“I have to return that to the priest,” Ciro said.

“I know.” Enza tucked it under her arm. “They use it at every funeral.”

“Do you press the linens?” Ciro asked.

“Sometimes. The ladies of the village alternate between the linens and tending to meals for the priest.”

“No nuns in Schilpario?”

“Just the one who runs the orphanage. And she’s too busy to do extra chores.”

Enza led Ciro out of the cemetery. Spruzzo followed behind, wagging his tail as he went.

“I can take it from here,” Ciro said to her. “Unless . . . you want to show me the way.” He smiled to invite her along.

“The rectory is behind the church,” Enza said. “Like it is in every village in every province in Italy.”

“You don’t have to tell me about churches.”

“Are you studying to be a priest?” Enza assumed he might be because he wore the clothes of the poor, and many entered the religious life because it was a good alternative to a life in the mines, or other hard-labor jobs on the mountain like stonecutting.

“Do I look like a priest?” Ciro asked her.

“I don’t know. Priests look like everyone else.”

“Well, let’s just say I will never be a priest.”

“So you’re a grave digger?”

“This is my first, and hopefully my last, time.” He realized how that sounded, so he said, “I’m sorry.”

“I understand. It’s not a pleasant job.” Enza smiled. “I’m Enza.”

“I’m Ciro.”

“Where are you from?”

“Vilminore.”

“We go there during the feast. Do you live in the village or on a farm?”

“I live in the convent.” It surprised him that he so readily admitted where he lived. Usually, when talking to girls, he was reluctant to tell them about San Nicola and how he had grown up.

“Are you an orphan?” Enza asked.

“My mother left us there.”

“Us? You have brothers and sisters?”

“One brother, Eduardo,” he said. “Not like you. What’s that like, to be from a big family?” he asked.

“Noisy.” She smiled.

“Like the convent.”

“I thought the nuns were quiet.”

“Me too. Until I lived with them.”

“So none of the piety rubbed off on you?”

“Not much.” Ciro smiled. “But that’s not their fault. It’s just that I don’t think prayers are answered very often, if at all.”

“But that’s why you need faith.”

“The nuns keep telling me I need it, but where am I supposed to find it?”

“In your heart, I guess.”

“There are other things in my heart.”

“Like what?” Enza asked.

“Maybe you’ll find out someday,” Ciro said shyly. Enza picked up a stick and tossed it up the road, and Spruzzo ran to fetch it.

They walked up the road and into town. Enza noticed that their strides were similar as they walked together. She didn’t find herself skipping to keep up with him, even though he was bigger and taller than she.

“Was your mother ill?” Enza asked.

“No. My father died, and she couldn’t take care of us anymore.”

“How sad for her,” Enza said.

In all these years, Ciro had never thought about his mother’s feelings. Enza’s observation opened up his heart to think about what his mother had gone through. Maybe she missed her sons as much as they longed for her.

“How did you come to dig my sister’s grave?” Enza asked.

“Iggy Farino sent me. He’s the caretaker at San Nicola. I work for him.” Throughout the long day, Ciro had wondered what had caused Stella’s death. Even though he overheard conversations, little was said when it came to the death of children. “I don’t mean to cause you any further sadness. But I’d like to know what happened to your sister.”

“A fever. And she had terrible bruises. It happened so fast. By the time I carried her from the waterfall back to our house, the fever had consumed her. I kept hoping the doctor could help,” Enza said. “But he couldn’t. We’ll never know.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Ciro said gently.

“There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who want to know the facts, and those who want to make up a nice story to feel better. I wish I was the kind who made up stories,” Enza admitted. “I was taking care of Stella the day before she died.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Ciro said. “Maybe you shouldn’t blame anyone, but accept that this is your sister’s story, and the ending belongs to her.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“If you look around to find meaning in everything that happens, you will end up disappointed. Sometimes there aren’t reasons behind the terrible things that go on. I ask myself, If I knew all the answers, would it help? I lie awake and wonder why I don’t have parents and wonder what will become of my brother and me. But when the morning comes, I realize that there’s nothing to be done about what has already happened. I can only get up and do my chores and push through the day and find the good in it.”

“Stella was a big part of our happiness.” Enza’s voice broke. “I never want to forget her.” Enza stifled her tears.

“You won’t. I know a little about that. When you lose someone, they take a bigger place in your heart, not a smaller one. Every day it grows, because you don’t stop loving them. You wish you could talk to them. You need their advice. But life doesn’t always give us what we need, and it’s difficult. It is for me, anyway.”

“Me too,” Enza said.

As they walked in the twilight, Ciro decided that Enza was more beautiful than Concetta Martocci. Enza was dark, like an inky lake in the moonlight, whereas Concetta was lacy and airy, like columbine in the spring. Ciro decided he preferred the mystery.

Enza had slender limbs and lovely hands. She moved gracefully and was well-spoken. Her cheekbones, straight nose, and strong chin were typically northern Italian. But she had something that Ciro had not seen in any girl before—she was curious. Enza was alert; she drank in the details of the world around her, sensitive to the feelings of others and quick to respond to them. He saw this in church that morning, and now, in conversation. In contrast, Concetta Martocci poured her energy into the cultivation of her beauty and the power it brought her.

Ciro had met Enza at her most vulnerable, and he wanted to help her. He felt compelled to do whatever he could for her. He had used his physical power when he worked, but now he wanted to share his emotional strength. There were no awkward moments with Enza; they seemed to have an immediate and comfortable connection. He hoped the walk back to the rectory took longer than he remembered; he wanted more time with this beautiful girl.

“Are you in school?” he asked.

“I’m fifteen. I finished school last year.”

He noted happily that they were the same age. “You help your mother with the house?”

“I help my father in the stable.”

“But you’re a girl.”

Enza shrugged. “I’ve always helped my father.”

“Is your father a blacksmith?”

“He drives a carriage to and from Bergamo. We have an old horse and a pretty nice carriage.”

“You’re lucky to have a carriage.” Ciro smiled. “If I had a carriage and horse, I would go to every village in the Alps. I’d take trips to Bergamo and Milan every chance I got.”

“How about over the border to Switzerland? You look like the Swiss. The light hair.”

“No, I’m Italian. Lazzari is my name.”

“The Swiss have Italian surnames sometimes.”

“You like the Swiss? Then I’ll be Swiss,” Ciro teased.

Enza walked ahead of Ciro, then turned on her heel to him. “Do you flirt with all the girls you meet?”

“Some.” He laughed. “You just ask a question like that?”

“Only when I’m interested in the answer.”

“There’s a girl I know,” Ciro admitted. He thought of Concetta, and he was disappointed all over again. The kiss between Don Gregorio and the girl he was enamored of burned in his memory like the image of hell in the fresco over the altar.

“Just one?”

“Concetta Martocci,” Ciro said softly.

“Concetta. What a beautiful name.”

“Si,” he said. “It suits her. She’s small and blond.” He glanced at Enza, who was almost as tall as he was. Ciro continued, “And I used to watch her in church. The truth is, I looked for her everywhere. I’d wait on the colonnade for her to go by. Sometimes for hours.”

“Did she return your feelings?”

“Almost.”

It was Enza’s turn to laugh. “I’m sorry, I just never heard anyone describe love in terms of almost.”

“Well, I loved her from afar, let’s say. But it turns out that she loves someone else.”

“So your love story has a sad ending.”

Ciro shrugged. “She’s not the only girl in Vilminore.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Enza said. “You can be the Prince of the Alps, wooing girls with your charm and your shovel.”

“Now you’re making fun of me!” Ciro cried.

“Not at all. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. There are lots of girls in the Alps. Pretty ones in Azzone, and more up the mountain. Or go to Lucerne. The girls are blond there, and petite and pretty. Just like you like them.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Ciro stopped and put his hands in his pockets.

Enza faced Ciro. She reached behind her apron and tightened the bow. Then she smoothed the front placket with her hands. “You should have what you want. Everyone should.”

“And what do you want?” Ciro asked her.

“I want to stay on this mountain. And I want to be with my parents until they’re old.” Enza took a breath. “Before I go to sleep, I picture my family. Everyone is safe and healthy. There’s enough flour in the bin and sugar in the jar. Our chickens decide it’s a good day, and they lay enough eggs to make a cake. That’s all I want.”

“You don’t wish for a gold chain or a new hat?”

“Sometimes. I like pretty things. But if I had to choose, I’d rather have my family.” Enza put her hands in her apron pockets.

“Have your parents made a match for you?”

“If they have, they haven’t told me who he is.” Enza smiled. How odd that Ciro asked her this question on this day, of all days. Stella’s death had forced her to grow up, or at least ponder the choices that lay ahead in adulthood. But now she realized that to have a full life, you must commit to building one.

“Maybe they haven’t chosen him yet.” Ciro leaned against the shovel.

“I wouldn’t want my parents to make a match for me. I want to choose who I will love. And I want—more than anything—to see my sister again.” Enza began to cry but stopped herself. “So I’m going to do my best in this life so that I’m sure to see her in the next one. I’m going to work hard, tell the truth, and be of some use to the people who care about me. I’m going to try, anyway.” Enza took the handkerchief out of her sleeve, turned away from Ciro, and wiped her tears away.

Ciro instinctively moved toward her and put his arms around her. Even though he had been thinking for the past several minutes how to get his arms around her, he was surprised to realize that the urge to comfort her came from a place of authentic compassion, not simply desire.

The scent of the earth and his skin enfolded her as he pulled her close.

Enza felt a sense of relief in his arms. This kindness from Ciro felt good after a day of comforting others. She leaned into him and released her burdens, crying until the tears stopped. She closed her eyes and let him hold her tight.

A feeling of contentment washed over Ciro as he held her. Enza seemed to fit naturally in his arms. There was a familiarity between them that made him feel useful. He discovered a purpose in her arms that he had never known before.

Ciro’s worth had always been measured by how hard he worked, how many chores he could complete from the time the sun came up until it went down. His diligence was his calling card and the foundation of his fine reputation; he had built his sense of self-worth one task at a time.

Ciro hadn’t had any idea how capable he would feel, caring for a person rather than completing a chore. He felt a deep well open in his heart. He believed that a girl could be a thrilling mystery, but he couldn’t have guessed she could also be a true companion, that conversation with her would fulfill him, or that he might even learn something from her.

Enza pulled away from his embrace. “You came to dig a grave, not to talk to me.”

“But I found you,” he said, took her into his arms, and kissed her. As his lips caressed hers, his mind rushed over the events of the day. He tried to remember when he had first seen her. Had he seen other girls in the crowd first and then found her, or was she the only girl he noticed? How did he get this far, how was she allowing him to kiss her when his hands were dirty and he was hardly at his best? Would there ever come a time when he would woo a girl pressed, polished, and as shiny as a glass button?

Enza felt her heart race as their lips touched, the sadness of the day quelled by the unexpected meeting with this boy from Vilminore. Maybe their kisses, breath exchanged for breath, could show her a way to live in the shadow of the sorrow of this day. Maybe her darkest moments had found some light; perhaps he could redeem her grief and replace it with connection. Maybe this boy was some kind of peculiar angel, tall and strong, with freckles from working in the sun and calluses on his hands, so unlike the soft hands of the wealthy and learned. After all, he had made Stella secure in the earth. Maybe he had been sent to place her sister in the mountain she knew and loved, making her an eternal part of it.

But it didn’t matter what he was, or where he came from. Enza was sure he had a good heart, raised as he had been by the sisters in the convent, and he filled a yearning within her. There would be time later to wonder why she had let a boy she hardly knew kiss her on Via Scalina. For her, there was no hesitancy, because there was no mystery. She understood him, though she wasn’t sure why.

In this small village, though, there were rules about courting. The thought of a neighbor seeing her, here in the open, kissing a boy quickly brought her to her senses. As usual, her practical nature won over her romantic heart.

“But you love someone else,” she said, making an excuse to step away from him, even though she didn’t want to.

“Sister Teresa says that when one girl breaks your heart, another comes along to mend it.”

Enza smiled. “I’m the best seamstress in Schilpario. Everyone says so. But I don’t know how to help you mend your broken heart. I have one of my own, you know.” Enza ran up the stairs of the rectory and rang the bell. Ciro bounded up after her.

Father Martinelli came to the door. He seemed so much smaller in the doorway than he had at the altar. His white vestment robes and gold sash had made him seem like a giant, but in his black cassock, he had shrunk to the size of an ink blotter.

“Your cloth, Don Martinelli.”

“Va bene. Buona sera.” Don Martinelli began to close the door. Ciro put his foot in the door frame to prevent the priest from closing it.

“Ignazio Farino says you’re to pay me two lire.”

“You’re an expensive grave digger.”

Father dug in his pocket and handed Ciro two lire. Ciro handed one lira back to Don Martinelli. “For the church.” Ciro said. Don Martinelli took the money, grunted, and closed the door.

“That was kind of you,” Enza said.

“Don’t think highly of me. That was the deal,” Ciro said.

Enza looked up at the night sky, an expanse of lavender with streaks of gold that looked like embroidered threads. A beautiful heaven had welcomed her sister’s soul tonight.

“Where did you stable your horse?” she asked.

“I walked.”

“From Vilminore? You can’t possibly walk over the pass when it’s dark. You could get trampled, or worse.”

Spruzzo wheezed.

“And what about your dog?”

“He’s not my dog.”

“But he follows you everywhere.”

“Because I couldn’t get rid of him. He followed me up here over the pass. I made the mistake of feeding him.”

“He chose you.” Enza knelt down to pet Spruzzo.

Ciro knelt down next to her. “I’d rather you chose me.”

Enza looked into Ciro’s eyes, and couldn’t decide if this young man was the type who said pretty things to all the girls, or if he really liked her. He wouldn’t be the first boy to take advantage of a sad girl, but Enza decided that she had to trust what she saw in him instead of thinking the worst.

“You know this church is named for Sant’Antonio di Padova, the saint of lost things. That’s a sign. Spruzzo was lost, he found you, and he meant to. You have to keep him.”

“Or what?”

“Or Sant’Antonio will forget you. And when you need him most, when you’re lost, he won’t help you find your way.”

When Enza spoke of the saints, Ciro almost wanted to believe in them. He couldn’t imagine such a personal faith, where saints were at the ready to do the bidding of those on earth. Ciro had buffed every statue at San Nicola, and never once felt the power behind the plaster images. How did this mountain girl know with certainty that the heavenly hosts were watching over her?

“Come with me,” she said. “I’ll take you home.”

“You can drive a carriage?”

“Since I was eleven,” Enza said proudly.

“This I have to see.”

Enza and Ciro walked up Via Scalina together, following Spruzzo, who trotted ahead as though he’d been officially adopted. Oil lamps lit the path to the entrance of the Ravanellis’ old stone house. The yard was filled with small groups of visitors who had come to be with the family. Inside, the house overflowed with more neighbors and friends, who had brought food and comfort to the family.

“Let me talk to my father,” she said. “I need his permission.”

Ciro followed Enza into the Ravanelli home while Spruzzo waited outside on the grass.

Ciro’s mouth watered as he looked at the table, filled with an array of homemade breads and rolls, fresh cheese, prosciutto, cold polenta, and platters of tortellini, small purses of pasta filled with sausage. On the mantel over the hearth, he saw several cakes in tin pans, reminding him of the holiday baking at the convent. Ciro delivered Sister Teresa’s rum cakes throughout Vilminore every December. An enamel pot of coffee rested on a trivet, and a pitcher of cream was set nearby. Every bench and chair was filled with company from the village.

There were children everywhere, climbing the ladder to the loft, running under the table, playing tag as they ran through the house to the outdoors. It occurred to him that a terrible day had been made whole by the laughter of children after the loss of one of their own.

Ciro felt the sudden sting of regret for all that he had missed in his own home, with family and friends filling rooms and making a life. The simply furnished house was clean and welcoming, and the friends seemed devoted. What more does a man need to be happy? Ciro wondered.

A woman around the same age as Giacomina poured her coffee, while Marco stood in a circle with several men who tried to keep his mind off his grief with stories from the mines. Ciro remembered them at the foot of the altar that morning , a lump forming in his throat.

Enza made her way to her father. She whispered in Marco’s ear, and he nodded and looked over at Ciro, sizing him up, as Enza went to her mother and knelt before her. She patted her mother’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.

Enza collected two pears, several small sandwiches, and a cavazune pie filled with ricotta and honey, placing them in a starched moppeen. She joined Ciro at the door. “Papa said we can take the carriage.”

“Before we go, may I pay my respects to your parents?” Ciro asked.

Every feeling Enza had in her heart had been expanded that day. She was surprised by Ciro’s grace and also moved by it. “Of course,” she said quietly.

Enza tied a knot in the moppeen and placed the food on the table. She took Ciro to meet her father. Ciro shook his hand and offered his condolences. Then Enza took Ciro to meet her mother. Ciro repeated his kind sympathies and remembered to bow his head to the lady of the house.

Ciro followed Enza down a stone path to the stable as Spruzzo barked outside the stable door. Enza grabbed a small oil lamp and went into the barn, where the light turned everything inside a milky gold—the hay, the walls, the trough, the horse. Cipi stood in his stall, covered by a blanket.

“You can pull the muslin cover off the carriage,” Enza said, lifting the blanket off Cipi. The horse nuzzled her neck.

“You want me to hitch the carriage?” Ciro asked.

“I can do it.” Enza led Cipi out of his stall to the carriage hitch. “You can feed him.”

Ciro lifted a bucket of oats from the feeder trough and positioned it where Cipi could gobble it down.

Enza opened the stable doors and attached the oil lamp to the hook on the carriage. She went to the water pump outside the doors and pumped fresh water for Spruzzo, who lapped it up hungrily. Then she washed her hands and face, wiping her face on her apron. Ciro did the same, wiping his own face on his bandana.

She climbed up onto the carriage bench. “Don’t forget supper.” Ciro picked up the food and climbed next to Enza, who picked up the reins as Spruzzo jumped up on to the seat and sat between them.

Enza snapped the reins; Cipi trotted out of the barn and onto the main road that weaved through Schilpario. The heart of the village, a corridor of buildings that lined either side of the road, was drenched in pale blue moonlight. The carriage passed through the narrow stone street until the walls of the town gave way to the entrance of the Passo Presolana.

The road unspooled down the mountain before them like a black velvet ribbon, the carriage lamp throwing a strong beam of white light into the darkness to guide them. Ciro watched as Enza deftly controlled the reins. She sat up high, with perfect posture, guiding Cipi through the night.

“Tell me about your ring,” Enza said.

Ciro twisted the gold signet ring on his smallest finger. “I’m afraid I’m going to outgrow it altogether.”

“Have you had it very long?”

“Since my mother left. It belonged to her.”

“It suits you.”

“It’s all I have from my family.”

“That’s not true,” Enza said. “I’ll bet you have her eyes, or her smile, or her coloring.”

“No, I look like my father.” Whenever anyone else asked about his mother, Ciro changed the subject, but Enza asked about Caterina in a manner that didn’t feel like prying. “My brother looks like our mother.” He added, “I’m not at all like her, really.”

“You should eat,” Enza said. “You must be starving.”

Ciro took a bite of the bread and cheese. “I’m always hungry.”

“What’s it like, living in the convent? When I was a little girl, I thought about becoming a nun.”

Ciro draped his arm over the back of the carriage seat around Enza. “You shouldn’t kiss boys, then.”

“Don’t look so smug.”

“How can you tell how I look? It’s dark out here.”

“I can see just fine. The lamp is loaded with oil.” Enza loosened the reins on Cipi, who slowed to a more leisurely jog.

“You don’t even have to direct him. He knows the way,” Ciro observed.

“Papa takes this route when business is good.”

“And how is business?”

“Terrible. But the summer is coming, and it’s always better then.”

“Will I see you this summer?” Ciro asked.

“We go up to Lake Endine.”

Ciro sat up. “You do?”

“We stay with our cousins. You could come with us,” Enza offered.

“I would never impose,” Ciro said.

“My brothers would love the company. They go fishing. They hike and go in caves. Battista says that there are caves with blue sand up on the mountain.”

“I’ve heard of those caves! Do you go fishing?” Ciro asked.

“No, I cook and clean and help my aunt with her babies. Just like your nuns. A lot of work, and I’m paid in fresh figs,” Enza joked.

Enza took the turn onto the piazza in Vilminore. A few of the townspeople were out after la passeggiata. Old men played cards on small tables on the colonnade as a mother pushed a pram, soothing her baby. Cipi’s hooves clicked across the piazza as Ciro took the reins and guided the carriage to the entrance of the convent.

“Thank you for the ride,” Ciro said. “I wish you didn’t have to go back alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. Cipi knows the road. Remember?”

“I’d better go,” Ciro said, yet he didn’t move. He wasn’t ready to get out of the carriage, or for this night to end.

“I’m not going to kiss you again,” Enza said gently.

“But . . . ,” Ciro said.

Enza gave him the moppeen with the food.

“Good night, Ciro. Remember, Sant’Antonio will take good care of you if you take care of Spruzzo.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Whenever you want. You know where I live.”

“The yellow house on Via Scalina,” Ciro said.

He climbed down from the carriage, his arms full of Spruzzo and the remnants of supper. He turned to say something more to Enza, but Cipi had trotted out into the piazza and was heading for the road.

Enza’s dark hair flew behind her like a veil. How small she looked, high on the driver’s bench! As the carriage turned off onto the pass, the lamplight threw a sheen on the wooden side of the carriage. “Wait!” Ciro called out, but she was gone.

I know that carriage, he thought.

It looked like the carriage that had taken his mother away. Could it be the same one? Ciro had felt there was something fated about meeting Enza, and now he knew. He couldn’t wait to tell Eduardo, who might remember the carriage in more detail than he. Or maybe he was just imagining things on this day of grave-digging and tears.

The smattering of clouds over the moon floated away, leaving a gold coin in the sky. Lucky moon. Tonight, Ciro thought, life was pretty good. If he were the praying kind, he might even thank God for his good fortune. He had a lira in his pocket. He had met a pretty girl, and he’d kissed her. It wasn’t like any of the other kisses he’d ever had, nor was she like any of the other girls who had come before her. Enza listened to him, and this was a gift sweeter than any kiss. But it would take Ciro many years to realize it.

Ciro pushed the convent door open and entered the vestibule. Eduardo jumped up from the bench. “You’re back. Grazie Dio.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What is that?” Eduardo looked down at the dog.

“This is Spruzzo.”

“You can’t have a dog in the convent.”

“He’s for Sister Teresa. She says there’s a rat in the kitchen.”

Ciro turned to head out to the workhouse. Eduardo stopped him. “They’re waiting for us in the kitchen.”

“They?”

“The nuns.”

Ciro followed Eduardo. “What’s going on?” he asked. A sense of unease displaced the contentment he had felt moments before.

The kitchen door was closed, but light spilled through the cracks in the doorjamb. Ciro told Spruzzo to stay outside as Eduardo pushed it open.

The nuns had gathered around Sister Teresa’s worktable. Some sat on stools, while others stood. Sister Teresa stood off to the side, a look of worry on her face.

“Are we taking a vote?” Ciro asked. “Because if we are, I vote to plant more olives next year than grapes.”

The nuns, who usually appreciated Ciro’s jokes, were in no mood for them tonight.

“Okay, before you punish me, for whatever I’ve done—” Ciro took the lira from his pocket. “For you.” He handed it to Sister Domenica, whose white hair stuck out of her wimple, a sure sign she’d been in a rush to get to this meeting.

“Thank you,” she said. The sisters murmured their gratitude.

“We have a very serious problem,” Sister Ercolina said as she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and stood tall and reedy, like a palm frond on Easter Sunday. She crossed her arms across her chest inside her sleeves. “We have loved having you boys here. Eduardo, you have been a wonderful student, and Ciro, we don’t know how we would have handled the garden and the chickens and the maintenance of the convent and the church without you—”

“This is about Don Gregorio, isn’t it?” Ciro interrupted her, but his mouth was so dry, he could barely swallow. He picked up the pitcher and poured himself a glass of water.

“He has asked to have you removed from the convent immediately,” Sister said.

Ciro looked at Eduardo, whose face had turned as white as the flour in the enamel bin. Ciro placed his hands on the table and nodded his head in disbelief. The Lazzari boys had lived in two homes in their young lives. The first had been taken from them because their father had died, and their mother could not build a life for them alone. Now, it was Ciro’s own actions against the village priest that had caused them to lose their home. The boys had grown accustomed to their role in service to these good and poor nuns. They felt long work hours in exchange for their room and board was a fair trade. They had became part of this community, and grown to feel affection for it. The nuns were purposeful in their motherly care of the boys, making certain they celebrated holidays and feast days as they might have with their parents. Now, the security that had given them confidence and a place in the world had been taken away.

“I hope you told Don Gregorio to drop dead,” Ciro said.

The novitiates gasped.

“He’s a priest,” Sister Ercolina said.

“He’s also a fraud who takes advantage of young girls. You press his vestments, but he is not worthy of them. You—” Ciro turned and searched the eyes of his family of nuns. “You are worthy. Every single one of you. You serve. Don Gregorio takes.”

Eduardo gripped Ciro’s arm.

“My brother and I”—Ciro’s voice broke—“thank you for taking us in. We’ll never forget you. You should not suffer because I was honest with Don Gregorio. My brother and I will pack up and find another place to stay.”

Sister Ercolina’s eyes filled with tears. “You won’t be together, Ciro.”

“Don Gregorio has seen to it that you will be separated,” Sister Teresa cried.

“Ciro, he has arranged to send you to the boys’ workhouse in Parma,” Sister Domenica began. “I argued that you had done nothing wrong, and that you don’t belong there with boys who steal and do worse, but he was vehement.”

“So the infidel punishes us instead of doing penance for his own sin. And this, dear sisters, is the man who represents God on earth? I have no words.”

“He deserves our respect,” Sister Domenica said, but the steady look in her eyes told Ciro the words were bitter in her mouth.

“Sister, you can give him yours, but he will never have mine.”

Sister Ercolina looked around, then fixed her gaze on Ciro. “I am not here to debate the power of the village priest, I am here to help you. We have all gathered to help you.”

“That’s why we meet in secret in the kitchen.” Ciro looked around at their faces, the same sweet faces with whom he and Eduardo had shared dinner since the first night they came to the convent. He could not imagine his life without them, nor could he accept the loss of his brother. Fury rose within him. “He would never think to look for us here. The saint of pots and pans is not one he calls upon. No, the saints of gold, frankincense, and lire are more his style.”

“Stop it,” Eduardo said sadly. “Listen to Sister.”

Sister Teresa stepped forward. “Ciro, we have a plan to help you.”

“What about Eduardo?”

“Eduardo is reporting to the seminary of Sant’Agostino in Rome.”

Ciro turned to his brother in disbelief. “You’re going into the seminary?”

Eduardo nodded. “I am.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Eduardo’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been thinking about it. And now I will leave the convent when you do.”

“So you’ve been sacrificed on the altar of the priesthood in exchange for me?”

Sister Teresa stepped in. “Don Gregorio insists you both leave the mountain.”

“Of course—I saw too much.”

“But we have a plan of our own. Sister Anna Isabelle has an uncle who is a very good shoemaker.”

“Oh, come on,” Ciro blurted.

“Ciro—,” Eduardo warned.

“It was either apprentice with him or go to the workhouse in Parma. That’s not a place for a fine young man with a good mind and a good heart.” Sister Teresa began to cry.

“We have to protect you,” Sister Ercolina said. “We promised your mother.”

The weight of what had transpired on this day finally settled on Ciro. This wasn’t really their home, and the nuns weren’t truly family. The security they had provided was only on loan.

“Is this shoemaker in Rome, so I can be near Eduardo?” Ciro asked, accepting his fate. Ciro would work anywhere, for anyone, as long as he could be close to Eduardo.

“No, Ciro,” Sister Teresa said.

“Milan, then?”

“America,” Sister Teresa said, as her voice broke.

The cot creaked as Ciro rolled over in the dark. “You awake?”

“I can’t sleep,” Eduardo said.

“Probably a good idea. Keep your eyes open. Don Gregorio will come in here and stab us in our cots,” Ciro said. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s too much of a coward.”

Eduardo laughed. “Do you take nothing seriously?”

“It hurts too much.”

“I know,” Eduardo said.

“Do you really want to be a priest?”

“Yes, Ciro, I do. Though I’m not worthy of it.”

“They are not worthy of you.”

“Well, either way, they’re about to find out.” Eduardo’s wry tone made Ciro laugh.

“I suppose there were signs. You served every morning mass, and you never missed vespers. And I saw you read your missal every night.”

“I’ll do my best to be one of them. I’ll become a priest, and then I’ll be able to help you should you ever need me. It doesn’t hurt to have a brother with an education and a good position in the church.”

“I would have been proud of you no matter what you became.”

“You are pure of spirit, Ciro. You always have been.”

“Right,” Ciro joked. “And what does it say in the Beatitudes? The pure of spirit inherit what? The shoes?”

“I didn’t think you knew what the Beatitudes were.”

“I guess some of your dogma soaked in after all.”

“There’s another reason for me to become a priest. I can find Mama and take care of her. The church provides for the families of the clergy.”

“You’re going to give up everything for the chance it might help Mama?” Ciro asked.

“Yes, Ciro. It’s the first vow I ever took.”

“If I could, I would help. That was always our plan. But now the Holy Roman Church has ruined that, too,” Ciro said. “I miss her.”

Eduardo got up, went to Ciro’s cot, and lay down on the floor next to him, as he had every night when they first arrived at the convent. The nearness of Eduardo was all it took to soothe Ciro. And tonight, it still did.

“When you find her, no matter where I am, I will come home to you,” Ciro said.

Spruzzo jumped up on Ciro’s cot and nestled at his feet. Ciro lay back and crossed his arms behind his head, staring at the wooden beams on the ceiling, with their spikes and hooks sticking out where pots and tools and loops of rope once hung. He wondered how soon the nuns would put all the equipment back into this room after they had left. The sisters reconfigured the space inside the convent like wealthy women in the city changed their hats.

This old room wouldn’t be empty for long.

The winter bulbs asleep in pots, the urns, the buckets, the wreaths of wire, the spirals of rope, and the bowed wooden frames of the grape arbors would find their way back onto the shelves, as the trowels, rakes, and shovels would dangle from the hooks once more. It would be as though the Lazzari brothers had never lived at San Nicola.

One day, when Ciro took a walk up the hill to Via Bonicelli, he had seen that a new family had moved into the house where he and Eduardo were born. Sometimes Ciro would climb the hill just to look at the house, so as not to forget the details of the only place his family had ever lived. Eventually, he stopped going, and now he knew why.

Memories take the place of rooms. The sisters would fold up the cots, roll the rug, and put the lamp back into the office. The ceramic washbasin and pitcher would be returned to the sisters’ quarters in the guest room. Will the nuns even think of us when we are gone? Ciro wondered as he lay in the dark.

Ciro knew every street in Vilminore, every house and every garden. He would study their architectural details, creating his own perfect home in his mind’s eye. He’d imagine a staircase here, a veranda there, windows with small panes that swung out, a garden with an arbor for grapes, and a patch of sod to grow a fig tree. He preferred a house built of stone to one of stucco and pine. He’d live at the end of the street, high on the mountain, with a good view of the valley below. He’d open his windows in the morning and let the fresh breeze through, as the sunlight filled every room, as bright as the petal of a daffodil. Light would fill every corner, and happiness would fill every room. The love of a good wife and children would fill his heart.

All Ciro knew of America was what he had heard in the village. There was a lot of boasting about the potential there, the money to be made, the fortunes to be built. But for all its promise, America had not returned their father home to the mountain. America had become, in Ciro’s mind, almost like heaven, a place he could only see in his dreams. He had longed for his father and pictured him alive still, imagined their reunion. Maybe his father was filling his purse to return to the mountain to buy them a fine house. Maybe his father had had a plan, and something had prevented him from seeing it through. Anything but death in the mine, anything but that. Ciro still believed his father was alive. He vowed to find his father and bring him home. Maybe his father had grown to love America and didn’t want to return to the mountain. That particular thought always brought Ciro pain. Ciro imagined America loud and crowded, and wondered if there were gardens and sun.

Southern Italians had flocked there to America to find work; fewer had emigrated from the Alps. Maybe that trip down the mountain was long and treacherous because it should be made rarely, if at all. It seemed to Ciro that a man had all he needed in the shadow of Pizzo Camino, so long as he was lucky enough to find love and a job to sustain his family.

Ciro was sure of one thing; he would only stay in America until the scandal blew over, not one day more. He vowed that he and Eduardo would return to Vilminore together, someday, to live on the mountain where they were born. Nothing would separate them, not even the Holy Roman Church. The Lazzari boys were blood brothers, and as their mother left them on that winter day, together, so they would remain, even when an ocean separated them.