The Shoemaker's Wife

PART TWO

Manhattan





Chapter 9

A LINEN HANDKERCHIEF

Un Fazzolletto di Lino

Two days after he left Eduardo at the train station in Bergamo, Ciro made his way up the plank of the SS Chicago in Le Havre, hauling his duffel over his back. His impression of the French port city was limited to the view of the canal, with its bobbing dinghies nipping at the hulls of ocean liners lashed to the docks. The pier was cluttered with passengers filing up the planks of the ships with their luggage. Behind a wall of fishing net, swarms of loved ones waved their handkerchiefs and tipped their hats as they bid their final good-byes.

There was no one to see Ciro off on his journey. For an ebullient young man who had never known a stranger, he was subdued and sober as he made his connections. Ciro bought a meal of cold polenta and hot milk before boarding. He skipped the sausage, so the hearty meal only cost him a few centesimi. He hoped to arrive in America with his small purse intact.

The attendant took Ciro’s ticket and directed him belowdecks to the men’s third-class compartment. Ciro was relieved the sexes were segregated on this ship, as Sister Ercolina had told him about grim steerage accommodations where men, women, and children stayed in one large room, separated only by squares drawn on the ship’s floor with paint.

Ciro pushed the metal door to his cell open, dropped his head, and stooped to enter. The room was five by five feet, with a small cot jammed against the wall. Ciro could not stand up in it, and there was no window. But it was clean enough, with a scent of saltwater.

Ciro sat down on the cot and opened his duffel. The fragrance of the convent laundry—lavender and starch—enveloped him, fresh as the mountain air of Vilminore. He snapped the satchel shut quickly, hoping to preserve the scent; this was all he had left to remind him of his life in San Nicola.

The ship creaked in the harbor as it floated in place, rubbing against the pilings. For the first time since he’d boarded the train in Bergamo, Ciro exhaled. The anxiety of changing trains, meeting the ferry in Venice, and processing his ticket once he arrived in La Havre had kept him in a state of highest alert. During the day, he dared not nap or let his mind wander, for fear he would miss a train or ferry and bungle the trip entirely.

The first night, he’d slept in a church in Venice; on the second, he found a spot between shops on the boardwalk in Le Havre. Now only the ocean kept him from the start of his new life. He had avoided conversation with strangers, having been warned about the swindlers who preyed on unsuspecting passengers. He would like to see anyone try to get his money. He tucked it carefully in a pouch around his neck, then pinned it to the inside of his undershirt for safekeeping.

Ciro’s heart ached for all he was leaving behind, especially the company and counsel of Eduardo, the person who had made him feel safe in the world. None of the events of the past week had seemed real as they were happening, but now that he was alone, Ciro felt the finality of all of it. Ciro had been punished for something he had seen, not something he had done. He was aboard this ship because he had no advocate and was an orphan. The nuns had spared him the work camp, but the priest had levied a far worse punishment when he separated one brother from the other. Ciro buried his face in his sleeve and wept.

It was in the release of his sadness that Eduardo’s reassuring words flooded back to Ciro. He took stock of his situation. He knew how to work hard. Hadn’t the nuns marveled at his strength and stamina? He looked down at his hands, replicas of his father’s. Ciro was a common laborer, but he was intelligent; he could read and write, thanks to Eduardo. He knew how to cut a fair business deal because of Iggy. He had mastered self-denial and sacrifice through convent living. He would live frugally in America and save his money, thus speeding his return to the mountain. In this instance, his banishment was also his ticket to adventure, to his future.

Ciro would show the priest what he was made of by making something of himself. He would eat just enough to maintain his strength, pay as little as possible for his accommodations, and avoid temptation. A full purse cannot be denied; a full purse has power and a voice. Ciro learned that, watching the collection plate being passed in San Nicola.

Ciro poured water from his canteen onto his clean handkerchief and washed his face. He placed his duffel neatly under the cot. He locked the cell door before he climbed back up the steps to the deck. He was not going to isolate himself because Don Gregorio mandated it. Ciro decided to throw himself into the experience of the crossing, so he positioned himself on the promenade and watched the passengers board, dazzled by the variety of people who climbed the plank.

Whenever there was a festival in Vilminore, hundreds of visitors from nearby towns emptied into the village. The revelers were hardworking mountain people who toiled in the mines or on the farm, just like the people who lived in Vilminore. There was no discernible difference in wealth or status. Men worked to provide for the table and had to work the same amount of hours to get it. But even among the padrones of the Italian Alps, there was nothing that compared to the opulence Ciro watched sashay up the plank of the SS Chicago.

The wealthy Europeans were beautifully dressed in pastel linens and pale silks, followed by maids and errand boys who carried their luggage. The servants were dressed better than anyone Ciro knew in Vilminore. His eyes fell upon an older woman, dressed in a wide-brimmed straw hat. A servant followed her, balancing two leather hatboxes, one in each hand. She was followed by a second maid who pushed a canvas dress box on wheels, as tall as she, up the plank. Ciro had never seen such service. His first observation was that the rich didn’t carry their own weight.

Ciro heard a variety of Italian dialects. Ciro’s own, the Bergamasque of the Lombardy region, was heavily influenced by the Swiss that bordered them to the north. The Venetians, by contrast, had low, rolling vowels and enunciated clearly, something Ciro was quick to pick up as influenced by the French. He heard all manners of Italian spoken—Barese, Tuscan, Calabrese, and Sicilian. The world was noisy. As Ciro looked around, he was the only person who seemed to be listening.

Sometimes there was no need for words. Ciro watched as young women floated through the crowd. Perhaps it was their lace shift dresses, or the soft sway of the cream-colored tulle on their hats, but they appeared light and airborne, moving like a dizzy constellation of white butterflies that hovered over the fields of Alta Vilminore in the springtime.

Ciro saw people he had only read about in books. Turks wore starched tunics in shades of indigo, the color of the waves of the Adriatic, embroidered with silver thread. Portuguese laborers, squat and muscular, wore overalls, straw hats, and looks of defiance. French nuns, wearing white winged wimples, skimmed down the steps into steerage like a flock of gray pigeons.

The sisters of San Nicola had taught Ciro to seek the nuns dressed like them, le bianconere, the “black-and-whites” who wore a large wooden cross on rosary beads draped from the waist. He had been instructed to approach them and explain his connection. The sisters promised he would never be turned away from any convent of their order, if he ever found himself without a place to stay.

Two old British men wearing rumpled wool suits with plaid vests, the uniforms of il professore, climbed the steps to first class, speaking proper English. An Italian family, with grandmother in tow, headed to second class. She directed her grandsons on the proper technique for hauling the food hampers. It occurred to Ciro that men pretended to run the family, but in truth, the women were in charge. He wondered why this family was emigrating, as it appeared that they were doing well in Italy. It occurred to Ciro that most people were not on the run as he was. Perhaps they were looking for an adventure, just for its own sake. He could not imagine the luxury of that.

“Ciao.”

“Ciao,” Ciro said as he turned to face a man of thirty, with thick brown hair, who wore an immaculate white uniform with colorful bars across the pocket.

“Are you the captain?” Ciro asked.

“The bursar. I’m Massimo Zito.” The man smiled. “I hire the crew here.”

“You speak Italian,” Ciro said, his ears ringing from the circus of sounds around him. “My Italian.”

“And French, Spanish, Portuguese, and English. And a little Arabic.”

“The only language I speak is Italian,” Ciro told him. “And Latin, only because my brother insisted I learn it.”

“Why are you going to America?”

“To make money,” Ciro said. “Is there any other reason?”

“Si, Si. America has lovely women. Do you like blondes? The gold in their hair glitters like the gold in the streets. Brunettes? Like chestnuts, they’re everywhere. Redheads? Like apples in trees, available by the bushel. They work in factories and crack their gum.”

“They can do whatever they want, as long as they talk to me.” Ciro laughed.

A lovely young woman wearing an apricot dress with periwinkle calfskin boots glided up the plank into first class. Ciro and Massimo watched her go.

“I hope this trip takes a lifetime if all the girls on board are that beautiful,” Ciro said.

Massimo laughed. “It’s a brief lifetime. We’ll arrive in nine days. Are you alone?”

“Yes, Signore,” Ciro said.

“Are you looking for a job?”

“That depends,” Ciro said. “What position are you offering?”

“I need another man in the boiler room. Shoveling coal.”

“What are you paying?” Ciro looked off in the bustle below and squinted nonchalantly, just as Iggy had taught him. Never show the padrone you want the job.

“I can pay you three dollars American for nine days’ work.”

“Three dollars?” Ciro shook his head. “I’m sorry. Can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I need ten dollars for that job,” Ciro said. He gazed out over the docks absently, though his heart raced.

“That’s crazy.” Massimo’s voice went up an octave.

Ciro had no idea how hard the job in the belly of the ship would be; he only knew that he was strong, and certainly knew his way around a shovel. If he had dug a grave in a poor village for two lire, surely one American dollar was a fair daily wage for shoveling coal aboard an ocean liner. Ciro talked himself into his firm counteroffer with logic. “Ten dollars, Signor Zito,” Ciro replied evenly.

“You’re out of your mind. Eight dollars,” Massimo countered.

Ciro turned to face Massimo. “I suppose it would be difficile to find someone to shovel the coal at this point. I mean, we’re about to shove off here. You don’t have time to go and empty the local jail, or pick up an ambitious boy on the street who wants to take a ride to America. From the looks of the French boys, you’d be hard pressed to find one strong enough to do the work. They’re as lean as the overpriced baguettes they sell on the pier. I can appreciate the bind you’re in. How about this—I’ll take the eight dollars, if you’ll also refund the fare I paid to ride this boat.”

“You expect one hundred lire plus eight dollars?”

“I’m sure the rest of the crew gets their room and board for free. Including you.” Ciro leaned over the railing and studied the middle distance, awaiting Massimo’s counteroffer.

Finally, Massimo sighed. “You’re going to do very well in America.”

Waves of blistering heat greeted Ciro as Massimo Zito unhinged the entrance door to the furnace room. When the good sisters of Vilminore had taught Ciro about hell, he imagined an open pit with flames. The belly of the SS Chicago came close to their description.

The massive boiler room extended the length of the ship under a low steel-beamed ceiling. It held the mechanics for the coal ovens that heated the water that fed the steam engine. The storage bins for the coal were as deep as the ship, funneled through a large chute that led to the coal pit in the boiler room. From there, the crew shoveled the coal into the furnace. It would take 570 tons of coal to produce enough steam for the SS Chicago's transatlantic voyage, shoveled round the clock by thirty men in twelve-hour shifts. Ciro was the thirtieth hire.

Massimo Zito pulled the overseer off the job to meet Ciro. Christie Benet, a Frenchman and the boss of the operation, was covered in coal dust. The deep furrows of his brow seemed engraved in black ink, making the whites of his eyes look bright and menacing in contrast.

“He’ll do,” Benet told Massimo. He turned to Ciro. “There’s a pair of overalls in the pump room.” Benet turned back to the open mouth of the pit. Ciro was in awe of the mighty furnace, but more so of his good fortune. He had secured his first job, and he hadn’t yet set foot in America.

Massimo Zito took good care of the workers. Occasionally the men received the leftovers from first class, so Ciro sampled his first croissant, steamed asparagus, and boiled shrimp.

The men were allowed to bathe at the shift change before dawn. They climbed up to the second tier of the ship and, in an area cordoned off by bamboo screens, used one of the fire hoses as a showerhead and lye soap to scour off the coal dust. By the end of the week, Ciro noticed that the lye soap could not strip all of the coal-dust residue off his skin. His hands, face, and ears had a gray pallor where the dust had embedded itself in his pores. He understood why his fellow workers looked far older than he, when they were actually close in age. This was brutal work that took a toll on the body immediately.

Ciro pulled on a clean jumpsuit in the deck changing area before returning down to the pit. He took a moment to look out over the water. As the sun rose over the Atlantic, the sea took on a glistening coral patina. The distant horizon appeared fringed in gold. Ciro lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag off it. It was his sixteenth birthday that morning, and he took a quiet moment to celebrate it.

“Two more days,” said Luigi Latini, who had worked beside Ciro in the pit from the first day. Luigi was from the south, the province of Foggia on the Adriatic. He was of medium height, and built like a sturdy square box. At twenty, he looked out for Ciro like a reliable older brother. Luigi had a small nose and large brown eyes, which gave him the appearance of a thoughtful rabbit.

“It’s almost over, Luigi.” Ciro handed him the cigarette.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting a family who has sponsored me. They live in Manhattan. How about you?”

“I’m going to Mingo Junction, Ohio. My parents made a match. I’m going to marry Alberta Patenza,” Luigi said as he handed the cigarette back to Ciro.

“Have you met her?”

“Only her picture. Che bella.”

“Have you written to her?”

“Oh, yes, many times.” Luigi said.

“You seem worried for a man who has a beautiful girl waiting for him.”

“What if she’s brutta? You know, there are stories. Parents make a match through letters, and they switch the pictures. Suddenly Philomena is replaced by Graciela. That sort of thing. You could end up with a faccia di bow wow when you thought you were getting a princess.”

“I hope that doesn’t happen to you.”

Luigi shrugged. “If it does, I run.”

Ciro laughed. “If you can run as fast as you shovel coal, you’ll do all right.”

“In photographs, Alberta’s nose is small, like mine.” Luigi rubbed the ridge of his nose with his fingers. “I need to keep this nose in the family. If I marry a girl with a big nose, then I have big-nosed babies, and I don’t want that.”

Ciro laughed. Luigi wasn’t the only man with a list of what he wanted in a wife. Ciro had been amending his list since he first noticed girls. He didn’t much care about her nose, but he did want a girl who was sweet, kind, and moved through the world with grace. She had to be beautiful, because like any work of art, beauty reveals new aspects over time. “You will have your small-nosed babies, Luigi,” Ciro said, taking the last drag off the cigarette before flicking it into the ocean. The orange tip flashed then went out in midair. “Everyone should have what they want.” Ciro leaned against the railing and remembered who had given him that bit of wisdom. Enza Ravanelli of Schilpario. The sky was cobalt blue the night he kissed her. He had been carrying a shovel exactly like the one he used to load coal into the pit of the SS Chicago.

Ciro had begun to notice the overlapping themes of his life. The seemingly disparate pieces of his experience weren’t so separate after all. Happenstance and accidents didn’t seem so random. The mystery of the connections intrigued him, but he wasn’t going to agonize about them, and he had not yet reached an age where he was interested in analyzing them either. He figured that all the threads of his experience would eventually be sewn together, taking shape in harmony and form to create a glorious work of art. But who would sew those pieces together? Who would make him whole? That was something Ciro thought about a lot.

Before he went to sleep, Ciro thought about girls instead of praying. Girls were a kind of religion to him. He visualized their sweet charms and the haunting details of their beauty, black eyes obscured by a tulle veil, a graceful hand on the stem of a parasol, or Concetta Martocci’s small ankles the night he caught her with the priest. These fleeting memories soothed him, but lately, as he drifted into sleep, his thoughts had gone to Enza Ravanelli, whose kiss he remembered with particular delight. When he thought of Enza, he didn’t imagine her lips, her eyes, or her hands. Rather, he saw her in full, standing before him in the blue night air, every aspect of her beauty revealed in the light.