“I always say the Ravanelli children have the best manners on the mountain.” Signor Arduini smiled. Enza looked at him, thinking that if she weren’t so scared of him, and so anxious about the power he wielded over her family, she might actually like him.
“Thank you,” said Marco.
Enza opened a tin, placing several sweet anginetti cookies on a plate. She served the men, placing two linen napkins on the table.
“I wish my daughter had Signorina’s grace,” Arduini said.
“Maria is a lovely young woman,” Marco reassured him.
“Lovely and spoiled.” Arduini sighed. “But thank you.”
Enza knew all about the pampered Maria Arduini. She had made her several gowns when she took on odd jobs in the dress shop in town. When Maria couldn’t decide upon a fabric, she would have three gowns made instead of one.
“We’re always happy to see you. What brings you here today?” Marco asked.
“I’ve been meaning to come down the mountain and talk to you about the house.”
“We would like to come to terms on the sale,” Marco began.
“I had hoped to sell it to you,” Signor Arduini said.
Marco continued, “We hope to give you a down payment by the end of summer.”
Enza placed her hand on her father’s arm. “Signor Arduini, you said you had hoped to sell it to us. Is that still your plan?”
“I’m afraid it’s no longer possible.”
There was a long silence. Signor Arduini sipped the brandy.
“Signor Arduini, we had an agreement,” Marco said.
“We would like to make an offer to you for the stable,” Signor Arduini said, placing his glass on the table. “You know that it isn’t worth much, but I’m sure we can negotiate a fair price.”
“Let me understand you, Signore. You have reneged on your offer to sell us the house, but you would like to buy my stable, which has been in my family for a hundred years?” Marco asked softly.
“It’s a small stable.” Arduini shrugged.
Infuriated, Enza blurted, “We will never sell the stable!”
Signore Arduini looked at Marco. “Does your daughter speak for you?”
“My father has worked hard to pay a high rent to you for many years in exchange for the opportunity to buy our house outright. You promised him that you would sell as soon as we had a reasonable down payment.”
“Enza.” Marco put his hand on Enza’s.
“My son wants the house,” Arduini said.
Enza was unable to contain her anger. “Your son squanders every lira you give him. He drinks his allowance at the tavern in Azzone.”
“He can raise his son as he pleases. And this is his house, Enza. He can do with it whatever he wants,” Marco said.
Since Stella died, her father’s ambition had all but left him. This current turn of events didn’t seem to surprise him so much as reinforce his sense of helplessness in the inevitable downward spiral of bad luck.
“Signore, you are backing out of a promise. That makes you a liar.” Enza seethed.
“I have been kind to this family for many years, and this is how you thank me. You allow your daughter to say whatever she likes against me. You have until the end of the month to move out.”
“Just a moment ago I had the best manners on the mountain.” Enza’s voice broke.
Arduini stood and placed his hat on his head, a sign of disrespect while he was still inside their home. He left the house without closing the door behind him.
“We’ll have to find a place to live.” Marco was stunned. He’d had no idea the meeting might end this badly.
“Enough renting! Enough living in fear under the thumb of the padrone. We should buy our own house!” Enza said.
“With what?”
“Papa, I can go to America and sew. I hear the girls in the shop talking about it. They have factories and jobs for everyone. I could go and work and send the money home, and when we have enough, I’ll return to take care of you and Mama.”
“I’m not sending you away.”
“Then come with me. You can get a job too—that’s more money for our house. Battista can run the carriage service while we’re gone. Everyone must work!”
Marco sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands, trying to sort through this dilemma.
“Papa, we have no choice.”
Marco looked up at his daughter, too tired to argue, and too defeated to come up with an alternative.
“Papa, we deserve a home of our own. Please. Let me help you.”
But Marco sipped the brandy and looked out through the open door, hoping for a miracle.
Ciro followed Remo and Carla Zanetti into their shop. He found a tidy operation. There was one serviceable main room, with a wide-plank wood floor and a tin ceiling overhead. The pungent scents of leather, lemon wax, and machine oil filled the room. A large worktable was positioned in the center of the room under a saw for cutting leather, surrounded by a series of bright work lights.
The far wall was lined with a sewing machine and a buffing apparatus for finishing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with tools and supplies, and sheets of leather, bolts of fabric, and spools of thread filled the opposite wall. As workspaces went, this one was far more pleasant than the slag pit in the bottom of the SS Chicago. Plus, Signora Zanetti looked to be a good cook.
In the back of the shop, Remo showed Ciro a small alcove with a cot, basin, pitcher, and one straight-backed chair, all of which had been cordoned off behind a thick curtain.
“It’s as nice as the convent,” Ciro said as he placed his duffel on the chair. “And better than the ship.”
Remo laughed. “Yes, our apartments in Little Italy are better than steerage. But just barely. It’s God’s way of keeping us humble.” Remo opened the back door of the shop. “That’s my little piece of heaven. Go ahead.”
Ciro followed Remo through the open door to a small enclosed garden. Terra-cotta pots positioned along the top of the stone wall spilled over with red geraniums and orange impatiens. An elm tree with a wide trunk and deep roots filled the center of the garden. Its green leaves and thick branches reached past the roof of Remo’s building, creating a canopy over the garden. There was a small white marble birdbath, gray with soot, flanked by two deep wicker armchairs.
Remo fished a cigarette out of his pocket, offering another to Ciro as both men took a seat. “This is where I come to think.”
“Va bene,” Ciro said as he looked up into the tree. He remembered the thousands of trees that blanketed the Alps; here on Mulberry Street, one tree with peeling gray bark and holes in its leaves was a cause for celebration.
“Signor Zanetti,” Ciro began, “I’d like to pay you rent.”
“The agreement is that you’ll work for me, and I’ll provide your room and board.”
“I had that same agreement at the convent, and it did not end well for me. If I pay you, then I’m secure.”
“I’m not looking for a boarder to pay me rent; I need an apprentice. The letter from my cousin, the nun, came at the right moment. I need help. I’ve tried to train a couple of boys here in the neighborhood, but they’re not interested. They want the fast money. Our boys rush to line up for day work on the docks. They’re assigned to crews that build bridges and lay tracks for the railroad. They work long hours and make a good wage, but they aren’t learning a craft. A trade will sustain you, while a job will only feed you temporarily. I think it’s important to be able to make something, whether it’s shoes or sausage. Food, clothing, and shelter are the basic needs of all people. If you master a trade that serves one of those needs, you will work for a lifetime.”
Ciro smiled. “I’ll work hard for you, Mr. Zanetti. But to be honest with you, I have no idea if I have any talent for what you do.”
“I will teach you the technique. Some of us make shoes; then there are the men who do more. They take the same skills I use in the shop to make sturdy shoes, and ma
ke art. Either way, you’ll eat. The world will never run out of feet in need of a pair of shoes.”
Ciro and Remo leaned back in the wicker chairs and puffed their cigarettes. The smooth tobacco calmed Ciro after his long journey. He closed his eyes and imagined he was home with Iggy, sharing a smoke in the church garden. Perhaps this little garden on Mulberry Street would be a tonic for his homesickness.
“You like girls, Ciro?” Remo cleared his throat.
“Very much,” Ciro answered honestly.
“You want to be careful, Ciro,” Remo said, lowering his voice.
“Oh, I understand about the red-haired girl on the dock now,” Ciro said, embarrassed. “At first, I didn’t. She just seemed pretty and American.”
“She has a job. But I’m talking about the girls on Mulberry Street, on Hester, and on Grand. They’re about your age, and sometimes there are ten children living in the same three rooms. It gets tiresome for them. The girls want to marry, as soon as possible. So they find a hardworking young man who will provide for them and take them away from the situation they come from.” Remo put his cigarette out on a stone at the bottom of the tree.
“And you think the girls on Mulberry are lining up for Ciro Lazzari to take them away from their troubles?” Ciro smiled.
Remo smiled too. “There will be a few.”
“Well, sir, I’m here to work,” Ciro said solemnly. “I want no permanent part of this beautiful country. I want to save my money and go home to Vilminore, find a good wife there, and build a house for her with my own hands. I’d like a garden like this, and one cigarette a night in a deep, comfortable chair where I can sit and think after a hard day’s work. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but that would be the perfect life for me.”
“So you won’t be a Romeo in Little Italy?”
“I didn’t say that. But I won’t get serious, that I promise you.”
Carla pushed through the door with a tray of popovers and three small glasses of red wine. Ciro rose and gave her his chair.
“I thought we needed to toast our new apprentice,” she said.
“The Italian way,” Remo said, winking at Ciro.
Every May, Our Lady of Pompeii Church on Carmine Street held the Feast of Santa Maria, in honor of the Blessed Mother. The church bells chimed the tune of “Hail Holy Queen Enthroned Above” as the vestibule doors were propped open to reveal a church overflowing with baskets of white roses. This was the most important feast day for the girls of the parish who, at sixteen, were at the peak of their adolescent beauty.
The girls wore white silk gowns and tiaras of tiny satin rosebuds woven by the women of the church sodality. Across their gowns, they wore sashes in a demure pink called ashes of roses. The street was cleared as the girls processed single file from the church on Carmine Street to Bleecker Street and back again, following the priest, the altar boys, and the men of the church carrying the statue of the Blessed Lady.
This parade was a celebration of what it meant to be both Italian and American. As Americans, they were free to march through the streets, and as Italians, they could express their devotion to Mary, the mother of all mothers. They hoped the queen of heaven would shower them with health, good fortune, and strong families in exchange for their alms. The religious aspect was only part of the celebration. It was also a chance for the young men of the village to choose the girl of their dreams from the May court.
Ciro stood on the corner in the midst of the crowd as the girls passed. The May Queen was the most beautiful girl in the parade. Felicitá! Felicitá! The crowd chanted her name. She wore a sheath of white silk and, upon her lustrous black curls, a long lace mantilla. Her veil fluttered on her shoulders in the breeze.
Ciro remembered a similar mantilla worn by Concetta Martocci in the church of San Nicola, the afternoon he sat with her. Ciro no longer felt the sting of regret when he thought of Concetta, just the pang of rejection. The wise man leaves the past behind like a pair of boots he has outgrown.
Ciro set his gaze upon Felicitá, as did every young man in the crowd. Ciro watched as Felicitá pulled a white rose from her bouquet and handed it to an old lady in the crowd. This simple gesture was full of grace, and Ciro took it in.
Women move through the world never knowing their power.
The next time I fall in love, Ciro thought to himself, I will choose wisely. I will make sure that the girl loves me more than I love her. It was in that moment, when he made that promise to himself, that he set his cap for Felicitá Cassio, the May Queen.
Chapter 11
A BLESSED MEDAL
Una Medaglia Benedetta
The quarter moon peeked through the alpine trees like a snip of pink ribbon in the purple night sky. By the first day of May 1910, a few weeks after their disastrous meeting with Signor Arduini, the Ravanellis were settled into another rental two streets away from the house where their six children had been born. Enza made fast work to find another house with the help of her boss at the dress shop.
The move from Via Scalina to Via Gondolfo meant less space and a higher rent. Instead of an entire house, Marco rented the bottom floor of the Ruffino homestead, which had a small garden in the back, a patch of green grass in the front, four rooms, and a fireplace. Even though they were lucky to find a house so quickly, leaving one landlord for another was not what Marco had envisioned for his family.
Marco kept the family stable on Via Scalina, refusing to sell it to Signor Arduini. He built a low fence between the two buildings and laid a new stone path to the entrance from the street. Signor Arduini was not pleased with the situation, but Marco would not sell the barn to the man who had forced him out of his home.
When Marco passed Signor Arduini in the streets of Vilminore, he continued to show his respect and tip his hat. Signor Arduini did not return the kindness. Enza’s words still burned in the padrone’s gut like the perpetual flames in the coke ovens below the village. It was a fire Arduini could not put out.
The final piece of the Ravenellis’ bad luck came one day while Enza was working in Signora Sabatino’s dress shop. Enza remembered the day the old lady from Lake Iseo came to pick up her dress for her son’s wedding. Ida Braido was small, slim and white haired, but she had the focus of a much younger woman with a project in mind.
Ida’s blue eyes were clear behind her eyeglasses as she sat in the window seat, waiting for Signora Sabatino to attend to her. Enza sat behind the sewing machine, carefully feeding two sides of a cotton placket under the bobbin. Ida watched her with interest.
“Is there anything a machine can’t do?” Signora Braido asked.
“Fall in love,” Enza replied.
“Or die,” Signora Braido mused.
“Oh, they can die all right,” Signora Sabatino said as she entered from the back of the shop. “I had a buttonholer give out last week. Enza and I have the bloody thumbs to prove it.”
Signora Sabatino held up the dress, a simple pale yellow sheath overlaid with organza embroidered in a pattern of small daisies around the hem.
“I did all the stitchwork by hand. No machines touched your gown,” Enza assured her.
“I like it,” Ida Braido said. “It’s fitting for a send-off.”
“I thought you were going to wear it to your son’s wedding.”
“I am. After the wedding he and his bride are leaving for Naples, where they are taking the SS Imelda to America. I am losing a son, gaining a daughter-in-law, and then losing them both.”
Signora Braido opened her change purse and handed the seamstress full and final payment for the daisy dress. She went out into the street, where her son awaited with a horse cart to take her home.
“All these pazzo people and their dreams of America,” Signora Sabatino said. “What do they think? If every Italian leaves to find a job in America, pretty soon there will be too many workers in America lining up for a few jobs. And then what? They’ve lost their home here, and any possibility of returning. Crazy dreams.”
&n
bsp; Signora Sabatino lifted the bin of finished mending and went to the back room.
Enza pulled her small notebook and pencil from her apron and calculated her pay against what the girls made in America. She would have to work several years for Signora Sabatino to make what she could save in one year in America. Enza tucked the notebook with the figures back into her pocket.
Enza adjusted her work lamp over the needle of her sewing machine.
She flipped the bobbin switch and fed the fabric under the needle, guiding it with her hands. The silver needle pumped up and down along the chalk line of the placket. She released the bobbin switch, pulled the fabric away gently from the gears, and snipped the threads with her shears. She examined her work. She had created one flawless seam, quickly, with a sure hand, just like a master.
She had sat back in her work chair when she saw Eliana tap on the window. Enza went to the door.
“Andiamo!” Eliana said urgently.
“Is it Mama?” Enza’s heart sank in her chest.
“No, no. The stable.”
Enza called out to Signora Sabatini that she must go. She ran with Eliana from the shop to Marco’s stable.
Giacomina stood by the worktable, holding Alma, who cried into her apron.
“Mama? What is it?” Enza asked, fearing that something terrible had happened to her father. She turned and saw Marco kneeling in Cipi’s stall. Battista and Vittorio fought back tears as they stroked Cipi’s mane.
The grand old horse lay still on the clean straw as Marco covered him with a blanket. The day they dreaded had come. Cipi was old, and finally his heart had given out.
“He’s gone,” Papa said, tears in his eyes.
Enza went into the stall, Vittorio and Battista moving aside as she knelt next to Cipi, whom she had known all of her life. His shiny mane was still warm, and his brown eyes, even in death, had a sweet expression, one of surrender, where there once had been one of abiding patience. Enza remembered climbing up on his back when she was a girl, grooming him as soon as her hand had grown large enough to hold the brush, and, when she grew tall enough, feeding him slices of apples from her hands. She remembered loading the carriage lamp with oil in the winter, and making bouquets of fresh flowers to attach to the carriage in summer. Cipi had pulled the carriage that carried Stella’s coffin, and had taken every bride and groom from Sant’Antonio down the mountain to Bergamo after their weddings. She remembered braiding Cipi’s mane with ribbons on feast days—red on Christmas, white on Easter, and pale blue for Santa Lucia. She remembered leaving the house on the night of a snowstorm and going to the barn to throw an extra blanket over him. She remembered shaking the sleigh bells on the carriage at Christmastime as Cipi pulled the children through the streets while the snow fell. She had taken excellent care of this horse, and in return, he had served her family loyally and well.