“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 y
ou 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.
Chapter 19
A CALLING CARD
Un Biglietto da Visita
Garlands of purple wisteria were draped along the velvet ropes at the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House, bringing to mind a grape trellis in a Tuscan garden.
As the society ladies took their places in line to enter, their brooches of emeralds and sapphires, their platinum tiaras shimmering with diamonds and pearls, created the impression of an enchanted forest, filled with wingless fairies under a night sky.
Inside, orderly pandemonium ensued as the costume crew handed off last-minute fixes to the dressing crew, who ran the costumes through the catacombs and up to the actors, who reviewed their sheet music and ran scales before the performance.
Signor Caruso was nervous.
The United States had entered World War I, and Caruso wanted to show his appreciation. Antonio Scotti and Caruso had put the show together, using arias from their favorite operas, enlisting the help of the Met chorus and friends like Geraldine Farrar. Even Elia Palma had arrived from the Philadelphia Opera House, with his favorite sopranos in tow, to be part of the star-studded evening. Every friend Caruso had would either appear onstage or play in the orchestra pit. No one would ever deny a request from the Great Caruso.
Caruso enjoyed playing several parts in one evening, but it was something he did in private homes or performing at smaller gatherings. His costumes hung on a free-standing rolling rack. He sat in his white cotton undershorts and shirt, beige silk dress socks and braces, smoking a cigar, checking the show order, a handwritten list of numbers he was to sing. Caruso’s secretary, Bruno Zirato, took notes to deliver to the conductor.
The orchestra seats were a sea of crisp brown uniforms, as soldiers shipping off to Europe were given priority, with complimentary tickets to the show. They poured into the rows with military precision, as if they were running a maneuver.
The diamond horseshoe overflowed with members of New York society, their elaborate evening gowns of coral, turquoise, and grass green tulle gave the effect of opulent windowboxes in full bloom.
Calling cards, hand-printed on linen paper, were placed on a round table in the vestibule outside the boxed seats. The names written in midnight blue calligraphy included royalty and the political and military elite, as well as the families who had built the city and sustained its culture: Vanderbilt, Cushing, Ellsworth, Whitney, Cravath, Steele, and Greenough. They slipped into their box seats, were served champagne and strawberries, and waited for the curtain to lift with the same giddy anticipation felt by the working people who’d bought single tickets to stand in the back of the theater to hear the Great Voice.
Geraldine Farrar slipped into her satin gown, wriggling her hips, then pulling the bodice over her bosom.
“I don’t miss the blue,” she said. “Serafina, you were right.”
“Thank you.” Serafina crossed her arms and nodded appreciatively at Geraldine.
The dresser adjusted the mirrors so Geraldine might see the gown from the rear. She nodded, pleased with the results, as the dresser handed her a pair of diamond drop earrings, which she clipped onto her ears as if she were fastening the snaps of a work smock.
Antonio Scotti, in full tuxedo, placed a clean moppeen over his shirt and cummerbund and slowly sipped warm chicken consommé from a cup as he flipped through the sheet music for his selections, stopping to ponder a particular chord.
Enza and Laura lifted the hems of their evening gowns and ran at full speed through the catacombs beneath the stage. Enza wore a pink drop-waist satin gown, cut on the bias, while Laura wore a structured yellow si
lk skirt, tied at the waist with an enormous bow made of lilac tulle and topped with a white silk blouse with covered buttons.
“Let’s go, butterflies,” Colin hollered from the end of the catacomb.
The girls reached him, laughing.
“Vito’s waiting for us in the light lift.”
Enza and Laura followed Colin through the hidden passages, up the stairs, until they were behind the diamond horseshoe. They could hear the heavy footfall of evening shoes above them from the balcony, as the patrons took their seats for the show.
Colin guided them up a small ladder at the upper tier of the mezzanine. The girls hiked their skirts before climbing up into the light booth, past the row of spotlights, which tonight, looked like a string of lucky full moons.
Vito, in a tuxedo with tails, extended his hand to help Enza up into the booth and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he told her.
“So do you,” she said.
“You’re not even panting from the climb,” Vito marveled.
“She’s part alpine goat, remember?” Laura said from her place on the ladder. “We Irish girls run on flat land, and never far, only door to door for a cup of sugar for tea.”
Colin pushed Laura up into the booth by her hips to join Enza and Vito.
“Do I get a warm welcome too?” Laura asked Vito as she flounced her skirt back into place.
“No, you get warm champagne.”
“Great. Worth the hike.”
Vito popped the cork and handed out paper cups. As the timpani sounded in the orchestra pit like a warning gong over an ancient valley, they sat on work stools and watched as the grand curtain parted, and a blue spotlight bathed Enrico Caruso in a single diamond-cut beam.
The audience rose to its feet. Caruso stood in the blue light, his eyes shining like black diamonds, and grinned with the delight of a man who loved what he did for a living. The violins crescendoed, and the first note of the evening, a solid A above middle C, sailed out over the crowd like a clean, clear cannon shot.
Enza took Vito’s hand and held it tight.
Vito left the light booth before the final curtain to accompany the press to Caruso’s dressing room. The standing ovation from the soldiers lasted for six minutes, until Caruso bade them good night, laughing that they would surely lose the war if he continued to sing and they remained in their seats.