Ciro decided to climb the last bit of the Passo Presolana on foot. He sent his duffel ahead on the carriage to the convent of San Nicola, where the nuns had prepared the guest room for him.
Ciro buttoned his coat as he hiked up the hill to the entrance of Vilminore. He stopped at the top of a cliff and looked down into the gorge, where the green leaves of late summer had fallen away, leaving behind a tangle of gray. From his vantage point, the branches looked like a mass of childhood scribbles, a charcoal nest of intersecting lines and curves, made when a boy was just learning to write.
Ciro smiled when he remembered the girls he would woo to walk with him along the cliffs, and how it was the perfect excuse to hold a girl’s hand where the road narrowed. He remembered the day Iggy had brought Eduardo and him down the mountain, how they didn’t say much, but Iggy let him smoke a cigarette. Ciro had been fifteen when he was sent away. One transgression against the priest in the Church of Rome had changed the course of his life.
As he walked in the grooves of the cinnamon-colored earth, he thought of Enza, and the life they would have had on the mountain. Maybe she would have been able to have more children here, away from the pressures of making a living. Maybe he would have built the house on the hill that he had imagined in his dreams.
It had been twenty years since Ciro stood in the piazza of Vilminore. As he surveyed the colonnade, he realized that not much about it had changed. Some of the shops had been handed down to the sons, but mostly the village was just as he left it, houses of stucco surrounding the San Nicola church and rectory, and anchored across the way by the convent. The chain of command appeared to be what it always had been; the feeling of the place was familiar.
Ciro rapped on the convent door, then pulled the chain to ring the bell. When the door opened, Sister Teresa gently took Ciro’s face in her hands. She still had the face she had twenty years ago; only a small web of lines around her eyes like spider silk betrayed her age.
“Ciro Lazzari!” she exclaimed. “My boy!” She threw her arms around him.
“I’m an old man now. I’m thirty-six years old,” he told her. “Look at my fingers. See the scars from the lathe? I’m a shoemaker.”
“Good for you. Enza wrote to me. She told me if she waited for you to write a letter, I would be waiting until Judgment Day.”
“That’s my wife.”
“You’re a lucky man.” She folded her hands into the sleeves of her habit. Ciro thought he was anything but lucky. Couldn’t Sister Teresa see that he was running out of time? The nun took him by the hand into the convent.
“Did you make me pastina?”
“Of course. But you know, I work in the office now. Sister Bernarda is the new cook. They brought her up from Foggia. You never met her—she came a couple years ago. She knows her way around a tomato. And she is so much better with the baking than I ever was.”
“You were a good baker!”
“No, I was good at the pot de crème and the tapioca—but when it came to cakes, they were like fieldstones.”
The nuns had gathered in the foyer. The young faces of the novitiates were new to him, but a few of the nuns who had been young when he was a boy were still there. Sister Anna Isabelle was now the Mother Superior, Sister Teresa her second in command.
Sister Domenica had died soon after Ciro left, and Sister Ercolina recently. The black-and-whites were family to him—a crew of dotty aunts, some funny, most well-read, some brilliantly intelligent, others survivors like him, who used their wits, their quick humor, or their stubborn natures, but all of them, unlike him, when they knelt before the altar, were pious. In hindsight, Ciro could appreciate their goodness and their choices. When he was a boy, he had been confounded why any woman would choose the veil over the expanse of the wide world, a husband, children, and a family of her own. But in fact they were making a family inside the walls of the convent; he just hadn’t recognized it for what it was when he was young.
“Ciao, Mother Anna Isabelle,” Ciro said, taking her hands and bowing to her. “Grazie mille for Remo and Carla Zanetti.”
“They said wonderful things about you. You worked very hard for them. They moved back to their village and had a happy retirement before they died.”
“That was Remo’s dream.”
Sister Teresa took Ciro down the long hallway to the garden and the kitchen beyond. Ciro remembered every polished tile in the floor and every groove in the walnut doors. The garden was covered in burlap for winter, the grapes having been harvested. When he looked ahead to the kitchen door, propped open with the same old can, he laughed.
“I know. We change very little here. We don’t have to.”
Sister Teresa took her place behind the worktable and threw on an apron. Ciro pulled up a work stool and sat. She reached into the bread bin and brought out a baguette, slathered it in fresh butter, and gave it to him. Instead of pouring a glass of milk, she poured him a glass of wine.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
“My wife didn’t say in the letter?”
“She said you needed to come home. Why now?”
“I’m dying.” Ciro’s voice broke. “Now I know in a convent, that’s good news, because you ladies have the key to eternal life. But for me, the skeptic, it’s the worst news. I try to pretend that the moment won’t come, and it buys me time. But then the clock ticks, and I remember what’s true, and I panic. I don’t pray, Sister, I panic.”
Sister Teresa’s expression changed, her face filled with a deep sadness. “Ciro, of all the people I have known and prayed for, of all of them, I hoped for you to have a long life. You earned it. And you always knew how to be happy, so it isn’t a waste for you to be gifted a long life. You would spend the time wisely.” And then, like the good nun she was, she wrapped the sad news in her beliefs like a warm blanket. Sister wanted to assure Ciro of the promise of eternal life. She wanted him to believe, hoping that faith would change his prognosis. “You must pray.”
“No, Sister.” Ciro smiled weakly. “I’m not a good Catholic.”
“Well, Ciro, you’re a good man, and that’s more important.”
“Don’t let the priest hear you.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. We have Father D’Alessandro from Calabria. He is nearly deaf.”
“What happened to Don Gregorio?”
“He went to Sicily.”
“Not Elba? He wasn’t banished like Napoleon?”
“He’s a secretary to the provost of the regional bishops.”
“His cunning got him far.”
“I think so.” Sister poured herself a cup of water. “Do you want to know what happened to Concetta Martocci?”
Ciro smiled. “Is it a happy story?”
“She married Antonio Baratta, who is now a doctor. They live in Bergamo and have four sons together.”
Ciro looked off and thought about how life had changed for him and those he knew. Even Concetta Martocci had found a way to redeem the worst thing that had happened to her. This made Ciro smile.
“Concetta Martocci still makes you smile.” Sister laughed.
“Not so much, Sister. There are other things. I am anxious to see my brother. My heart fills at the thought of seeing my mother. I want to visit my wife’s family. I promised Enza I would go up the pass to Schilpario. Has much changed on the mountain?”
“Not much. Come with me,” Sister said. “I want to prove to you how well I keep a promise.”
Ciro followed Sister Teresa behind the kitchen to the convent cemetery. She stopped at a small headstone near the end of the gate.
“Poor Spruzzo,” Ciro said. “He wandered these trails like an orphan, until he found an orphan.”
“No, not poor Spruzzo. He had a happy life. He ate better than the priest. I gave him the best cuts of meat.”
“Saint Francis would approve.” Ciro smiled.
The convent had finally been given the old carriage when the priest graduated to having a motorcar. The current horse
, Rollatini, was donated by a local farmer. Ciro hitched the horse and thought of his wife, who would do a better job with the harness, hitch, and reins than he could ever do.
He climbed up into the seat and took the Passo up the mountain to Schilpario. He remembered the first time he’d kissed his wife, when she was just a girl and he a boy. He took in every daisy, cliff, and stream, as though they were precious gems in a velvet case that only he could open. How he wished Enza could be on the mountain with him!
It was a relief to be in a horse-drawn cart after days on the open sea, and after the long train ride north from Naples. A cart and horse had a certain rhythm, and there was something soothing about the company of a horse. Ciro felt less alone.
Enza had told Ciro where the new house had been built, and to look for the color yellow.
As he made his way along the main street past the spot where he’d first kissed Enza, a flood of memories washed over him. He remembered Via Scalina as he passed it, and the stable where Enza had hitched the horse to take him home the night he buried Stella. The wooden window shutters on the stable were closed.
Ciro proceeded up the road slowly, as the hill grew increasingly steep. He spotted the yellow house on Via Mai, standing out against the mountain like a leather-bound book. A feeling of complete recognition pealed through his body; the house before him was the same house he had seen in his mind’s eye as a boy, and had hoped to build for the woman of his dreams. How ironic, now, that the house Enza had worked to build for her family was the very one that had occupied the deepest wells of his imagination as a boy! It was almost detail for detail the house of his dreams. He couldn’t wait to tell Enza how magnificent the Ravanelli homestead she had helped build was in completion.
Ciro guided the horse to the side of the house. The barren garden, surrounded by fieldstones, looked like an abandoned campfire when the wood had burned to ash. Ciro followed the stone path up to the front door. Before he could knock, the door swung open, and Enza’s family moved toward him to greet him.
Enza’s mother Giacomina, nearing sixty, was plump, her gray hair worn in a long braid. Ciro could see Enza’s fine bone structure in her mother’s face, and certain of her mannerisms were instantly familiar. Giacomina embraced her son-in-law. “Ciro, welcome home.”
“This kiss is from Enza. She is well. She is in New York, helping Laura Heery with her new baby.”
Marco stood up in his chair. He was now more robust than Ciro remembered; returning to the mountain had been a tonic for him. Ciro embraced him, too. “Enza sends her love to you too, Papa.”
As Giacomina introduced each of her children, Ciro took careful note of any news that he could share with Enza. The boys, now men, were running a carriage service, now with a motorcar, and business was booming.
Eliana was close to thirty-five, expecting her fourth baby. Her straight brown hair was worn loose down her back, and she wore a work smock, skirt, and brown boots. She introduced her sons—Marco, eleven years old, Pietro, nine, and Sandro, five. Her husband, she explained, worked in Bergamo at the water plant, and was sorry he could not be there.
Vittorio was married to a local girl, Arabella Arduini, cousin to the town padrone.
Alma was twenty-six, and hoped to go to university. She wanted to become a painter, as she had a talent for fine art; she had painted a gorgeous fresco of sunflowers on the garden wall. She took Ciro’s hands into hers. “Please tell my sister that I thank her for everything she did for us. Because of her, I can go to university.”
The door pushed open, and Battista entered. Lanky, dark, and sinewy, he was thirty-six years old, had yet to marry, and showed no signs of interest in it. He had a sullen expression, and Ciro noticed that he seemed resentful of the family, and that his presence caused tension in the room. Ciro embraced him anyway, and called him fratello.
Eliana, who lived down the hill now, showed Ciro the house. It was not grand, but it was exactly enough for the family—five bedrooms, a loft, the kitchen, and the living room. Four windows along the front of the house gave beautiful light within. Ciro remembered the windows he’d wanted in the house of his dreams, and here they were, letting in the pale blue light of the Italian afternoon.
Vittorio and Marco showed Ciro the smokehouse, built of fieldstone and set into the side of the mountain. Another small structure served as a spring house; fresh, cold water from the mountain stream pulsed through it through two open troughs into a pool lined with stones.
Giacomina prepared a meal just like one Enza would serve: soup, followed by gnocchi, with a dish of greens and cake and espresso for afterward.
Eliana poured her brother-in-law a cup of espresso.
“Alma, do you think you could draw the house for me? I think Enza would love to see it on paper.”
“I would be happy to. How long are you staying?”
“A week.”
“It took you as long to get here as your visit will be.”
“It’s very hard to be away from Enza and Antonio.”
“I understand,” Giacomina said.
“I’m sure she explained about my health.”
Giacomina and Marco nodded that she had.
“Antonio is a wonderful son. You would love him.”
“We love him already,” Vittorio said. “He’s our nephew.”
“He’s an athlete. But he’s intelligent too. I hope you will find a way to visit Enza and Antonio in Minnesota sometime.”
Ciro did not want to make the pleasant visit somber in any way. He told funny stories about Enza, and described New York City, and living on Mulberry Street. He talked about the Great War and the decision to go to Minnesota. He told a few stories about Antonio, and what a wonderful young man he was. They shared photographs, and stories of Enza’s youth. After dinner, the entire family took la passeggiata and went to the cemetery, where Ciro did as Enza had requested, kneeling to kiss the blue angel marking Stella’s grave. He stood back and put his hands in his pockets. As the sun began to set, the sky turned the exact blue it had been the night he’d first kissed Enza, after digging the grave. It seemed so long ago, and yet, standing in this place, he felt as though it were happening all over again. It seemed to Ciro that so much of life was about not holding on, but letting go and in so doing, the beauty of the past and the happiness he felt then came full circle like a band of gold. The night sky, the cemetery, the memory of places past and the people who had been there to bear witness, provided all the constancy his heart required. This is what it means to be part of a family.
When Ciro went to hitch the horse that night, to return to Vilminore, Eliana went outside to help him. Ciro climbed up into the bench of the cart.
Eliana handed him a small leather-bound book, with endpapers of Florentine paisley. “This belongs to Enza. Will you take it to her?”
“Of course,” he said.
The ride down the mountain to Vilminore filled Ciro with a deep longing for his wife. How he wished he could have made her come on this trip! But there had been no convincing her. As he put Rollatini in the barn and unhitched the cart, hung up the reins, and unbuckled the harness, he began to weep. He was ending where he began, and the irony was not lost on him.
Sister Teresa made up the bed in the guest room near the chapel. Ciro saw a nun kneeling inside, but he walked past the glass doors and into his room, closing the door gently behind him. He undressed, sat on the bed, and opened Enza’s book.
As he turned the pages, he saw his wife’s youth blossom all over again. She sketched dresses, wrote silly poems, and attempted to draw all the members of her family. As Ciro turned the pages, he smiled at her rudimentary attempts at portraiture.
He stopped when he saw “Stella” written at the top of the page. Enza had been fifteen when she wrote,
Stella
My sister died, and her funeral was today. I prayed so hard for God to save her. He did not listen. I promised God that if he spared her, I would not ask Him for children of my own later. I woul
d give up being a mother to keep her here. But he did not listen. I am afraid that Papa will die from a broken heart. Mama is strong, he is not.
I met a boy named Ciro today. He dug Stella’s grave. I wasn’t afraid of him even though he was tall and twice my size. I felt sad for him. He doesn’t have a father, and his mother left him. Someday I’ll ask the sisters at San Nicola why his mother left him there.
Here’s what I can tell you about him. He has blue-green eyes. His shoes were too small, and his pants were too big. But I never met a boy more handsome. I don’t know why God would send him up the mountain, but I hope there’s a purpose in it. He doesn’t believe in God very much. He doesn’t seem to need anyone. But I think if he thought about it, he would realize he needs me.
My Stella is gone, and I will never forget her because I see how it goes when someone dies. First there are tears, then there is grief, and soon, the memory fogs and they disappear. Not Stella. Not for me. Not ever. E.
Ciro closed the book and placed it on the nightstand. He felt the hollow of his back, and it wasn’t tender. Sometimes his pain was intense, and then, without explanation or warning, it would go, and there would be a reprieve. And in the moments without pain, Ciro believed he could heal.
Ciro lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross, something he had not done in years. He hadn’t done it once during the war. He hadn’t done it when his son was born. Enza would make a cross on the baby’s forehead with her thumb, but not Ciro. He hadn’t blessed himself when he left Enza for this trip. He felt it disingenuous to call upon God in desperation. But tonight, he wasn’t making the sign of the cross so that God might grant him a wish, might have mercy and save him; he made the sign of the cross in gratitude.
Enza had loved him from the moment she met him, and he had not known it. He thought he charmed her on Carmine Street on the morning she was to marry another. He believed all his experience with beautiful girls had somehow formed a romantic confluence, so he might win the most beautiful girl of all, if only he chose her. Ciro thought it was he who had won his true love’s heart. Now he knew that her heart was there for the taking all along.