Адриана Трижиани – The Shoemaker's Wife / Жена башмачника. Книга для чтения на английском языке (страница 12)
Ignazio Farino rounded the corner, pushing a small handcart loaded with small blue river stones. Slight of build[94], with a long nose and thin lips, Iggy wore lederhosen[95] with thick wool knee socks and an alpine hat with a
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«Is she your favorite, Iggy?» Ciro asked.
«She’s the Queen of Heaven, isn’t she?» Ignazio sat down on the garden wall and looked up at the statue. «I used to gaze – I mean,
«I know how to take care of a woman,» Ciro said confidently.
«You think you do. Then you get the ring on her hand, and the story changes. Women change. Men stay as they are, and women change.»
«How so?»
«In every way. In manner.» Iggy bowed from the waist. «In personality. In their desire for you.» He thrust his body forward as if to stop a runaway wheelbarrow. «At first, oh,
«I don’t care. It would be my honor to try.»
«You say that now,» Ignazio said. «Don’t do as Idid. Do
«Plain or pretty, I don’t care. I just want a girl to love. And I want her to love me.» Ciro rinsed Saint Michael’s cape with clean water.
«You want. You want. You just wait.» Iggy puffed.
Ciro buffed the plaster with a dry towel. «I’m finding it very difficult to wait.»
«Because you’re young. The young have everything but wisdom.»
«What does wisdom get you?» Ciro asked.
«Patience.»
«I don’t want wisdom. I don’t want to grow old to get it. I just want to be happy.»
«I wish I could give you my experience, so you might not have to endure what I have known in my life. I was like you. I didn’t believe the old men. I should have listened to them.»
«Tell me what I don’t know, Iggy.»
«Love is like
Ciro laughed. «You’d have a hard time convincing a starving man when he hasn’t had his fill. Love is the only dream worth pursuing. I’d work so hard for love. I’d make a future! I’d build her a house with seven fireplaces. We would have a big family – five sons and one daughter. You need at least one daughter to tend to the mother in old age.»
«You’ve got it all figured out, Ciro,» Ignazio said. «I’ve taken what life has given me»—Ignazio put his hands in the air as if to measure the scope of his world—«and Idid not ask for more. It’s
«That’s a shame,» Ciro said. «All I want is more. I earn my room and board, but I want to earn money.»
«How much do you need?»
«If I had a lira for starters, that would be good.»
«Really? One lira?» Ignazio smiled. «I’ve got a job for you.»
Ciro washed down the Pietà with a damp cloth. «I’m listening.»
«Father Martinelli needs a grave dug up in Schilpario.» Iggy lit his cigarette.
«How much?»
«He’ll give you two lire, and you kick back one. The church always has to get their cut.»
«Of course they do.» Ciro nodded. «But only one lira to dig a grave?» Ciro couldn’t help but wonder why Ignazio couldn’t cut a better deal. Now he understood why Ignazio hadn’t graduated beyond his job as convent handyman.
Ignazio took a smooth drag off of his cigarette. «Hey, better than nothing.» He offered Ciro a puff of his cigarette. Ciro took it, inhaling the smooth tobacco. «Don Gregorio has you dig for nothing. What are you going to do with your lira? You need shoes.» Ignazio looked down at Ciro’s shoes.
«I’m going to buy Concetta Martocci a cameo brooch[102].»
«Don’t waste your money. You need new shoes!»
«I can go barefoot, but I can’t live without love.» Ciro laughs. «How will I get to Schilpario?»
«Don Gregorio says you can take the cart.»
Ciro’s eyes lit up. If he could take the cart, maybe he could work in a ride with Concetta. «I’ll do it. But I want the cart for the whole day.»
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«You’ll fix it with Don Gregorio?» Ciro asked.
«I’ll take care of it.» Ignazio threw the butt of his cigarette onto the path. He stamped it and kicked it into the shrubs, where one small orange ember released its last spark and went out.
Ciro propped open the front doors of San Nicola to let the crisp spring air play through the church like the chords of the Lenten kyries[103]. Every surface gleamed. The nuns would like to believe their ward[104] scrubbed the church and everything in it for the honor and glory of God, but the truth was, Ciro was hoping to impress Don Gregorio so he’d give him use of the rectory cart and horse whenever he asked.
The young handyman rubbed the mahogany pews with lemon wax, washed the stained glass windows[105] with hot water and white vinegar, scoured the marble floors and buffed the brass tabernacle. He wire-whisked the candle drippings off the wrought-iron votive holders and refilled the pockets with fresh candles. The scent of beeswax filled the alcove of saints like the rosewater Concetta Martocci sprinkled on the laundry before she did the ironing. He knew this for sure because when she passed, the air filled with her perfume.
The saint statues looked brand new. Ciro had returned the gloss to the creamy faces, and the colors to their robes and sandals. He hoisted Saint Joseph into place upon his perch in the alcove, then rolled the votive candle cart in front of him and stood back, pleased with the results of his hard work. He turned when he heard footsteps on the marble floor. Peering out from the alcove, he saw Concetta Martocci genuflect in the aisle and move into a pew about halfway between the altar and the entrance. Ciro’s heart began to race. A white lace mantilla was draped over her hair. She wore a long gray serge[106] skirt and a white blouse, the palette of an innocent dove.
Ciro looked down at his work clothes, taking in the wet hems of his pants, the shadows of soot along the seams, his ill-fitting boots and filthy work shirt, which looked like a handyman’s paint palette – smears of clay putty, brass polish, and black streaks of smudges from charred candlewicks. A white polishing rag was stuck in the shirt pocket where a starched handkerchief should go.
He ran his hands through his thick hair, then looked at his fingernails, black half moons under every nail. Concetta turned and looked at him, then turned back to face the altar. This type of meeting, just the two of them alone in the church, was rare. A conversation with Concetta was nearly impossible to engineer. She had a stern father, a devout uncle, a few brothers, and a gaggle of girlfriends that surrounded her, as tight as the knot on the ties of a pinafore.
Ciro pulled the rag from his pocket and tucked it behind Saint Michael. He unsnapped the brass key ring from his belt loop and placed it on the rag. He walked up the center aisle of the church, genuflected, joined her in the pew, knelt beside her, and folded his hands in prayer.
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«I can tell. The tabernacle is like a mirror,» she said appreciatively.
«That’s on purpose. Don Gregorio likes to look at his own reflection.»