Адриана Трижиани – The Shoemaker's Wife / Жена башмачника. Книга для чтения на английском языке (страница 25)
«I have a package to deliver to Vilminore,» Marco said as he came into the house before supper.
«I’ll take it for you, Papa,» Enza volunteered. She had waited a week to hear from Ciro Lazzari. He had promised to come to see her, and she believed he meant it.
A practical girl never pines; she takes action, Enza told herself. She knew Ciro lived at the convent in Vilminore.
As she hitched up the carriage and the horse, she remembered the camaraderie she had felt with Ciro the night they drove down to Vilminore. He was easy to be with, and she loved the way he looked, that offbeat thick sandy hair, the funny ring of keys on his pants loop, and the red bandana tied around his neck, just like the miners wear after they’ve cleaned up after a long shift. He was original, on a mountain where that was rare.
Ciro had taken Enza’s mind off her despair the day of Stella’s funeral. He had given her something to look forward to, something beyond that terrible day. In his kiss there was hope.
As she took Cipi out of the stable, he found the road and instinctively headed south in the direction of Vilminore. The wind cooled her face as Cipi settled into a trot on the pass. The night she took the ride with Ciro, it had been pitch-black, but the lamp threw plenty of light to see. She savored their conversation, and often, when doing her chores, she remembered the words he said to her, and how hopeful he was that she might kiss him again.
Now, she wished she had. Because one kiss is not enough. Neither is one conversation. Enza had so much more to say to Ciro Lazzari.
As she entered the village of Vilminore, she guided the carriage to the entrance of the convent, where she had left Ciro the week before. She felt confident, but more importantly, she felt the excitement of the possibility of their reunion. Surely he would be happy to see her. Hadn’t he said he wanted to see her again? Even if he didn’t, even if he was cold and abrupt, at least she would know his feelings. She would happily stop imagining his kisses every time she put down her book, or remembering his arms around her when she hung up the wash.
Enza jumped off the carriage bench and onto the ground. She rang the bell at the convent entrance and waited. Soon, Sister Domenica answered the door.
«Sister, my name is Enza Ravanelli. I’m from Schilpario.»
«Is there something I can do for you?»
«I’m looking for Ciro Lazzari.»
«Ciro?» Sister’s eyes darted around suspiciously. «What do you want with Ciro?»
«I met him the day my sister was buried. He dug the grave.»
«I remember.»
«And I wanted to thank him.»
«He doesn’t live here anymore,» Sister Domenica said softly.
«Where did he go?»
«I’d rather not say,» Sister said.
«I see.» Enza looked down at her hands. Ciro had probably gone off on a great adventure. Maybe he’d gone south to the port cities to work on the fishing boats, or west to work in the marble mines. All Enza knew was that he’d left without saying good-bye, which told her that he didn’t feel the same about her as she did him.
«Maybe I can get a message to him,» Sister said softly, looking around the piazza.
«There’s no message, Sister. I’m sorry to have bothered you.»
Enza climbed back on the bench, checked the address of the package, and guided Cipi across the piazza and up the street to deliver it. She began to cry, and wasn’t sure why. Really, what had she thought would happen? What had she hoped he would say?
As she reached the road on the outskirts of Vilminore, Cipi stopped and waited. He didn’t know which way to turn, and Enza had given him little direction with the reins. She sat high on the bench and looked out over the valley and wondered what she could have done differently when it came to Ciro Lazzari.
Chapter 8. A friar’s robe
Una Tonaca del Frate
It was a Tiepolo blue sky[136] with smatters of creamy clouds the morning Ignazio Farino bid farewell to the Lazzari brothers at the train station in Bergamo before turning the horse and cart back up the mountain to return to Vilminore di Scalve.
Iggy looked back at the boys several times from his perch on the carriage bench, until the road took a turn and he could no longer see them. The boys watched Iggy go, bowed like the crook of a cane, until he had disappeared.
Orphans have many parents.
Eduardo and Ciro made their way through the station to the platforms. Eduardo’s black wool pants and white shirt were pressed. His boiled wool jacket in forest green with gold epaulets on the shoulders looked a bit like a castoff from a defunct alpine regiment, but it was clean and without moth holes, so it would do, until he made it to the seminary and was assigned vestments.
Ciro wore navy blue corduroy work pants and a mended and starched chambray shirt under a gray wool topcoat with black piping. Sister Ercolina had retrieved the coat from a donation bag left on the convent steps, and Sister Anna Isabelle had lined it in a few yards of silk paisley left over from a sewing project to make bedding for a wedding gift to the town’s mayor.
That morning, in the first light of dawn, Sister Domenica had given each boy a haircut, after which she vigorously rubbed their scalps with the juice of a fresh lemon mixed with a bit of clear alcohol. Ciro commented that when Sister Domenica was in charge, beauty hurt.
The nuns had laundered, pressed, and mended the boys’ clothes before packing them. The clean underclothes in their duffel bags, along with handkerchiefs embroidered with their initials by Sister Teresa and socks knitted by Sister Domenica, would provide them with the basics until they arrived at their destinations. The sisters did their best to prepare the boys for the outside world, at least on the surface of things.
Eduardo checked the large station clock, its black Roman numerals set on a mother-of-pearl[137] face. Everything seemed more important in Bergamo than it did on the mountain; even the telling of time had a certain elegance.
They had already begun to miss their village. As the boys surveyed the station, they were aware of all they were leaving behind. A long black train parked on the tracks had a series of wooden step stools placed outside the open doors reminded Eduardo of the nuns’ shoes left outside their doors to be collected for polishing.
Passengers rushing to make their train gently jostled the boys. Eduardo and Ciro did their best to step out of the way, but their apologies went unheeded.
The people were so different here. The parade of well-dressed men that milled around the platform bore no resemblance to the journeymen and laborers on the mountain. The nobility of Bergamo wore custom-made three-piece suits topped with dress coats of silk wool and dapper felt fedoras wrapped with broad bands of dark grosgrain ribbon[138], accented with small feathers or a tucked knot. The men in Vilminore also wore hats, but they were strictly utilitarian, straw in the summer to ward off the sun and wool in the winter to keep them warm.
The elite wore shoes of dyed calfskin with insets of pebbled leather, some with laces, others with buttoned spats. They carried satchels made of the finest embossed suede. The women were also dressed stylishly, in long skirts and fitted waistcoats. They wore dramatic hats with extravagant plumes, clouds of net dolloped over the wide brims and tied under the chin with satin bows. They seemed to move slowly, as if underwater, the only sound they made the rustle of their skirts and the click of their high-buttoned shoes, which grazed the pavement in muted taps as they passed.
Eduardo looked around for the four young men who would accompany him to the seminary in Rome, checking a slip of paper to remind himself of their names.
«Here,» Ciro said, handing his brother the three lire Iggy had given him.
«No, no, put it away, Ciro.»
«Take it,» Ciro insisted.
«I don’t need money where I’m going,» Eduardo assured him.
Distraught at the thought of leaving his brother, Eduardo stared at the great clock, willing time to stand still. He wanted to give his brother something to remember him by, to bind the two together when they were apart.
Ciro looked down at his mother’s signet ring with its swirling engraved
«And don’t offer me your ring, either,» Eduardo said.
Ciro laughed. «How did you guess?»
«You’re the most generous person I know. You would give me your shoes if you could. And you wouldn’t complain if you had to walk to Venice barefoot.»
«Yeah, except my feet are twice the size of yours,» Ciro said.
«Lucky for me, because those are ugly shoes.»
«That’s all Sister Domenica could find in the bin.» Ciro shrugged. «Besides, when you become a priest, they’ll give you the cassock, the collar, and the black slippers. You’ll never want for clothes, that’s for sure.»
«No cassocks for the Franciscans. Just brown robes of burlap tied with an old rope. And sandals.»
«If you’re going to go to all this trouble to become a priest, I wish you’d join a fancy order. You deserve the fine linens of the Vincennes[139] like Don Gregorio. You’re a poor orphan becoming a poor priest. You’re like a crab going sideways.»