The Shoemaker's Wife (38 page)

“So bring them to Manhattan to meet him.”

“All seventy thousand of them? I’ll need a barge, not a ferry. No, thank you, I’m keeping my family under wraps. If he gets a load of them, he’ll run.”

“The entire population of Ireland won’t bother him if he loves you.”

“That’s where you’re naive,” Laura sighed. “When it comes to high society, the only things they mix are their drinks.”

The door to the suite blew open, bringing the best voices of the Metropolitan Opera into the room.

The suite was decorated in white damask silk with accents of black velvet, a color scheme borrowed from Caruso’s sheet music. The furniture had sleek lines and curves, like musical instruments. A pair of deep-cushioned English sofas in white chenille faced one another, separated by an upholstered ottoman with pearl buttons. The only color in the room was a large silver vase filled with blood red roses nestled in waxy green leaves.

The table in the alcove was set for dinner, with the hotel’s fine bone china, edged in silver, and sterling silver serving pieces. Water glasses were filled, and wineglasses were empty, ready for the Chianti.

“I am in heaven!” Enrico Caruso said from the foyer. “Sage! Garlic!
Burro!
”

“They’re early!” Laura said, stirring the sauce. “We have so much left to do!”

“Stay calm,” Enza told her.

“This better be good, Erri,” Geraldine said, throwing off her sweater and reaching into the pocket of her skirt for her cigarettes.

“I need a glass of wine,” Antonio Scotti said to the host, removing his hat. Scotti was of medium height, with classic southern Italian features—a nose that extended far like an alpine road, lovely lips, and small brown eyes like a bird’s.

“I’ll pour,” Caruso said, uncorking a bottle.

Caruso poured the wine, including a glass for himself, and joined the girls in the kitchen. Enza dropped the puffs of gnocchi into the boiling water.

“At last, I eat like the peasant I am!” Caruso said.

Antonio joined them. “Where did you find the cook?”

“At the sewing machine.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” Antonio said.

“Women have more than one skill, Antonio. And if you’re lucky, they have two. They can make both gnocchi . . . and meatballs.”

“Watch it, boys. You’re in the presence of a lady or three.” Gerry sipped her wine. “What are you making?”

“Gnocchi with sage,” Enza said.

Caruso dipped his fingers in the bowl of freshly shaved Parmesan cheese. “I travel with a wheel of my own cheese.”

“Better than a wife,” Geraldine said.

“Weighs more,” said Caruso. “My little Doro prefers to stay in Italy. She’s painting the villa.”

“We work, and your Doro redecorates.” Antonio shrugged.

“You need a wife, Antonio,” Caruso said.

“Never. I’ll paint my own villa.”

“Women give a life shape and purpose,” Caruso said.

“You should know. You’re never without one,” Antonio remarked.

Enza ladled the steaming puffs of pasta into a serving bowl, as Laura slowly stirred the sauce. Laura gave the spoon to Enza, who added a cup of cream to the pan, then wrapped the dish towel around the handle and ladled the sauce over the steaming gnocchi.

“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 you 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.