What brings you here today?” Marco asked.
“I’ve been meaning to come down the mountain and talk to you about the house.”
“We would like to come to terms on the sale,” Marco began.
“I had hoped to sell it to you,” Signor Arduini said.
Marco continued, “We hope to give you a down payment by the end of summer.”
Enza placed her hand on her father’s arm. “Signor Arduini, you said you had hoped to sell it to us. Is that still your plan?”
“I’m afraid it’s no longer possible.”
There was a long silence. Signor Arduini sipped the brandy.
“Signor Arduini, we had an agreement,” Marco said.
“We would like to make an offer to you for the stable,” Signor Arduini said, placing his glass on the table. “You know that it isn’t worth much, but I’m sure we can negotiate a fair price.”
“Let me understand you, Signore. You have reneged on your offer to sell us the house, but you would like to buy my stable, which has been in my family for a hundred years?” Marco asked softly.
“It’s a small stable.” Arduini shrugged.
Infuriated, Enza blurted, “We will never sell the stable!”
Signore Arduini looked at Marco. “Does your daughter speak for you?”
“My father has worked hard to pay a high rent to you for many years in exchange for the opportunity to buy our house outright. You promised him that you would sell as soon as we had a reasonable down payment.”
“Enza.” Marco put his hand on Enza’s.
“My son wants the house,” Arduini said.
Enza was unable to contain her anger. “Your son squanders every lira you give him. He drinks his allowance at the tavern in Azzone.”
“He can raise his son as he pleases. And this is his house, Enza. He can do with it whatever he wants,” Marco said.
Since Stella died, her father’s ambition had all but left him. This current turn of events didn’t seem to surprise him so much as reinforce his sense of helplessness in the inevitable downward spiral of bad luck.
“Signore, you are backing out of a promise. That makes you a liar.” Enza seethed.
“I have been kind to this family for many years, and this is how you thank me. You allow your daughter to say whatever she likes against me. You have until the end of the month to move out.”
“Just a moment ago I had the best manners on the mountain.” Enza’s voice broke.
Arduini stood and placed his hat on his head, a sign of disrespect while he was still inside their home. He left the house without closing the door behind him.
“We’ll have to find a place to live.” Marco was stunned. He’d had no idea the meeting might end this badly.
“Enough renting! Enough living in fear under the thumb of the padrone. We should buy our own house!” Enza said.
“With what?”
“Papa, I can go to America and sew. I hear the girls in the shop talking about it. They have factories and jobs for everyone. I could go and work and send the money home, and when we have enough, I’ll return to take care of you and Mama.”
“I’m not sending you away.”
“Then come with me. You can get a job too—that’s more money for our house. Battista can run the carriage service while we’re gone. Everyone must work!”
Marco sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands, trying to sort through this dilemma.
“Papa, we have no choice.”
Marco looked up at his daughter, too tired to argue, and too defeated to come up with an alternative.
“Papa, we deserve a home of our own. Please. Let me help you.”
But Marco sipped the brandy and looked out through the open door, hoping for a miracle.
Ciro followed Remo and Carla Zanetti into their shop. He found a tidy operation. There was one serviceable main room, with a wide-plank wood floor and a tin ceiling overhead. The pungent scents of leather, lemon wax, and machine oil filled the room. A large worktable was positioned in the center of the room under a saw for cutting leather, surrounded by a series of bright work lights.
The far wall was lined with a sewing machine and a buffing apparatus for finishing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with tools and supplies, and sheets of leather, bolts of fabric, and spools of thread filled the opposite wall. As workspaces went, this one was far more pleasant than the slag pit in the bottom of the SS Chicago. Plus, Signora Zanetti looked to be a good cook.
In the back of the shop, Remo showed