sat open, stacked with empty trays. Under the dumbwaiter was a metal trough with a shaft leading into a hole in the floor for scraps. A series of deep sinks with movable nozzles attached to the faucets created an L shape beyond the trough. Wooden dowels, on which dishes could drain before they were dried, separated the sinks.
“This is a real affair tonight. Two hundred people. You gotta move fast, and you gotta be careful. We’re using the china from Russia, some czar sent it when the Burdens got hitched.” She held up her hand. “Don’t ask. It’s got gold leafing. Helen Fay will check for scratches, and she’ll do a count tomorrow when the shelves are refilled. So don’t break any. You two do the slopping—that’s cleaning the dishes before washing—then you’re gonna wash them—if you run out of hot water, you let me know; sometimes we do—and then you let ’em dry and then buff with cotton rags, they’re on the shelf over there. Then you’re going to put them in chamois sleeves—never, ever stack the plates without the chamois, or they’ll throw me in the furnace. When the party’s over, we’ll run ’em up the dumbwaiter to the storage closets.”
Enza’s head swam. Emma spoke as fast as the click of typewriter keys. Enza barely understood anything she said.
“Got it?” Emma asked.
“Yes, absolutely,” said Laura.
“I’ll be up in the kitchen if you need me. It’s dead right now, but the action will start in about an hour, when cocktails are served. Just keep the dumbwaiter moving. Don’t hold it down here. The last dishwasher almost got shot by the butler, he got so mad when he couldn’t send glasses down. Backup is the enemy here, girls.” Emma went to the dumbwaiter and yanked the pulley. The gold trays ascended smoothly in the hand-operated elevator.
“Thank you,” Laura and Enza said.
“Don’t thank me. You’ll hate me with a divine fury when you see the dishes you have to do. But that’s what this is. The rich enjoy life, and we clean up after ’em. Just the luck of the draw, I guess.”
As the dirty dishes descended, Laura and Enza quickly created their own system to move things along. Just as they had in the factory, they figured out a way to make the most of their time. Laura cleared the food with one hand, giving the plate to Enza, who put it in soapy water, scrubbed, and then to another sink for rinse, then dry.
In between courses, they were able to keep up because of the time allotted the guests to eat. The trick, the girls learned, was to let the dishes stay on the drying racks until they could get to them. The time came when one course was served and the other was bussed down the dumbwaiter.
As hard as the work was, Enza and Laura did not complain. They had both seen worse, and there was something about working in a mansion that made the work seem more pleasant. Maybe it was just the opulence of the candlelit rotunda, the weightless beauty of hand-painted Russian china, or the idea of sharing a space with peonies in winter that elevated their moods. They couldn’t be sure. All they knew is that they were together; they could talk, scheme, and dream as they worked through the scullery chores.
Enza dried the dinner plates carefully, then slid them into their blue chamois sleeves and stacked them. She made a note of how many plates were in the stack. A tray cluttered with dessert plates was lowered in the dumbwaiter, and she reached in to remove the tray. She stopped when she heard singing, a rich tenor voice, with a full timbre. The notes sailed down the dumbwaiter as though they had been wrapped in velvet: the lyrics of Tosca in the language of her birth.
Amaro o sol per te m’erail morire
“That’s Mr. Puccini, playing for the singers,” Emma Fogarty said from behind her. Laura lifted the tray out of the dumbwaiter.
“He’s at the party?”
“You just washed his dish,” Emma said. “He’s playing on a Steinway baby grand in the music room. Alessia Frangela and Alfonso Mancuso are singing duets under the Bonanno mural. Maria Martucci is playing the harp. The guests are gathered around them like they’re singing around a campfire.”
“My old boss used to play Caruso singing Tosca.”
“I can’t send you up. You’re scullery,” Emma said. “But you know what? If you go upstairs to the dish closets, I’ll open the