flaps on the dumbwaiter, and you’ll be right under the music.”
The girls loaded up trays with china and went up the small staircase. Emma led them to the dish closets. She put down the dishes and opened the latch on the wooden cubby.
“Go ahead, lean in. That’s how I eavesdrop on the Burdens.”
Enza put her head into the dumbwaiter, resting her hands on the trim. Puccini’s crystal clear notes sailed down. This time it was like being in the room; the volume was perfect.
Laura sorted the dishes on the shelves as Puccini and his singers serenaded the crowd. She watched as Enza listened. Her head bowed reverently, Enza took in the notes, the chords, the sweep of the music. It was as if the sound filled her up and her body floated overhead, as light as meringue.
Enza couldn’t wait to write to Mama and tell her of her stroke of luck.
This is my Italy, she thought. The power and beauty of the antiquities, the detailed frescoes, the imposing statuaries carved of milk white granite, Don Martinelli’s hammered gold chalice, the glorious tones of the music, the Italy of Puccini and Verdi, Caruso and Toscanini, not the Italy of the shattered spirits in Hoboken and the drunken, desperate Anna Buffa. This was the Italy that fed her soul, where hope was restored and broken hearts were mended in the hands of great artists.
For the first time since she had come to America, Enza felt at home. In that moment, she suddenly realized how to marry American ambition to Italian artistry. Both had nurtured her and helped her grow. That night, Puccini’s music stoked the fire of her ambition, and she felt her determination rise anew.
When Puccini finished the aria, the crowd erupted in applause. Enza put her hands in the dumbwaiter and applauded as well.
“He can’t hear you,” Emma Fogarty said.
“But I have to honor him.” Enza turned and faced Laura and Emma.
“Send up the dumbwaiter,” Emma said.
Enza cranked the chain, and the tray rose to the upper floor.
“Wash and dry the crystal for the digestifs, and you girls can call it a night.” Emma checked her pocket watch. “Or morning, as it will be shortly. Once the guests leave, and I lock down the kitchen, I got a hot bath calling my name.”
“You have a bathtub?” Laura marveled.
“I live at the Katharine House in the Village. We have tubs. And a library. I like to read. And two meals a day. I like to eat.”
Enza and Laura looked at one another. “How did you get in?”
“Like everything else in this city. I got the lowdown on the crosstown bus.”
“Which line?” Enza asked.
“Any. Just look for girls our age. It’s a circuit.”
“We applied to the Katharine House, but no cigar,” Laura told her. “We’re at the Y.”
“You’ll get in somewhere. You’ll just have to wait for the vacancies every spring,” Emma told them. “Wedding fever hits, and the mighty fall. Come April the girls dump out of the boardinghouses like cold bathwater. Rooms galore. You’ll get your pick. What are you here to do?”
“To make a living,” Enza said.
“No, I mean your dream scheme. What do you really want to be?”
“We’re seamstresses.”
“Then you need an arty boardinghouse. I’d try for the Milbank. They take the playwrights, the dancers, the actresses, and the designers. You know, the crafty girls. You want me to put in a good word for you?”
“Really?” Laura said. “You can you help us get into the Milbank?”
“Sure. I’ll talk to the house mother.”
Emma paid them cash, a dollar each instead of the fifty cents they had been promised, which she dutifully recorded in the kitchen log. They were paid extra because they hadn’t broken any dishes and got the work done without annoying the butler. The girls couldn’t believe the windfall.
The scent of beeswax, fresh from the extinguished candles, filled the service entrance as Enza and Laura made their way to the street, buttoning their coats and pulling on their gloves. They ignored their aching necks, shoulders, and feet, floating home instead on the notion of their own dreams.
As they walked down Fifth Avenue, they said not a word. They walked for blocks and blocks in the quiet knowledge that something had shifted that evening; a scullery job had proved to be a turning point.
As the sun pulled up behind Fifth Avenue, the girls were warmed by the idea of it but not by its rays; the air around them was still freezing cold. Shimmering icicles clung to