the lady could respond.
Enza walked out of the library, relieved to be outside in the fresh air. She realized that life might be difficult in a new place, in a part of the country that she did not know. She decided to bring Mrs. Selby an embroidered handkerchief on her next visit to the library. Winning a stranger over with kindness was a tactic Enza had used in Schilpario, and was certain it would work in Chisholm.
Enza and Ciro had been in Chisholm a couple of weeks when they were invited to a party. The Knezovichs lived across Longyear Lake in an old farmhouse with red cotton curtains in the windows, trimmed in white rickrack. Inside, Ana, the mistress of the house, had had her husband, Peter, paint every piece of the simple furniture a lacquered candy apple red. On the floor, he stenciled black and white squares on the wood, an artful contrast to the red. Enza remembered when the scene designer would have a crew paint the floor at the Met, and how dramatic the pattern would look from the mezzanine.
Enza couldn’t wait to write to Laura about the Serbian style. Every detail was bright and polished, like the jewels in the Leibovitz window. Enza had been to many fancy parties in New York, but none could top the theatrics of the Slava.
While the Roman Catholics honored the feast days of their saints quietly with a visit to church or early morning mass, the Serbs threw an all-day, through-the-night party, serving homemade plum brandy and robust cherry wine, glasses refilled without request.
The house was so full that the guests spilled out into the cold winter night, where firepits had been lit in the fields, and an open tent had been raised for dancing.
The Serbian women wore full silk skirts in jewel tones and white blouses trimmed in lace, topped with fitted velvet vests secured with gold silk buttons. The men wore traditional high-waisted wool pants and hand-embroidered shirts with billowing sleeves. The clothing they wore served the same purpose as theatrical costumes: they served a theme, were colorful, and moved to accommodate the dance.
Long tables filled with Serbian delicacies were placed under the tent and inside the house, as a loyal band of women kept the platters filled to overflowing, while their daughters bused dishes and washed and dried them for the next shift of revelers.
The Serbian dishes were prepared with fragrant spices, including sage, cinnamon, and turmeric. The festival bread kolach was hearty and delicious, with its thick buttery crust and soft doughy center. They ate it with sarma, a fragrant meat mixture of bacon, onions, rice, and fresh eggs wrapped in kupus, tangy cabbage leaves that had been pickled in a crock. Burek, a meat strudel with a tender buttery crust, was cut into squares and served with roasted potatoes. The dessert table was a wonderland of pastries filled with fruit, dusted in sugar, and glazed with butter. Small ginger cookies and bar cookies made with candied dates were dipped in strong coffee and savored. Kronfe, round doughnuts dusted with cinnamon sugar, were passed in baskets piping hot from the fryer. Povitica, layers of thin pastry dough filled with walnuts, brown sugar, butter, and raisins, rolled carefully, layer over layer, baked, and sliced thin, was served on a platter in neat slices resembling pinwheels.
Emilio and Ida Uncini joined Ciro and Enza by the dessert table. Ida, a petite brunette in her forties, wore a full turquoise skirt and a gold velvet jacket. For an Italian, she was throwing herself into the Serbian festa like one of their own. In the short time Enza had been in Chisholm, Ida had been steadfast, showing up at the new building to help her wash floors, paint walls, and arrange the furniture. Ida had been through a big move herself years ago, so she understood how important it was to make a home comfortable as soon as possible.
“I’m going to ask Ana to teach Enza how to make povitica,” Ciro said, taking a bite.
“She has enough to do,” Ida chided him. “She has curtains to make, and a sewing machine to assemble. And I know, because I promised to help her.”
“And I need your help,” Enza said.
“This is some party,” Ciro said. “Is everyone in Chisholm here?”
“Just about. But let me warn you. This is nothing. Wait until you go to Serbian Days in July. Every Serb from here to Dbrovnik shows up to sing,” Emilio promised them.
“My husband loves