the chapel. Ciro saw a nun kneeling inside, but he walked past the glass doors and into his room, closing the door gently behind him. He undressed, sat on the bed, and opened Enza’s book.
As he turned the pages, he saw his wife’s youth blossom all over again. She sketched dresses, wrote silly poems, and attempted to draw all the members of her family. As Ciro turned the pages, he smiled at her rudimentary attempts at portraiture.
He stopped when he saw “Stella” written at the top of the page. Enza had been fifteen when she wrote,
Stella
My sister died, and her funeral was today. I prayed so hard for God to save her. He did not listen. I promised God that if he spared her, I would not ask Him for children of my own later. I would give up being a mother to keep her here. But he did not listen. I am afraid that Papa will die from a broken heart. Mama is strong, he is not.
I met a boy named Ciro today. He dug Stella’s grave. I wasn’t afraid of him even though he was tall and twice my size. I felt sad for him. He doesn’t have a father, and his mother left him. Someday I’ll ask the sisters at San Nicola why his mother left him there.
Here’s what I can tell you about him. He has blue-green eyes. His shoes were too small, and his pants were too big. But I never met a boy more handsome. I don’t know why God would send him up the mountain, but I hope there’s a purpose in it. He doesn’t believe in God very much. He doesn’t seem to need anyone. But I think if he thought about it, he would realize he needs me.
My Stella is gone, and I will never forget her because I see how it goes when someone dies. First there are tears, then there is grief, and soon, the memory fogs and they disappear. Not Stella. Not for me. Not ever. E.
Ciro closed the book and placed it on the nightstand. He felt the hollow of his back, and it wasn’t tender. Sometimes his pain was intense, and then, without explanation or warning, it would go, and there would be a reprieve. And in the moments without pain, Ciro believed he could heal.
Ciro lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross, something he had not done in years. He hadn’t done it once during the war. He hadn’t done it when his son was born. Enza would make a cross on the baby’s forehead with her thumb, but not Ciro. He hadn’t blessed himself when he left Enza for this trip. He felt it disingenuous to call upon God in desperation. But tonight, he wasn’t making the sign of the cross so that God might grant him a wish, might have mercy and save him; he made the sign of the cross in gratitude.
Enza had loved him from the moment she met him, and he had not known it. He thought he charmed her on Carmine Street on the morning she was to marry another. He believed all his experience with beautiful girls had somehow formed a romantic confluence, so he might win the most beautiful girl of all, if only he chose her. Ciro thought it was he who had won his true love’s heart. Now he knew that her heart was there for the taking all along.
No wonder she had been so hurt when he hadn’t tried to find her, and no wonder she’d never come for him after she told him her feelings. She would never have wanted to make him uncomfortable. In fact, Enza’s mission all along had been to give Ciro comfort, and in every way, she had succeeded, including making him go on this trip. He knew that if anything would heal him, it would be the mountain. As he turned over in the bed, he felt no pain in his body. As always, Enza knew best.
Chapter 27
A BLUE CAMEO
Un Cammeo Blu
There was a loud and persistent knock on Ciro’s door at the convent. He sat up, grabbed his pocket watch, and checked the time. He had slept uninterrupted through the night, a delicious nine hours. He had not slept this well since before his diagnosis at the Mayo Clinic.
“Yes?” he called out.
“It’s Iggy.”
Ciro leaped out of bed and threw the door open. Twenty-one years later, Ignazio Farino stood before him, wearing the same hat.