Ciro laughed. “You’d have a hard time convincing a starving man when he hasn’t had his fill. Love is the only dream worth pursuing. I’d work so hard for love. I’d make a future! I’d build her a house with seven fireplaces. We would have a big family—five sons and one daughter. You need at least one daughter to tend to the mother in old age.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, Ciro,” Ignazio said. “I’ve taken what life has given me”—Ignazio put his hands in the air as if to measure the scope of his world—“and I did not ask for more. It’s more that will get you in trouble.”
“That’s a shame,” Ciro said. “All I want is more. I earn my room and board, but I want to earn money.”
“How much do you need?”
“If I had a lira for starters, that would be good.”
“Really? One lira?” Ignazio smiled. “I’ve got a job for you.”
Ciro washed down the Pietà with a damp cloth. “I’m listening.”
“Father Martinelli needs a grave dug up in Schilpario.” Iggy lit his cigarette.
“How much?”
“He’ll give you two lire, and you kick back one. The church always has to get their cut.”
“Of course they do.” Ciro nodded. “But only one lira to dig a grave?” Ciro couldn’t help but wonder why Ignazio couldn’t cut a better deal. Now he understood why Ignazio hadn’t graduated beyond his job as convent handyman.
Ignazio took a smooth drag off of his cigarette. “Hey, better than nothing.” He offered Ciro a puff of his cigarette. Ciro took it, inhaling the smooth tobacco. “Don Gregorio has you dig for nothing. What are you going to do with your lira? You need shoes.” Ignazio looked down at Ciro’s shoes.
“I’m going to buy Concetta Martocci a cameo brooch.”
“Don’t waste your money. You need new shoes!”
“I can go barefoot, but I can’t live without love.” Ciro laughs. “How will I get to Schilpario?”
“Don Gregorio says you can take the cart.”
Ciro’s eyes lit up. If he could take the cart, maybe he could work in a ride with Concetta. “I’ll do it. But I want the cart for the whole day.”
“Va bene.”
“You’ll fix it with Don Gregorio?” Ciro asked.
“I’ll take care of it.” Ignazio threw the butt of his cigarette onto the path. He stamped it and kicked it into the shrubs, where one small orange ember released its last spark and went out.
Ciro propped open the front doors of San Nicola to let the crisp spring air play through the church like the chords of the Lenten kyries. Every surface gleamed. The nuns would like to believe their ward scrubbed the church and everything in it for the honor and glory of God, but the truth was, Ciro was hoping to impress Don Gregorio so he’d give him use of the rectory cart and horse whenever he asked.
The young handyman rubbed the mahogany pews with lemon wax, washed the stained glass windows with hot water and white vinegar, scoured the marble floors and buffed the brass tabernacle. He wire-whisked the candle drippings off the wrought-iron votive holders and refilled the pockets with fresh candles. The scent of beeswax filled the alcove of saints like the rosewater Concetta Martocci sprinkled on the laundry before she did the ironing. He knew this for sure because when she passed, the air filled with her perfume.
The saint statues looked brand new. Ciro had returned the gloss to the creamy faces, and the colors to their robes and sandals. He hoisted Saint Joseph into place upon his perch in the alcove, then rolled the votive candle cart in front of him and stood back, pleased with the results of his hard work. He turned when he heard footsteps on the marble floor. Peering out from the alcove, he saw Concetta Martocci genuflect in the aisle and move into a pew about halfway between the altar and the entrance. Ciro’s heart began to race. A white lace mantilla was draped over her hair. She wore a long gray serge skirt and a white blouse, the palette of an innocent dove.
Ciro looked down at his work clothes, taking in the wet hems of his pants, the shadows of soot along the seams, his ill-fitting boots and filthy work shirt, which looked like a handyman’s paint palette—smears of clay putty, brass polish, and black streaks of smudges from charred candlewicks. A white polishing rag was stuck in the shirt pocket where a starched handkerchief should go.