The modest buildings, mostly three-floor structures made of wood, were potchkied together like a pair of patchwork pants. Open seams in walls were sealed with odd ends of metal, drainpipes trailed down the sides of houses in different widths, welded together with flaps of mismatched tin. Some houses were freshly whitewashed, others showed weathered layers of old paint.
The cobblestone streets were crowded with people, and when Ciro looked up, the windows were also filled with faces. Women leaned out of second-story windows to holler for their children or gossip with the neighbors. Stoops spilled over with southern Italians gathered in small groups. It was as if the belly of the ship had been sliced open and docked on the streets of Little Italy. Curls of black smoke from cheap wood puffed out of the chimneys, and the only green was the occasional tufts of treetops, scattered among the tarpaper roofs like random bouquets.
The sounds of city life were a deafening mix of whistles, horns, arguments, and music. Unaccustomed to the clatter, Ciro wondered if he could get used to it. When they arrived on Mulberry Street, he offered to pay the driver, but Remo wouldn’t allow it. Ciro jumped out of the carriage and held his hand out to help Carla. Signora Zanetti nodded at her husband, impressed with Ciro’s fine manners.
A barefoot boy in ragged shorts and a torn shirt approached Ciro and held out his hand. His black hair was chopped off, leaving uneven layers. His thick black eyebrows were expressive triangles, his brown eyes wide and alert.
“Va, va!” Carla said to the boy. But Ciro reached into his pocket and handed the boy a coin. He held the coin high and twirled down the sidewalk, joining his friends, who charged back toward Ciro. Remo pulled him into the house before Ciro had a chance to empty his pockets.
The poor of Little Italy were different from those Ciro knew. On the mountain, they wore clothes made of sturdy fabric. Boiled wool was their velvet; buttons and trim were extravagant extras added to clothing worn on feast days, at weddings, and for burial. The New York Italians used the same fabrics to make their clothing, but they accessorized with jaunty hats, gold belt buckles, and shiny buttons. The women wore lipstick and rouge, and gold rings on every finger. They spoke loudly and expressed themselves with theatrical gestures.
In the Italian Alps, this particular kind of presentation was considered ill mannered. In Ciro’s village, when the vendors rolled their carts out on to the colonnade to sell their wares, there was modest stock to choose from, and little room for negotiation of the price. Here, the carts were loaded full, and customers haggled. Ciro came from a place where people were grateful to be able to purchase any small thing. Here, everyone acted entitled to a better deal. Ciro had entered the circus; the show was Italian, but the tent was American.
Back on the mountain, Enza siphoned homemade burgundy wine from a barrel into bottles lined up on a bench in the garden. She closed her eyes and held the bottles up to her nose, distinguishing the scent of the woodsy barrel from the potential bitterness of the grapes. She had begun to cork the bottles when she saw her father and Signor Arduini entering the house.
Enza quickly untied her apron, splattered with clouds of purple, and smoothed her hair. She slipped into the house through the back door. As Marco took the landlord’s hat and pulled out his chair, Enza removed two small glasses from the shelf, poured brandy into the glasses, and placed them before the padrone and her father.
“I always say the Ravanelli children have the best manners on the mountain.” Signor Arduini smiled. Enza looked at him, thinking that if she weren’t so scared of him, and so anxious about the power he wielded over her family, she might actually like him.
“Thank you,” said Marco.
Enza opened a tin, placing several sweet anginetti cookies on a plate. She served the men, placing two linen napkins on the table.
“I wish my daughter had Signorina’s grace,” Arduini said.
“Maria is a lovely young woman,” Marco reassured him.
“Lovely and spoiled.” Arduini sighed. “But thank you.”
Enza knew all about the pampered Maria Arduini. She had made her several gowns when she took on odd jobs in the dress shop in town. When Maria couldn’t decide upon a fabric, she would have three gowns made instead of one.
“We’re always happy to see you.