“I know Giulia. See her at school. Older than me. Sews.” He turned to his father. “Mama says you’re late again. She says to come at once.” He slid his eyes back to Serafina. “And already I work in the shop after school.”
The shoemaker tousled his son’s hair. “Tell Mama in a minute. I’m talking with Donna Fina.”
Teo stared at her a moment longer. It seemed like he was about to say something. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to go.
“What’s this? One moment while I look at your sleeve,” Rodolfo said. “Missing a button. Tell the domestic it needs mending. Can’t have you running around the streets like a ragamuffin.”
Serafina smiled. This was more like the Rodolfo she knew. Smiling, pleasant, interested in his customers and exuberant-yes, simply exuberant-about the shoes they sold. He’d talk for an hour on the quality of the leather, the importance of the arch and heel, the sole, the stitching. Growing up, she remembered lines of customers snaking out the door and down the stoop waiting for service, especially on Saturdays, and Rodolfo often helped her decide which pair to purchase.
Serafina waited until Teo disappeared. “So. Any other siblings? Or is it just you and Ugo?”
“Just us. Even when we were growing up, I worked in the shop after school and in the summer.” Rodolfo circled the room with the flat of his hand. “From the start, it was clear to me: shoemaking was my life, like my father before me and his father before him.”
There was another pause before he continued. “So he had me run the shop. After that trip to Florence, he wouldn’t let Ugo go near it. Didn’t trust him after that.”
“But surely you spent time together, you and your brother. When did you last see him?”
Rodolfo hunched his shoulders. “Never wanted anything to do with me. Wasn’t good enough, I guess. Everything fell to me-the buying, the selling, running the shop, worrying about the accounts.”
She repeated her question.
He stared at something she could not see. “His wedding? Yes, that was it.”
“When was that?”
“Let’s see, four, five years before Garibaldi landed. I guess about eleven, twelve years ago. Of course, we attended the ceremony in Palermo a couple of years ago.”
“Which one was that?”
“When Ugo received the Marsala Medal. But he’d have nothing to do with me.”
“So your father left you the business?”
“No, of course not. I was in charge of the business. When he died, the rest of his estate-what little there was of it-was divided. Half of it came to me, the rest to Ugo.”
“And Ugo resented you for keeping the shop?”
“Not at all.” He shifted on the seat. “Ugo and I, we had a special arrangement.”
“How so?”
“Ugo left me alone with the shop. I gave him a share of the profits.”
“Half?”
“Not exactly.” Rodolfo wiped his forehead again. “I ran the business, so naturally I was compensated extra for my time. Lately, Ugo’s share, well, it wasn’t much.”
“You sent it to him through an attorney?”
The shoemaker looked at Serafina like she’d gone round the twist. “No. He came to the shop.”
“But I thought you hadn’t seen him in years.”
“I meant socially, as families do, brother to brother. No, he came to the shop each month for his handout. As I say, lately, his cut wasn’t much, what with protection and higher taxes. Ugo wanted me to sell the shop.” Rodolfo wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.
“And, I take it, you weren’t willing.”
The shoemaker’s face resembled a piece of deep cordovan. “Tight right now. Many people pay for their shoes with bread or fish. Some only have prayers to give me. More and more, they dispense with shoes altogether. I mean, why would they need shoes when the soles of their feet are so strong? But who’s to say what will happen next year if the crops hold and taxes ease? Once more we’ll prosper and people will become soft again and need a cobbler’s wares.”
She shrugged. “Did Ugo have children?”
Rodolfo walked over to the windows and pulled the shades. “After Ugo married, he moved away. Somewhere in the east-Catania, I think. When he returned, it was without the wife. Said she had died. Never spoke of children.” Untying his apron, he hooked it behind the counter and stood there, she thought, waiting for her to leave.
“I’ll follow you home, if you don’t mind. I owe Graziella a visit. It won’t take long. But before we go, I have one last question.”
Sweating profusely now, he wiped his face with a linen while she waited. “Your question?”
“Where were you last night?”
“Where was I?” Rodolfo seemed to lose his balance. She thought he was going to fall, but he swallowed and finally steadied himself.
“Here, of course.”
“The shop?”
“No, I mean, yes, I mean-” He opened and closed his mouth like some prehistoric flat fish.
The shoemaker seemed to be pleading for help. For her part, she regretted having to ask about his whereabouts last night. Truth to tell, his presence at the birthing seemed vague to her, too, understandable since she had been wrapped up in the delivery of his child and in Graziella’s wellbeing. She remembered him giving her coins when she left, but she couldn’t remember his being there when she entered and it was Graziella’s cousin who’d come to fetch her. More troubling: she could not understand his behavior today. She knew grief sometimes had bizarre manifestations, but Rodolfo’s behavior seemed more like fear. Fear of what? Discovery? Or was his mind stopped by the loss of a brother he never quite knew or liked.
“-I meant I was at home, of course. You remember, I gave you thanks at the door?”
She nodded.
He stilled his breathing. “I said ‘here’ because, as you know, our home is above the shop.”
They ascended the narrow staircase in the back of the shop to the shoemaker’s home. It consisted of three rooms all recently whitewashed in time for the new baby’s arrival. The furnishings were spare but in good condition. Serafina was surprised at how empty it seemed compared to last night when rooms were filled with women praying, carrying water and fresh linen, men playing cards and arguing. After the baby was delivered, the house had rung with shouts of joy. No decorations on the walls, no books on the shelves. It held none of the clutter created by the living.
The combined kitchen and dining area boasted a large oak table around which three places had been set. Two windows faced the street and dappled light filtered onto the plain wooden floors. A domestic was busy carrying stoneware from the oven to the table. The smell of tomato sauce and pasta made Serafina’s stomach growl.
The shoemaker’s wife sat on a sofa, rocking slightly and thumping her newborn’s blanketed back. She wore her hair pulled back into one thick plait and Serafina could see an increase in grey threading through the chestnut strands. The sunlight hardened the lines in her face. Graziella had the same forlorn look as she did last night when she was handed her baby, but it creased into a smile when she saw Serafina.
“I’d still be in labor if it weren’t for you. A thousand thanks. Now I’ve another healthy child.”
“Sorry to detain your dinner. I won’t take long, but I wanted to assure myself that your spirits had returned.” Serafina took the infant from Graziella and ran two fingers over his forehead, then felt his pulse. “Much bleeding?”
“The usual.” She looked up at Serafina and forced another smile. “Don’t say anything to Rodolfo. If I could take back the words I spoke last night. I was just…”
“Nonsense. No need to explain.” Serafina felt Graziella’s pulse.
Teo ran a tongue around his lips. “Can I hold him?”
“Only for a moment. And be gentle, like I showed you,” Graziella said.
After Teo settled himself, Serafina handed him the baby. He stared at his brother a moment, then began rocking him.
His mother held out a restraining arm. “Not so hard. Easy, like you did last night.”