The grandeur of the opera house thrilled Laura too. It took thousands of employees to keep such a vast place running. There were hundreds of artists involved behind the scenes—stagehands, electricians, set builders, property masters, costumers, dressers, wigmakers, and milliners.
There is a beehive under every pot of honey on the island of Manhattan, thought Enza.
Where Laura was galvanized by the possibilities of working at the Met, Enza was nervous. Enza worried about her English, fretted about the skirt and blouse she’d chosen to wear. The Met was a long way from the traveling troupes that pitched tents in the fields of Schilpario or the vaudeville theaters that Laura remembered from her own childhood on the Jersey shore.
Serafina Ramunni stood with a fabric peddler on the bare stage. The head of the costume department was in her thirties, a handsome woman with strong features and a slim shape, accentuated by a belted-waist suit jacket and a long skirt with a kick pleat. She wore brown calfskin boots, and a black velvet hairband in her shiny brown hair. She chose fabrics from the bolts on display, marking the ones she would purchase with a stickpin. Angelic chiffons, sturdy velvets, and liquid satins were unfurled like flags for her perusal. She looked over at the girls, feeling their stares. “You are?”
“Laura Heery, and this is Enza Ravanelli.”
“You’re here for the seamstress jobs?”
They nodded in unison.
“I’m Miss Ramunni. Follow me to the workroom,” she said, walking upstage.
The girls looked up at her, unsure where to go.
“You can come onstage. The steps are over there.”
Enza followed Laura up the steps to the stage, feeling unworthy to step out onto it. It was like approaching a tabernacle in a cathedral. She peered down into the orchestra pit, lit by dim worklights. Black lacquer music stands were cluttered with white sheet music, like the open pages of a book.
Laura followed Miss Ramunni backstage and down the stairs to the basement, but Enza took a moment to turn centerstage and look out into the opera house before following. The upper levels of the theater looked like a massive field of poppies.
“Who wrote the letter?” Serafina asked.
“I did,” Enza said shyly.
“I passed it around the office.”
Laura looked at Enza and smiled. Good sign.
“We got a kick out of it. No one ever applied for a job here using listening to Caruso records as a skill.”
“I hope I didn’t do anything wrong,” Enza said.
“Your sewing samples saved you.” Serafina smiled, ushering the girls into a lift to the basement. “I don’t usually appreciate humor, intended or not, in query letters.”
The costume shop in the basement of the Met was a cavernous space that extended the full length of the building. From cutting tables, to a series of fitting rooms, through a hall of mirrors where the actor could see himself from every angle, past the machines, and through to finishing, where the costumes were steamed, pressed, and hung, it was a wonderland unlike anything either of the girls had ever seen. All weaves and textures of fabric—bolts of cream-colored duchesse satin, wheels of jewel-toned cotton, soft sheets of silver faille and shards of powder blue organza—lay neatly on worktables, stood upright in bolts, or were bundled in bins or jigsawed on the pattern table, waiting to be sewn.
Dress mannequins were staggered around the room, bearing garments in various states of construction. On the walls, a peek into the gallant characters of pending productions—watercolor sketches of Tristan, Leonora, Mandrake, and Romeo—hung like saints in the portrait gallery of the Vatican.
Twenty sleek, top-of-the-line black-lacquered Singer sewing machines outfitted with bright work lamps and attended by short-backed padded stools were lined up like tanks on the cusp of battle on the far side of the room. A three-way mirror and a circular platform for fittings were set off to the side with a rod and privacy curtain. Three long worktables, enough to accommodate fifty seamstresses, split the center of the room, with walking aisles in between.
A worker pressed muslin on the ironing board; another, at a sewing machine, did not lift her head from her task; still others, in the next room, operated the wringer washing machines, hanging voluminous petticoats on drying racks.
Laura and Enza took in all of it and fell instantly, immediately, and irrevocably in love. They wanted to work here more than they wished to live.
“You, over here.” Serafina pointed to Enza. “And you”—she pointed to Laura—“there.”
Serafina handed them each a square of fabric and a bin of crystals. She placed thread, scissors, and needles before them. She opened a sketchbook to a page featuring a copy of a harlequin beading design made famous by Vionnet.
“Reproduce the fan design,” Serafina directed. “Show me what you can do.”
The girls measured the triangles across the fabric, marking them with chalk. Laura picked up a needle and threaded it. Enza fished through the bin to find the right beads. She collected them and brought them to Laura, who handed her the needle, then threaded a second one for herself. Without a word between them, they made fast work of attaching the crystals, quickly and with dexterity.
“I assume you can fine-embroider from your samples,” Serafina said.
“We can do anything. By hand, by machine,” Laura assured her.
“Can you make patterns from a beading design on a sketch?”
“I can do that, Miss Ramunni,” Enza assured her. “I can take any sketch from a designer and break it down for production.”
“I know my way around beads,” Laura volunteered.
“And I’m an excellent fitter,” Enza said.
“You know the opera is more than Signor Caruso. But he is the king around here. We put on the operas he wants to sing, and we cast the sopranos of his choosing. He’s in London until next month, at Covent Garden with Antonio Scotti.”
“The baritone,” Enza remembered. “He appeared with Caruso in Tosca in 1903 here at the Met.”
“You do know your opera.”
“She listened to Puccini through a dumbwaiter,” Laura volunteered. “We were working scullery at a fancy party, and he was there.”
“I wasn’t aware Signor Puccini was renting himself out for parties.”
“Oh, he wasn’t. It was in his honor,” Enza said. “He played several arias from Tosca.”
“Your passion and curiosity will hold you in good stead around here,” Serafina said to Enza. She turned to Laura. “And how about you?”
“I’m a Gerry flapper,” Laura said. “You know, the Irish and all.”
“Geraldine Farrar is our best soprano. But know your place here. You are on the costume crew. You are not fans. No ogling, no joking, no familiarity, even when the performers are familiar with you. Treat every singer like your boss. If there’s a problem, you go to your crew captain.”
“Who is she?” Laura asked.
“Me. But first, we have a problem. I only have the money in the budget to hire one of you. Who wants the job more?”
Enza and Laura looked at one another sadly. The fantasy of being hired together had been dashed. “She may have the job,” they said in unison.
“No, no, no,” Laura said, shaking her head. “It’s Enza’s dream to work here. Please hire her.”
“But it’s your dream too.” Enza looked up at Serafina. “Laura and I met in a factory in Hoboken. She taught me English, and I’m trying to teach her Italian. She looked out for me there, and we moved into the city and took any jobs we could get. But our dream was to work together here at the Metropolitan Opera House.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the best,” Enza said. “And we believe our skills are excellent, and we belong in a place where our talents are used.”
“Not that we don’t have a lot to learn. We do,” Laura added.
“Well—” Serafina ran her hands over the beadwork swatches. “My parents came from Calabria. And I was trained by
Joanne Luiso, she was a great seamstress. She was patient with me, taught me about fabrics, drape, and line. I wouldn’t be here without her. I was given a break.”
“It’s only right to give the position to Enza,” Laura said.
“But I was hired by an Irish woman named Elizabeth Parent.” She glanced at Laura and smiled. “I’m going to take you both, though they’ll have my head upstairs. I’ll have to blame the budget overrun on Caruso, but God knows it’s happened often enough before.”
Laura and Enza were elated. They hugged one another, then looked to Miss Ramunni.
“You’ll start at one dollar a week. I don’t like clock watchers or break takers. I like a girl who sits down at the machine and sews straight through. If you’re actually as good as you say you are, you may eventually graduate to fittings and costuming the chorus. But first, you do the assembly work. Sometimes we work all night. No overtime.”
“We’re really hired?” Laura asked. “Both of us?”
With a curt nod, Serafina Ramunni said the sweetest words in the English language: “You have the job.” And then she turned to Enza. “And you have the job. Welcome to the Met.”
After they had completed their training, Enza chose the sewing machine at the end of the line in the costume shop, just as she had at the factory. Laura sat down next to her, tossing a brown-bag lunch into the drawer. Behind them, a dozen military jackets for the chorus had to be deconstructed, epaulets replaced, buttons redone, new collars and lapels inserted, for a special show the opera company was putting on for a bond drive for the American troops off to fight in the Great War.
The show was planned for the last day of June, so there were only a few weeks to design, mount, and produce the show, a pastiche of great arias and chorus anthems put together for the sole purpose of rallying the crowd to buy bonds to support the U.S. government.
With a sketch of a military uniform pinned to the wall before them, the girls began to rip out the old elements of the costumes, used in a production of Don Giovanni, careful to save the frog enclosures, brass buttons, and metal studs. Every clasp, trim, and embellishment in the shop was reimagined and used repeatedly. A button was never wasted.
“I think I’ve found my future husband,” Laura said.
“Where?”
“In the lobby this morning.”
“Not the door attendant.”
“No, he’s entirely too short for me. I found a tall one. His name is Colin Chapin. He works in accounting.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked him.”
“You just walked up to him and started talking?”
“I had to. I felt the tug of destiny. I’m not like you. I don’t have to be dragged into love by my braids. He’s going to take me to the show. He likes westerns, especially Tom Mix.”
“I didn’t know you liked westerns.”
“I don’t,” Laura said, “but I like him. He seems wise. Colin is ten years older than me.”
“You just came out and asked him how old he was?”
“No.” Laura laughed. “I have some couth! I asked Janet Megdadi in the office.”
“You are thorough.”
“Gotta be. Plus, I found out he’s a widower.”
Enza shook her head, amused. Laura Heery was, above all things, thorough.
“Enza, you know what my dream is for you? I want you to stop living like you did in Hoboken. You’re free now. Nobody’s gonna take away your happiness ever again.”
Freedom came naturally to Laura. Enza wished it came more naturally to her. Laura had a way of bringing out the best in Enza, and Enza was masterful at keeping Laura focused.
Enza laid a particularly ornate chorus jacket out on the worktable. She scribbled chalk marks across the lapels and down the sleeves.
“This one was a general,” she said. She took her small work scissors and began to disassemble the hardware on the face of the jacket. She attacked the small stitches, pulling out the threads quickly.
“Did you know him personally?”
Enza ceased her ripping and looked up.
“He’d rather have taken a bullet, the way you’re ripping out that lining,” a man said, in a deep voice with honey edges. Enza looked up into the stranger’s blue eyes. He ran his hand through his straight black hair and smiled. This is a handsome man, Enza thought. He must be a baritone, from the timbre of his speaking voice.
The angles of this man were all sharp. Square shoulders, a firm jaw, and a straight nose, but a beautiful mouth, with full lips over straight white teeth. His suit, perfectly cut for his lean body, was navy blue with a light blue pinstripe. His starched collar was snapped with a gold cross bar. His fitted vest was fastened with ivory buttons. Enza also noticed that the sleeves of his jacket broke perfectly at the wrist, revealing the crisp shirt cuffs underneath. His cuff links were deep blue lapis lazuli squares set in gold. He had beautiful hands.
“I’m Vito Blazek,” he said.
“Are you one of the singers?” Enza asked.
“Publicity. Best job in the building. All I have to do is let the papers know that Signor Caruso is singing, and four thousand tickets are sold that minute. Sometimes I like to come and watch the real work of the opera taking place.”
“I have an extra pair of scissors for you,” Enza joked.
Unfolding his arms, he leaned across the table. His skin had the clean scent of cedar and lime. “I’m tempted,” he said with a grin.
“I bet you are,” Laura said. “I’m her best friend, Laura Heery, and if you want to flirt with her, you need my approval.”
“What do I have to do to impress you?”
“I’m thinking.” Laura squinted at him.
“You ladies have discernment.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten your names yet.”
“Enza Ravanelli.”
“Sounds like an opera. Ravanelli? Northern Italy?” he said. “I’m Hungarian and Czech, born in New York City. Makes for an interesting stew.”
“I’ll bet,” Laura said, still giving him the once-over. “Nobody knows about stews like the Irish.”
“Hey, Veets, we gotta blow,” a young man said from the doorway.
“On my way,” Vito called over his shoulder, then added, “I hope I see you later.”
“We’ll be here, sewing our little hearts out,” Laura said as they watched him go.
“This job has perks.” Laura whistled. “If you decide to go out on a date with Mr. Blazek, I’m going to make you a new hat.”
Enza chalked the inseam of the coat. “I like blue,” Enza said. “Something bright—peacock blue.”
Laura smiled, pulling stitches out of another jacket.
Serafina pushed the door open to the workshop and placed a stack of files on the worktable. She surveyed the work of the seamstresses down the line. She lifted the finished chorus jacket, nodding her head in approval. “I have a job for you, Enza. Signor Caruso is back in the morning. His costumes are ready, but they need some adjustments. I’d like you to assist me.”
“I’d be honored to attend to Signore,” Enza said, trying to mask her surprise. After Serafina disappeared, taking the finished jacket with her, the girls on the machines congratulated Enza. Laura was so thrilled for her friend, she let out a whoop.
Enza took a deep breath. She knew this was the most important moment in her professional life thus far—the moment she was chosen and singled out for her talent. She had worked since she was fourteen years old for this opportunity. Her skills, nurtured in Mrs. Sabatino’s dress shop on the mountain and perfected by rote in the factory, had finally been revealed in full. Her talent was no longer a private matter; it was on display for all to see and appreciate on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera. And now, she would hem the garments of The Great Voice. She could scarcely believe it. If only Anna Buffa could see her now.
Chapter 18
A CHAMPAGNE FLUTE
Un Bicchiere da Spumante
Enrico Caruso stood
on the fitting stool in his spacious dressing room in the Metropolitan Opera House, puffing a cigar.
Hoping to please their star, the set decorator had poached the best ideas from interior designer Elsie de Wolfe, creating a lair for the singer inspired by the colors of the Mediterranean on the southern coast of Italy, where Caruso was born. The decor was all sun, sea foam, and sand.
A seven-foot sofa, covered in turquoise chenille and studded with large coral buttons, conjured the waters of the port of Sorrento. The lamps were milk-glass globes topped with tangerine shades. Overhead, the light fixture was a brass sunburst with round white bulbs on the tips. An Italian summer was tucked away behind the scenery, costumes, and props.
“I live in a seashell,” Caruso remarked. “I'm a real scungeel.”
Enrico’s makeup table was oversize, painted white, with large lightbulbs encircling an enormous round mirror. On the table, laid out with the precision of surgical equipment on pristine starched cotton towels, were vanity tools, brushes, powders, black kohl pencils, and tins of hair pomade. A small tin of glue for hairpieces, mustaches, and beards was open on the table. A low gilded stool covered in coral-and-white-striped fabric was tucked under the table.
“I have a bagno like the pope,” Caruso said as he stood on the fitting stool. “Have you met him, Vincenza?”
“No, Signore.” Enza smiled at the thought of ever meeting a pope, as she pinned the darts in the back of the costume.
“I have the same bathroom,” Caruso said. “But where I have silver fixtures, he has gold.”
Caruso was five foot ten. He had a thick waist and a barrel chest that could expand four inches when his lungs were inflated with enough air for the trademark power of his tenor. His legs were powerful, with muscular calves and substantial thighs, like the men who hauled marble and lifted granite in the villages of southern Italy. Expressive hands, muscular biceps, and slim forearms were grace notes on his physique. He acted with the dimensions of his body, just as he sang through them.
The most memorable feature of the Great Caruso’s face were his eyes, large, dark brown, dramatic, and expressive. His gaze was so penetrating, the whites of his eyes could be seen clearly from the mezzanine, as if the beams of the spotlights originated within him, instead of simply illuminating him from the rafters above. The intelligence behind his eyes made Caruso an artist of emotional scope and power, and a brilliant actor as well as the greatest opera singer of his time.
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