“What am I doing?” I let go of his hands and turn away from him.
“I understand,” he says.
“No, you don’t.” I bury my face in my hands. Nothing like taking cover in a moment of shame, only I wish I had a hood and a pashmina shawl and a lonely cell to crawl into.
But before I can explain what I’m feeling, or take the blame for my impulsive behavior he is gone. I hear the door from my room to the hotel hallway snap shut. I put my hand on my mouth. Underneath my hand my lips are not pursed in indignation. No, instead, much to my surprise…I’m smiling.
As I pack up my tools on my last day at Costanzo’s shop, I try not to cry. I can’t explain what this time has meant to me. I feel foolish that I ever wanted to come here as a tourist and lie around the pool and sleep all day, when what I gained in the exchange cannot be quantified. Under Costanzo’s direction and subtle encouragement, I became an artist.
Sure, Gram taught me how to make shoes, but there was never time to teach me how to walk in the world as an artist. There was never time to encourage me on that path, because it wasn’t something my grandmother knew. The dreamers were my great-grandfather and grandfather. Gram is a technician, a practical cobbler. She designed a shoe once, but it was only out of necessity. She drew the ballet flat and built it only after she lost customer after customer to Capezio. She did not sketch it out of a desire to create, but rather, a need. She needed to make money. Shoemaking was never a form of self-expression for Teodora Angelini, rather, it was food on the table, clothes for my mother, and money for the collection plate at Our Lady of Pompeii Church. There is nothing wrong with that, but now I know I want more. I want to say more.
New York City is everything to me, but I know now, in the frenzy and the noise, amidst the urgency and rush, that the voice of the artist can be drowned out in the pursuit of making a living. I understand the lure of security, the need to make money to pay our bills and meet payroll, but an artist needs time to think and to dream. Time, unstructured and free, nurtures the imagination. Afternoon siesta may appear to be restful, but for artists like Costanzo, it’s time to review the work of the day and reflect on new colors and combinations. Costanzo also taught me that ordinary life is artful. He taught me to look at everyday things and find the beauty in them. I’m not just a cobbler, I am creating a particular shoe for a customer who is trying to express something about herself to the world. My job is to deliver that message, to find the meaning in the ordinary.
I don’t see a pesky seagull looking for crumbs anymore. I see a palette of clean white, dressed in black feathers with bold white spots. Shoes. I don’t see a stone wall where the sun hits it full on at noon, I see a particular shade of gray with a gloss of gold. Leather. I don’t see a gnarl of vines on a black fence. I see forest green velvet and black leather laces. Boots. I don’t see a blue sky with clouds, I see a bolt of embroidered silk. I don’t see a bunch of pink peonies being carried through the piazza by a new husband on the way home to his bride, I see a jeweled tassel on the vamp of a party shoe. Embellishments.
And when I look at a woman now, I don’t see fashion, I don’t see age, I don’t see size. I see her. I see my customer, who needs me to give her the very thing that says who she is, as I express who I am through the work I do. Simple. But this knowledge has transformed me. I wasn’t the woman I was when I landed in Rome a month ago, and I won’t be the same when I return home. I will see home with these new eyes. Now, this frightens me a little: what if I’ve changed so that I don’t have the same goals I was focused upon when I left? What if I return home and Roman isn’t the man for me, and fighting with Alfred isn’t worth saving the shop and the building? What if the eyes of this artist have changed the very soul of who I am? What if I don’t want what I once dreamed of?
Costanzo told me over lunch one day that he was a widower, and his eyes filled with tears, so I didn’t pursue it. But I don’t want to leave Capri without knowing about his wife. As much as he has taught me about art, I feel there is much to know about other things, the guts of life, the pursuit of true love.
I join Costanzo on the veranda, where he has our lunch laid out on the table, as he does every day. I see buffalo mozzarella and luscious ripe tomatoes sliced thin. He’s drizzling olive oil on them as I join him.
“Our last lunch.”
“The Last Supper,” he laughs.
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“No woman wants to leave Costanzo Ruocco,” he laughs again.
I sit down and place a napkin on my lap. Costanzo fills my plate with the fruit of his garden. A quiet breeze moves through the garden rustling the tablecloth. “Before I go, I wish you would tell me about your wife.”
Costanzo reaches into his shirt and pulls out a gold neck chain with a wedding ring attached to it.
“What was her name?” I ask gently.
“Rosa,” he says. “She was born Rosa de Rosa.” Costanzo holds up his hand. He gets up and goes into the shop. When he returns he hands me a manila envelope. I open it. Inside are many pictures, some black and white, some small colored snaps, in the vivid blue Ektachrome from the 1960s, some from an instamatic camera in the 1970s, when their sons were born, and more still with a Polaroid instant camera, the kind of pictures that we used to take, develop on the table, and adhere to cardboard squares.
Gently, I place the stack of photographs on the table. The largest, a black-and-white picture of Costanzo and Rosa on their wedding day, was taken by a professional. She is a petite brunette, with gorgeous, wide-set brown eyes. She reminds me of my sister Jaclyn. Rosa wears a small whimsy in her hair, with a circle of net, and a white satin ballerina-length gown with a neck and a fitted waist that gives way to a full circle skirt. On her tiny feet are elegant kid pumps. Costanzo stands behind her, his hands on her waist.
“I married her on September 23, 1963. The happiest day of my life.”
“Bella,” I tell him.
“I called her Bella Rosa. And sometimes, just Bella.” Costanzo’s voice breaks.
“And you are very handsome.” I make the hand-fanning movement just like Costanzo. He laughs. After all, I remember, and will never forget, he is Italian. The male ego arrives intact with the birth certificate. “You miss her terribly.”
“I can’t speak of her because, in my life, with all the words I have ever heard, there have never been any to describe what she meant to me. I try, but even the word love is not enough. She was my world. I have never, for one moment, since she died, stopped loving her or thinking of her. Even now, if she could walk through that door, I would give up my own life for just a moment with her.”
I reach across the bench and take Costanzo’s hand. “Every woman should be loved the way you loved Rosa.”
“It’s hard for me to live without her. Almost impossible. I welcome death when it comes because I will see her again. I only hope she wants this old man.”
“Oh, she will. There’s a lot to be said for older men.” It hasn’t been just art I’ve learned about in my time on Capri.
“She died in 1987. Nothing is the same. The figs don’t taste the same, or the wine, or the tomatoes. She took everything good with her. I learned everything about life from her. About love, of course.” Costanzo stands and looks at me. “You wait. I have something for you,” he says as he goes back into the shop.
I spent the week in Da Costanzo learning things I needed to know. I learned about gropponi, the best cowhide for making soles; capretto, the softest lamb leather, is wonderful for straps; and vitello, the firmer hide, works well on a full shoe. And I learned that the world outside this island is encroaching on the craftsmanship that was born here, gobbling up Costanzo’s techniques and designs without his permission, only to mass-produce its version for the resort crowd.
Shifty entrepreneurial Americans come through, buy Costanzo’s sandals, take them home, copy them, and steal the designs outright, and actually have the crust to go to the same suppliers as Costanzo and try to
buy the elements he uses to build his signature sandals. The suppliers, wise to the thieves, refuse to sell supplies to the upstarts. Loyalty is still the best Italian trait.
Costanzo also taught me little things, tips that add up to the work habits that eventually become an artist’s technique. When shaping a heel, I now take my knife and peel the edge like the skin of an apple until it’s winnowed down to the exact size of the customer’s foot. Costanzo taught me to sew flat seams inside a shoe, which make them more comfortable for the customer. He taught me to embrace color, to never fear it. If the prime minister of Italy can wear melon-colored leather loafers, anyone can.
I learned things on my own, too. I learned that tourists on Capri are very loud because they are so enthralled by the view, they raise their voices in excitement. I learned that travel is still the best way to shake up your life, shift your point of view, and embrace inspiration, but you must be wide awake and eager to take it in, or it’s a waste. And I learned that my grandmother doesn’t need me to care for her, or worry about her, she is self-sufficient. She does just fine on her own.
Costanzo returns to the table carrying a shoe box.
“Costanzo, I can never thank you enough for this week.”
“You’re a good cobbler.” He nods his head slowly. “Like me when I was young.”
“That means everything to me. That’s all I want.”
“You work hard, and when you’re as old as me, you will know what it feels like to have spent your life making something beautiful for someone else. This is what we really give in the world. Now, I have a gift for you,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Costanzo gives me the shoe box. Before I remove the lid, I remember his promise to me on the first day of work. “You made me sandals!”
“Not for you. Your feet are too big for these shoes.”
I shoot Costanzo a look. “Mille grazie,” I say in a tone that makes him laugh.
I open the box and look inside. I lift the felt liner away. I catch my breath and lift out the shoe, a revelation in shape, detail, and form.
Costanzo has built my design for the Bergdorf’s competition. I place in on the palm of my hand, like a crown, and examine it.
My sketch has come to life, the upper of calfskin, the gold-and-white-braiding embellishment; the stacked heel, carved and sleek; the vamp with embossed leather, every detail is there, done to scale and tone as drawn and measured in my sketchbook. The materials are luxe, the execution masterful, each stitch so tiny, they’re practically invisible. The overall effect of the shoe is opulent with restraint, and the execution of the details is immaculate. The shoe says new bride, new life, new steps to carry her there! Size six. The sample size! The shoe that has lived for so long in my imagination is now in my hands, a glorious one-of-a-kind creation that calls back to my grandmother’s youth and yet is completely in the moment.
My eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s your design,” he says. “I was just the cobbler.”
“But it’s your craftsmanship that brought it to life.”
“That would be impossible without the vision,” he says. Then he lifts the shoe about a foot above the table and drops it. The shoe lands, in perfect pitch, and it rocks from side to side on the table until it stops. “Do you know this test?”
I shake my head that I don’t.
“When you build a heel, test it. If it rocks evenly and stops, like this”—he drops the other shoe onto the table; it sways and stops in the same fashion as the first shoe—“you have built the shoe properly. If it falls over, you must rework the heel to achieve proper balance.”
“I will,” I promise him. “Costanzo, we name our shoes at Angelini’s. The truth is, I’m not an opera buff. But I am a woman who loves a good story. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to call this shoe the Bella Rosa in honor of your wife. That is, if you don’t mind.”
Costanzo gets tears in his eyes; they cloud over the blue, just like the mist on the sea at nightfall. He nods that I may name this shoe after his wife. I have his permission. It’s so simple really. True love is without whim. It’s hardware. Durable. Everlasting. This world is where Costanzo and Rosa’s love happened, but eternity is where it lives. Love stays as long as someone remembers. I know their story and now I will tell it. I will think of Costanzo and Rosa every time I go to sketch, or cut a pattern, or sew a seam. He changed my point of view, so I will never forget him. I couldn’t.
I hold the shoes in my hands and remember the story of the shoemaker and the elves. The shoemaker and his wife were so poor, so beaten down by circumstance, that they left their last bit of leather out on their worktable, and so weary, they went to bed. The next morning, they found a perfect pair of shoes made from the leather. They put the shoes in the window and a customer bought them immediately. With that money, the shoemaker and his wife bought more leather, and night after night, they left out the supplies. And every morning, they returned to new shoes, made by the elves, more magnificent than before. It’s a story about when you’re most defeated, someone will come along and help, maybe even save you. This is what Costanzo did for me. And tomorrow, I must go home and do the same for the Angelini Shoe Company—the artist’s way.
The sun, the color of a ripe apricot, burns high in the sky over the pool of the Quisisana Hotel on my last day in Capri. The veranda and garden are filled with guests, sunning and swimming. I get out of the water and lie down on a chaise, and let the sun warm me through to my bones. This isn’t a bad way to turn thirty-four. It’s not what I had in mind, but I’m in the mood to embrace whatever life sends me. For example, instead of fighting the bathing suit my mother sent, I accessorized. I bought a pair of enormous silver hoop earrings studded with tiny white sapphires to wear with the suit. Now, the ensemble looks like it’s part of a plan. A gaudy, sparkling plan.
“Happy birthday,” Gianluca says as he sits on the chaise next to me.
I sit up. “Gram told you.”
“No, no, I looked at your passport when we stopped at security at the silk mill.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I wondered how old you were. I was happy you were thirty-three.”
“So was I. It just took turning thirty-four to appreciate thirty-three, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.” He gives me a look that says he’s been thinking about those kisses on my balcony as much as I have. The thrill and shame of it turn my cheeks red. He’ll think it’s the sun.
“What are your plans today?” he asks.
“You’re looking at them.”
“I’d like to celebrate your birthday with you,” he says.
I lean back on the chaise and pull my hat down over my eyes. “I’ve done enough celebrating with you.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
I push the brim of my hat off of my eyes. “Oh, I enjoyed it. But I shouldn’t have. I made it to my thirties without ever cheating on a boyfriend. Then you broke my streak.”
“How can you worry about a few kisses when he didn’t keep his word and join you here?”
An American woman on the next chaise, with a spray tan and wearing an orchid print swim dress, puts down her Jackie Collins paperback and commences to eavesdrop on our conversation.
“I know you Italians invented the vendetta, but I don’t believe in it. I won’t hurt Roman just because he disappointed me. I kissed you because I wanted to…and now,” I say loudly enough for the lady to hear, “I will have to kill you.”
Gianluca laughs.
I lean toward the nosy woman. “I’m a take-charge type,” I say to her.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I’m not big on surprises, so when Gianluca hustles me into a taxi in the piazza to go down to the pier, I’m pretty sure we’re going somewhere on Capri by boat. When I went on my tour of the island, I wasn’t observant about the politics of the dock. All I noticed were the lines of tourists waiting their t
urn to board the skiffs and experience the natural wonders of Capri. This time, we pass the hordes and I follow Gianluca around the pier to the end, where the local fishermen and families keep their boats. We get onboard a small white motorboat with a red leather interior.
“This is the exact color scheme of my dad’s 1965 Mustang,” I tell Gianluca. “He still has it.”
“This belongs to my cousin’s family.”
“You mean I didn’t have to cram in with the tourists to see the points of interest? I could have been on this little number?”
Gianluca starts the boat and maneuvers it out onto the open sea, past the tourists. As fast as he drives on land, he goes twice as fast on the ocean. He steers the boat out to where the water is smooth. We bounce over the waves effortlessly. This is the way to go, I think as we skip over the turquoise waves, drenched by a saltwater mist that cools us in the hot sun. Gianluca handles the boat with skill, but I keep my eyes on the water, and off him. There is much to admire about Gianluca Vechiarelli, but the last thing I need is another Italian man in my life.
We speed around the island until the back of the Quisisana comes into view. The entrance to the Blue Grotto is open. Satisfied that there is no one inside, Gianluca idles the boat near the entrance. He climbs out onto a ledge, and retrieves a sign that says NON ENTRATA IL GROTTO. He hangs the sign on an old nail over the entrance, then pulls a small rowboat from an alcove behind the ledge. He drops the rowboat into the water and reaches up for me.
Very Valentine Page 33
