Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  On ordinary days I love being single, and I consider it a choice, not a curse, but I’ve learned that a woman needs a date at family funerals and weddings, if only for diversion from the drama. It’s comforting to have a date to dump all the extra emotions upon, like gravy on macaroni. That’s why in-laws were invented—if only to point out that your family is crazier than mine, as Charlie reminds Tess, and Tom reminds Jaclyn. Even Clickety-Click—Pamela—can be seen supporting my brother in her firm Germanic fashion. The spouses quell the histrionics—or at least, they try to.

  Wedding receptions in Italy are not like our extravaganzas back home, and tonight, I wish they were. I would prefer to hide in a big crowd in a cavernous, noisy hall. It’s easy to slip away when the disco ball descends and the guests are covered in white polka-dots in the dark. I like to have the option of slipping out early, before the Beach Boys medley and the chicken dance, without anyone missing me. Loud music that drowns out any unpleasant comments or intrusive conversation is also a plus. This intimate wedding reception (intimate for Italians is a head count under fifty)—twenty of us gathered around one table, most of us blood relatives—will be a lot of work.

  Gram and Dom make the rounds, greeting the guests. The bride is so openly happy and optimistic, I can’t help but be. I had no way of knowing how I would feel once Gram was actually married. Her happiness is as important to me as my own, so I never wavered in wanting her to be with the man she loved, even if it meant giving up her life on Perry Street and starting over in Italy. But now that the ceremony is over, and she’s officially Mrs. Vechiarelli, it’s another feeling entirely to be on the other side of it. Now it’s back to reality.

  We take our seats around the table. I look for Gianluca, who hasn’t arrived yet. He disappeared after the ceremony as soon as we were done taking pictures. I was curious, wondering where he went, but quickly reasoned that there are Italian customs I know nothing about—and who knows, maybe he had to go to city hall and sign papers or meet with the priest. It could be anything.

  “I left the seat next to you wide open,” Tess whispers. “Where is Gianluca?”

  “I don’t know.” I check the door again.

  “He’s the only single man at this wedding.”

  “Besides Gepetto over there.” I point to a robust eighty-year-old with a thick swatch of white hair and a matching mustache who hammers loose tobacco down into his pipe like he’s pounding rocks at the state prison. “He’s starting to look good to me.”

  “You can date twenty years above your decade, and not one year more,” Tess says.

  I guess Gianluca, eighteen years my senior, qualifies in the under-twenty category.

  Dominic and Gram make a stop and talk to Gepetto. The blood relatives are clumped in the center, with the children staggered in and out of the adult seating, in the hope that separation will keep them out of trouble. My brother-in-law Tom pours champagne into our glasses; evidently the waiters don’t dispense the booze fast enough for him. He fills Aunt Feen’s glass.

  My brother, Alfred, takes his seat across the table from me.

  “What do you think?”

  “It seems like a nice restaurant,” Alfred says as he taps the table absentmindedly with his soup spoon. My brother usually appears spit polished and fresh, but today he seems tired. He has dark circles under his eyes, and more than a bit of gray shows through his shiny black hair, parted neatly to the side. He loosens his tie.

  “No, I mean about Gram getting married.”

  “I’m going to miss her,” he says. “I don’t see her every day like you do, but I like knowing she’s there.”

  “Me too.” I reach into my purse for Gianluca’s handkerchief. My brother’s sweet comment, coming from a guy who isn’t known for those, moves me.

  “Why are you crying?” Alfred says.

  “Oh, I don’t know, about a million things.” I rarely cry, so when I have a good sob, it’s about everything. I’m sad about my relationship with my brother, who I will never be close to after a lifetime of trying. I cry about the changes ahead back home, and how much I will miss Gram. I weep because I don’t have a date to this shindig and because world peace has not been achieved in my lifetime. I just let it flow.

  The door to the restaurant opens, and a woman enters. She’s a knockout, a tall blonde in a jet-black mink coat. My mother looks up—she has a sixth sense whenever a sable enters a room.

  Every head in the room turns to drink in the sight of this mysterious goddess, and the men’s heads stay turned. It’s as if invisible LoJacks have been attached to their necks and rotated in her direction. Yes, she is that beautiful. “Maybe she is here to pick up take-out,” I say to Tess.

  “Don’t think so,” she says softly.

  The bombshell is followed by Gianluca, who guides her by the arm to the table. He helps her out of her coat. The men exhale like they’ve found middle C on the pitch pipe as they drink her body in. Her shape is lushly proportioned: tiny waist, ripe bust and hips—like a bow tie on its side. Her bella figura lives up to her bella faccia.

  “You got to be kidding me,” Tess says under her breath. “Gianluca brought a date?” Tess yanks her purse from the chair she was saving for him and shoves it under the table. “He’s on his own.”

  I’m stunned. Maybe I’ll switch seats. There’s an empty next to the bachelor Gepetto.

  Gram, unaware of the goddess, leans over me and takes my hand. “Valentine, what did you think of the ceremony?”

  “It was perfect.”

  “I think so.” Gram smiles. “How was the carriage ride?”

  “Like a hayride to the pumpkin patch,” Aunt Feen complains loudly. “Bumpy, rickety and annoying…like old age.” Then she picks up her glass of champagne and drains it like she’s dousing a parched houseplant upon returning from a two-week vacation at the shore. Tom quickly refills her glass.

  “It was quaint,” I correct her.

  “Too much hoopla.” Aunt Feen dabs her lips with the napkin. “Simplicity should be a goal in life.”

  Gianluca brushes past us to greet the guests at the far end of the table.

  Tess scoots her seat back.

  “Where are you going?” I don’t want her to leave me.

  “I’m going to say hello to the blonde,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a fact-finding expedition,” she says, then whispers, “make friends with the enemy.”

  “I’m going with you.” I take a swig of champagne and follow my sister. When I stand, my pearls rattle like Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol.

  “Hello!” Tess says to the lady.

  “Ciao.” The mink lady’s blond hair cascades over her bare shoulders, accentuated by a portraiture sweetheart neckline on a black velvet strapless (of course) cocktail dress. Her green eyes are framed by thick black eyelashes. She’s downright hypnotic. She wears a luscious perfume that has the scent of lavender and honey. I can’t tell how old she is, and it doesn’t matter. She’s one of those women who can’t be placed in a particular decade.

  “Parla inglese?” Tess chirps.

  She replies, “Un po.”

  “Che nomme?” I ask.

  “Mi chiamo Carlotta,” she says. Then she points to Tess and me. “Sorelle?”

  “Si, si, siamo sorelle.”

  Tess says, “Teodora é la nostra nonnina.”

  “Boy, that Rosetta Stone program paid off,” I compliment my sister.

  “Si,” Tess nods proudly.

  My father, brother, and the men from the village gather around behind us, squeezing us closer to Carlotta. We encircle her like contestants in a cakewalk, and guess who’s the coveted grand prize, the Lady Baltimore layer cake?

  Tess and I step back, our personal space violated by this intruding pack. This room is not large to begin with, and it’s best if everyone stays seated, but Carlotta is a lure, and her beauty and whatever else she’s got have created a tight stag circle around her. Tess and I turn to go
back to our seats, and we have to actually push hard to break the seawall of men to return to our places.

  Carlotta throws her head back and laughs as she chats with the adoring men. She is captivating. If I were Gianluca and had to choose between her and me in this moment, I’d go with Carlotta.

  I look down at the garlands of pearls around my neck. This morning, they were chic, and now they seem more plastic than fashionable faux, more childish than sophisticated, and about twelve strands too many. I’m the overdecorated lower branches of a Christmas tree where the kids have free rein to hang ornaments. Cluttered. In contrast, Carlotta wears a simple gold chain around her long neck, 24K for sure. It nestles in her ample cleavage like two tributaries feeding into the Mighty Miss-i-ssip. The rope of gold glitters against her tawny skin.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jaclyn says.

  “I’ll bet you don’t.”

  “You’re younger,” Jaclyn reasons.

  “I don’t think that matters.”

  “Well…you’re every bit as attractive as she is.” Tess’s brow furrows as she observes her husband pour Carlotta a glass of champagne. Even Charlie Fazzani is smitten.

  “Let’s face it—she could do the Anita Ekberg turn in the Trevi fountain in La Dolce Vita better than Anita Ekberg. I could do the same scene, and all I’d be is…wet.”

  Gianluca has joined the boys as they vie to dazzle Carlotta. I put my champagne flute down and head for the kitchen.

  The kitchen is twice the size of the dining room. A chef, a tense man in his forties, and two cooks prepare the meal.

  “Avrebbe bisogno di un po’ d’aiuto?” I ask.

  The chef breaks a smile and shakes his head that he doesn’t.

  “Le dispiace se rimango a guardare mentre lavora?”

  He nods that I may. Better to be in this hot hell than the one in the dining room.

  The cook pulls a large strainer out of a boiling vat of pasta. The steam sends clouds of mist over the worktable. The chef reaches up and grabs a copper pot shaped like a wok with a handle and puts it on a low flame. Then he spoons butter into the pan, followed by cream and a handful of sugar. Then he opens a small bottle of liqueur. He leans across the worktable for me to sniff. It’s a sweet brandy of some sort.

  “Questo l’ho fatto io. E’ un liquore fatto di pesche e more,” he explains.

  He drops a bit of the liquor into the butter and cream, then swishes the mixture around. The sweetest scent of a summer garden loaded with thickets of ripe berries rises from the pot.

  The cook takes the pasta shaped like delicate rosettes and spills them into the pan of sauce without losing one to the floor or leaving one in the strainer. The chef lifts the pot to the worktable and flips the mixture, without using a spoon, until the rosettes are coated in the buttery cream sauce.

  The second cook takes small plates and ladles the pasta onto the plates. The chef takes sprigs of sugared violets and places them in the center. The waiters gather the plates on their arms and exit to the dining room.

  “Mangia!” the chef says, clapping his hands, shooing me out of his kitchen. But I want to stay. I want to watch him create our meal. I want to learn and retain his techniques. I want to wash dishes, scrub pots, anything, just so I won’t ever have to go back into the dining room and have to face this long meal of many courses with my family and Carlotta and Gianluca and the mess of it all. I’ve hit the wall. I want to go home. To the United States of America. To sleep in my own bed. Alone.

  Mom peeks into the kitchen. “It’s time, Val.”

  I’m a middle child, who only stands up for what she wants when absolutely forced to in a life-and-death situation. At all other times, I suck it up and defer to the will of the group. Gianluca showing up with a hot date isn’t exactly life or death, unless you consider humiliation terminal, so I give up and follow my mother into the dining room, where the guests are seated and already fawning over the pasta.

  Gianluca has his seat turned toward Carlotta and away from the guests. Lovely. Aunt Feen is munching off a flat of bread, while the children amuse themselves with the cutlery. My father entertains Gepetto with a story, in English, which he pretends to understand while Gram and Dom take their places at the head of the table. Dominic stands.

  “Benvenuti tutti al nostro matrimonio. Teodora ed io ci consideriamo davvero fortunati d’esserci trovati e siamo lieti di avere le nostre famiglie unite in amore.

  “Vi ringraziamo d’essere qui presenti a celebrare con noi questo bellissimo giorno, e tutti i bei giorni del nostro avvenire. Auguriamo che il nostro matrimonio porterà tanta fortuna alle nostre famiglie. SALUTE!” He raises his glass.

  The glasses touch, clinking together softly like piano keys.

  The pasta course is followed by succulent roasted capon on polenta. Next is a small purse of filet mignon in pastry, then a fresh salad of greens and pignoli nuts with sliced oranges. I forget my troubles and slights, and do what I do best no matter what else is happening in the universe: eat. I enjoy every single bite. Every once in a while I look down to the end of the table where Carlotta and Gianluca are engrossed in conversation, and shovel in another bite in their honor.

  Finally, after a meal with more courses than a Berlusconi bacchanal, the wedding cake is brought from the kitchen. It’s a traditional white layer cake, but on the top tier, instead of a miniature bride and groom, there is a pair of tiny pink marzipan pumps next to a pair of men’s wing tips made of chocolate. The guests applaud as the cake topped with candy shoes is placed in the center of the table.

  The waiters quickly fill the center of the table with platters of pastries iced in pink, dusted with sugar, or drizzled in honey. I’m going to sample every cookie, and I’d like to see somebody try and stop me. I motion to the waiter to bring espresso so I might stay awake through my binge.

  Aunt Feen rises from her seat and holds up her glass. “I’d like to make a toast.”

  The guests are silent as all eyes go to Aunt Feen. “My sister Tessie—that’s right, Tessie—I know you fancy-pants Italians called her Teodora, but that’s your choice. I’m gonna call my sister what I called her all my life. Tessie…Now, where was I?…Tessie is my sister…and she happens to be a good egg. Dominic, I don’t know you from a hole in the wall, but you seem okay. It’s a little kook-a-luke for two eighty-year-olds to get married—that’s just me. But you did it and it’s done and that’s where we are…”

  It’s more than fine that half the people in this room don’t speak English, because if they did, they would know to be insulted. I look down the table at my mother, who is mouthing words with no sound coming out, like a carp marooned on dry land. As Aunt Feen drones on, Jaclyn and Tess exchange worried looks. My sister-in-law Pamela has her eyes squeezed shut as if she’s witnessing the massacre finale in the Texas Chainsaw movie.

  Aunt Feen continues, “So raise your glasses to the seminarians—”

  “Octogenarians,” my father corrects her softly. This is a first—he’s correcting someone else’s misuse of the English language. My immediate family exchanges looks of utter surprise. What could be next? Sophia Loren actually looks her chronological age?

  Feen waves her hand dismissively at my father and turns to Dominic and Gram. “Octopuses. Whatever the hell you are. Cent’Anni.”

  The glasses clink with a ferocity, as if to drown out any further commentary by Aunt Feen. I hear Charlie say, “Whoa,” under his breath, while Jaclyn freezes her gaze, like Bambi seeing flames, upon Aunt Feen.

  My family’s insanity can only be kept under wraps before the general public for four hours max. We’re on hour five, and it’s dire. I chew on my pearls.

  Gram and Dominic share a kiss at the end of the table, but cut it short when Aunt Feen bellows, “Cut the cake!” Evidently, the newlyweds are not moving fast enough for Aunt Feen. She stands up, picks up the silver knife decorated with white ribbons, and wields it over the cake like a sword. A collective gasp goes up in the room.

&nbs
p; “Auntie,” my mother says, and then laughs gaily as though we have knife play at all our family gatherings.

  Aunt Feen stands firmly gripping the knife with two hands poised over the cake like a chef preparing to hack an eel in half in a Benihana commercial.

  “Oh, Auntie, put the knife down,” Mom says casually, then glares at my father to do something.

  I look around to my father and brothers-in-law, who evidently, when they gawked at Carlotta’s assets, inhaled her perfume loaded with kryptonite and have lost their ability to wrangle knives out of the hands of old ladies. They look away. Even Gepetto looks off in the distance, exhaling smoke in gray puffs like a leaky exhaust pipe. Clearly, the men don’t believe this is their problem. So I stand up and place my hand out. “Aunt Feen, give me the knife.”

  “I’m gonna cut the cake,” she yells. “Cut the cake!”

  “No, you’re not. The bride cuts the cake,” I say firmly.

  “And the mouse takes the cheese!” Aunt Feen bellows as she circles the knife above her head. The guests shriek. Aunt Feen yells, “And the cheese stands alone!”

  “Give me the knife, Aunt Feen,” I repeat. “Now.”

  Gram rises and scoots behind the seated guests until she’s behind her sister. “Feen…,” she whispers, “give it to me.” Gram gets a grip on the knife handle and Aunt Feen relinquishes it.

  “Ah, what the hell.” Aunt Feen drops down into her seat. “Cut your cake. Cut your cake.”

  Dominic joins Gram, and together they place their hands on the knife handle and evenly slice it into the lowest layer. The gentle cut of true love triumphs over the potential hack job of hate. The guests resume their revelry as the cell phones come out and we commence snapping happy photos from all angles. Gram and Dominic hold for pictures as the waiter takes the cake to the kitchen.