“I know.” Kathleen smiles. “Who are you?” Kathleen kneels down to talk to Rocco. Gabriel shoots me a look. The melodramatic kneeling makes this scene something out of Jezebel.
“I’m Rocco.”
Alfred Jr. pushes Rocco to the side. “I’m Alfred Junior.”
“You are?” Kathleen acts impressed.
“Yeah. That’s my name.”
“That’s a cool name,” she says. Kathleen takes in Alfred’s children. She looks at them carefully, as though she wants to wed the conversations she had with my brother about his family to the reality. She might even be wondering what her children with Alfred might look like. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Suddenly Pamela looks up from her work. My mother and sisters look at one another.
I jump in to cover for Kathleen. Doesn’t she know all Italian mothers and sisters are on high alert for interlopers? Tess alone could blow this affair wide open with a couple of pointed questions. “Oh, I bore everybody on the planet with stories about my nephews and my nieces. I make them look at pictures. I’m a very pushy auntie.” I go in for the save.
Gabriel shoots me a look that says, Stop it. You’re overcompensating. If he could, he’d take the ruler and rap my hand and say, “Bad actress! Bad actress!”
“This is my wife…Pamela.” Alfred introduces her to Kathleen.
“Nice to meet you.” Pamela extends her hand.
From the look on Kathleen’s face, I don’t think she counted on The Wife being so attractive. Pamela’s long champagne blond hair hangs loose, with chalk-colored highlights around her face, and her cigarette-leg jeans show off her lean shape after two babies. Kathleen cannot blame the affair on Pamela with the old “the wife let herself go” excuse. Kathleen will have to invent some other reason for Alfred’s fall.
“Why don’t we go upstairs?” I offer. I turn to my family. “Back to work, people. Alfred and I have some business to attend to. I want this table cleared by the time I get back.”
Kathleen, Alfred, and I go up the stairs to the apartment. I show her to the table, offering her a seat. She sits and opens her briefcase. “I make it a habit to visit the establishments that we give our loans to. I’m sorry I interrupted family time downstairs.”
“No problem. I just put everybody to work on shipping days.”
Kathleen looks down at the paperwork. She shuffles through it. She pulls out a document and gives it to Alfred. “Here is the loan repayment plan.” She avoids eye contact.
“Thank you,” he says.
“And here’s the check.” Kathleen hands me an envelope containing enough money to produce and launch the Bella Rosa, the first design in our Angel Shoes line.
“Thank you. This is really going to help us.”
“I’m happy to have been a part of this venture.”
Kathleen Sweeney has tears in her eyes. I feel bad for her, even though I know she’s been involved with my married brother, and I believe that’s wrong down to my bones. But I’m afraid she may actually be in love with my brother. She looks at Alfred with sadness. “I’d also like to say…” Kathleen looks at me. “I’m sorry.”
I look over at my brother, whose eyes fill with tears.
“Everything is going to be all right,” I say—for the life of me, I can’t think of anything else that would be apt. If you’d asked me a month ago, I would have imagined yelling, “Get out of my house, you tramp!” at her. But the truth is, she isn’t a tramp, and I would never have the temerity to judge another woman anyway.
I stand to go. I don’t offer my hand in gratitude, nor do I embrace her. I am, after all, part of the family that her actions could have destroyed. I have to stick with my team, even when I understand the weakness of the opposition.
Kathleen stands up. I can tell that she would like a moment with my brother, alone. But this is my house, and it’s my shop, and my sister-in-law is down the stairs, innocent of their nonsense, so I say, “I’ll see you out.”
I show her to the stairs. Alfred stands by the table, not knowing what to do. Instead of following Kathleen and me, he stays behind. When I look back before leaving him, his expression is one of pure loss.
I follow her out into the street and pull the door shut behind me. “That was rough,” Kathleen says. She holds her shoulder bag tight to her body with one arm and runs her hand through her hair with the other. “I’m sorry,” she says with frustration. “I have to think about myself right now. I didn’t set out to cause any harm,” she goes on. “I wasn’t looking for…I wasn’t planning on a relationship…it just happened.”
It’s so hard for me to imagine a love affair just happening, unfolding like a strip of fine leather under the roller. Wouldn’t it be nice to be one of those people who wanders the world and runs into love like it’s a corner bodega? Kathleen is one of those people who is surprised when love arrives, as if it is made of whim and fancy, and not of choice. But that’s never been true for me. I have to choose. I’ve always had to look for trouble to find it, and the same goes for love.
“I have to go,” Kathleen says, looking up at the street sign, looking for the quickest route out of here.
“Kathleen, before you go, you need to understand something. Thank you for putting your feelings aside, for letting go of my brother—for whatever reason. You’ve saved us all a lot of heartache. But…I’m with them. My family. They come first. If you need to discuss business with me, I’ll come to your office day or night. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me. But I don’t expect to see you on Perry Street again. Understood?”
As she walks away, perhaps she is thinking about how she could have saved her own heart from breaking. But it’s too late for that now.
I watch as Kathleen crosses Perry Street, avoiding the pits and grooves of the cobblestone street. I wish my brother would have navigated his path as carefully.
Alfred should have known better, after all we had been through with Dad. Alfred always knew best until it came to his own life. Now he’ll have to figure out a new philosophy, because the one he chose walks away with every step she takes.
I fold my arms as Kathleen makes the turn onto Washington and disappears out of my view, and, I hope, out of my brother’s life, and the story of our family—for good.
My suitcases are lined up next to the door, and my outfit is laid out for the flight to Buenos Aires. My mind races. I think of a thousand things that I will need to do, should ask, and hope to accomplish in Argentina.
Roberta has been cagey about providing any family information. She wants to share it all in person, which is fine, but I hate to travel a few thousand miles to get upsetting news. On the other hand, I’m excited about seeing her factory, and about the potential business opportunity for her and the Bella Rosa.
I am grateful for the timing of this trip. Alfred and Kathleen’s secret affair took a toll on me, as did the shipment to Milwaukee. Gabriel has begun to implement his renovation and redecoration of the apartment, and it will be helpful for him to have the space to himself to get the job done. Alfred will take over the shop in my absence, June’s vacation is planned, and Gabriel will be on hand to help out when he’s needed. It would seem that all is in order. Until I open the most recent letter from Gianluca.
18 maggio 2010
Cara Valentina,
Enclosed is the leather sample you asked me to send. It’s a basket weave of suede and leather, which gives the look of double-sided satin. I think you will agree that it is exquisite. Thank you for your letter. All is well here. I know you are busy, so I will close.
Love,
Gianluca
I let his letter fall onto the floor next to my bed. Gianluca’s first dud, written and sent without poetry or passion, and on the eve of my big adventure. I would have liked a sexy opus to read over and over again on the plane, but I guess I’ll have to turn to the new Jackie Collins novel for that. Gianluca knows I’m nervous about this trip, and I’ve shared my reservations with him. You wo
uld think, wise old man that he is, that he’d come up with the exact right thing to say to make me feel more confident.
I hear a fire alarm in the distance, somewhere in Chelsea. I can’t sleep. I get a special brand of insomnia before I fly. I imagine turbulence, a horrible flight, the plane is struck by lightning, a belly landing because the wings have snapped off, and once I’m on the ground, having slid down the emergency chute, Roberta meets me and hates me on sight. I develop a rash over my entire body and cannot walk. I’m put in a bad local hospital where they pump me up with drugs and change my name. I develop amnesia and have to be airlifted out on a gurney to a small hospital on the Galapagos Islands where a voodoo doctor can cure the rash but cannot restore my memory. I join a nunnery because the rash has so disfigured me I can only live in a colony where they wear veils. But wait! I know what’s keeping me up this time. This letter was never intended as an endearing send-off. It’s a blow-off. He’s breaking up our imaginary relationship! We’re only together on paper, bound by good stationery and his Italian-to-English dictionary. We’re doomed. It’s over. God help me, but if the plane goes down, the last words I will have read from Gianluca will be about a leather sample. Well, it was literary and luscious while it lasted. I actually believed his words, and hoped he really saw the woman he described in letters to be just like me. But she’s gone. His pen ran out of ink. The compliments, the insights, the idolatry—they’ve dried up like an old inkwell.
Face it, Valentine, I say to myself. He’s probably found someone new. Probably some shoe designer from Russia with long legs, high cheekbones, and bangs that lie flat. Or maybe she’s Ukrainian. She’s a brunette with rosebud lips and real pearls in piles around her neck. Or French. Busty and makes a good pastry. Gianluca would be a catch anywhere in the European Union. And to think, for a while, he wanted me.
I turn over and fluff my pillow into a comfortable position. Even though it’s spring in New York City, it’s autumn in Buenos Aires. Fall is my favorite time of year. I blossom in the autumn. So I’m going to put the letter out of my mind (Gianluca will be lucky if he gets a postcard from Argentina) and focus on the Bella Rosa. At least I know what I’m doing when it comes to shoes. Love will have to wait.
8
Be Careful, It’s My Heart
AS THE PLANE DESCENDS INTO Buenos Aires, it dawns on me that my mother should be living my life. When she was thirty-five years old, she had four children, a husband, and a teaching degree that lay dormant like hyacinths in winter. The closest she would ever come to leading the life of an international jet-setter was listening to the rhythmic rumble of the airplanes over the old neighborhood in Queens as they made the turn to land at La-Guardia.
Mom was practically giddy at the airport as she helped me check my luggage. Whereas most normal travelers loathe the paperwork and lines, my mother revels in the boarding process. She counts on the helpful redcaps. She waits patiently as she takes her place at check-in where they hand you your seat assignment. She makes pre-boarding relationships, cultivating “new friends” on her way to “new experiences.” My mother holds a boarding pass the way most people cradle a winning lottery ticket.
I peer out the window. Nightfall over Buenos Aires is a swirl of purples; the clouds dimpled with blue hold up a moon that looks like a silver pocket watch.
I planned an evening arrival in order to get a full night’s sleep before hitting the ground running in the morning. The hotel arranged a car service to pick me up at the airport. The Four Seasons Buenos Aires is deluxe—and I would never have the means to stay there, except that Gabriel tapped into his Carlyle hotel contacts to arrange the deal of a lifetime (though I’m told bargains are the norm in Buenos Aires). I put on fresh lipstick, because you never know who you might meet. My mother once ran into Dr. Christiaan Barnard in 1975 and still moans that she “didn’t have her face on.”
I wonder what this trip will bring. Fourteen days to fill with possibilities. Will I meet anyone like Costanzo Ruocco—the great Caprese shoemaker—or the likes of the Neapolitan D’Amico sisters who make our shoe embellishments in Naples?
This time, unlike on my trips to Tuscany and Capri, I won’t be distracted by a boyfriend who cancels at the last minute or a hot Italian who wants to step into the void. I won’t be worried about Gram’s welfare. I won’t be concerned about my father’s health or my mother’s hope that I marry before she needs a facelift. I’m on my own.
When I’m working in the shop on Perry Street, I have to steal time to sketch new ideas, because building custom shoes takes up most of the day. There are also appointments with vendors and fitting sessions with customers. I lead a very structured life in order to meet my deadlines, but all of that changes when I travel. Time becomes my own.
If I want to sketch all morning, it’s my choice. If I want to play with patterns on paper long into the night, I can. I have uninterrupted spools of hours on end to look at the world in a new way. Fresh color combinations ignite, classic notions are scrapped, and new techniques are introduced as my imagination goes wild with possibilities. I can think freely when I’m away from home because I’m not worried about the boiler, the water bill, or the mortgage.
Maybe Gram is right—maybe the best thing an artist can do is to leave her comfort zone. Maybe creativity is all about the guts to try something new, somewhere new. I close my eyes and reboot my imagination as the car careens through the streets of Buenos Aires. When I open them, the city, completely new to me, is a blur of deep blue split by seams of light. I’m glad I landed in the dark; there is nothing to distract me as I remember my purpose. I have a job to do, and I won’t rest until it’s done.
The porter at the Four Seasons greets the car, opening my door with a flourish, as though I’m a party guest and not a hotel patron. At first glance, the La Recoleta district in Buenos Aires looks like the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Sleek glass towers loom among the frill of old world architecture like pavé diamonds set in stainless steel.
The entrance to the hotel is as grand as the neighborhood. Flowing fountains set amid classic statuary create the feeling of a piazza. I follow the porter under the awning and through the polished brass doors. The lobby is regal, with black-and-white marble floors and high arched ceilings. The sleek furniture is covered in navy damask-and-gold velvet stripes. I feel as if I’ve landed in a Dorothy Draper candy dish.
There is barely a wait at the front desk. When I am handed my key, the night manager says, “It’s our pleasure. We have upgraded you to a suite.”
“Upgraded is my second favorite word,” I tell him.
“And what’s the first?” He smiles.
“Complimentary.”
He laughs as he shows me to the glass doors that lead through the outdoor gardens to La Mansion, a French inspired villa, the original hotel building behind the modern tower. As he opens the doors, soft teal beams of light shoot up from the ground onto the stone façade, etched in scrollwork. Romantic balconies jut out over the garden, spilling over with greenery and lush white blossoms. The effect is pure Marie Antoinette, Rococo details and neoclassical design in the heart of Buenos Aires.
I follow the porter outside and through the gardens to the entrance. I tiptoe, looking over the hedges to the oval swimming pool, anchored by waterfalls. The pool is the color of lapis, a blue so deep it’s practically indigo. The surface shimmers in the light as though it’s been sprinkled in gold dust.
The porter opens the door to my room, which isn’t a room at all but an opulent suite, with a large living room decorated in moss green and honeysuckle yellow, in French toile and deep rose velvet. “It’s too much,” I say aloud.
The porter nods. I’m sure he’s heard that before.
He loads my luggage into a closet as big as my bedroom in New York. I tip him, and he goes, leaving me to wander through the beautifully appointed rooms. I open the louvred doors that lead out onto the balcony. The breeze blows through and billows the silk draperies like regal capes.
The balcony has a view of La Recoleta. The endless sky over the city’s many neighborhoods is not obstructed by buildings or mountains. The city below seems carved into the earth like an intricate mosaic of colored tiles. The stars poke through the night sky like silver straight pins.
I kick off my shoes and lie back on the king-size bed. I’ve fallen into a vat of feathers, and the pristine white sheets carry the scent of a clean summer day. Paper crackles under my back. I must be lying on the breakfast order form. I reach under and pull out the paper. But it’s not a menu. It’s an envelope addressed to me, in a familiar script, handwritten with a fountain pen, in cobalt ink.
A total surprise. A letter from Gianluca. I open the envelope slowly, so as not to tear it. I pull out the letter inside, unfolding the sheer paper carefully. Okay, signor. Redeem yourself.
14 maggio 2010
Cara Valentina,
I hope you had a restful flight, and that your room, with its balcony, pleases you. I know you like to sit outside at night, under the moon.
I’m in the tower on the eleventh floor, looking out over the city. I am taking a swim at the pool by the mansion. Perhaps you would like to join me.
I put the letter down. Dear God. My heart is pounding. I think I’m having a stroke. I could use Aunt Feen’s blood pressure cuff right about now. He is here. In Buenos Aires. Now! Right now! In the next building! I inhale deeply and continue to read his words.
…then, if it pleases you, I thought we would have dinner. If you are tired, of course I understand, and will see you in the morning. And only…if that also pleases you.
Love,
Gianluca
I spring off the bed like I’m tinsel that’s been shot out of a New Year’s party horn. Please me? Oh, he has no idea.
I go to my suitcase in the closet and zip it open. I shuffle through the ziplock bags lined up like selections in the frozen food bin of a grocery store, searching for my bathing suit. Did I pack one? No. Now what do I do? The gift shop! I wonder if the gift shop is open.
Brava, Valentine Page 17
