“Michel paid Rafael part of the money, but there was a balance on what Michel owed. Your great-grandfather sent money to his brother for a few years after he moved here with his wife, until the debt was paid off,” Roberta explains.
“But it didn’t heal the rift between the brothers, once the debt was paid?” I ask.
“It might have, but Michel did not accept Lucretzia. So Rafael never reconciled with Michel. He was forced to choose his wife over his brother.” Roberta shrugs. “And for both families, it was as if the other side never existed.”
The three of us sit in silence for a moment. We contemplate the loss we’ve shared, the years we’ve missed, and the opportunities to have the big, close family that my mother and her first cousin dreamed about. I hope it’s not too late to try and salvage what’s left, but Roberta would have to meet me halfway. “I’m here in the hopes that we can do business together.”
“I understand your goal,” Roberta says. “But I have only made men’s shoes in the factory.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to expand and make women’s shoes also. I couldn’t help but notice that your operators are very adaptable. In the two days I’ve been observing, they have assembled three different styles. Now, one of those styles was incredibly complex—”
“The Ermenegildo—”
“That one. I won’t saddle you with a difficult shoe. In fact, watching your operators inspired me to simplify my design. If you would look at my samples—”
“Did you bring them with you?” Roberta asks.
“Yes. I have three prototypes to show you.” I open my bag and give her the shoes.
Roberta looks at them, examining them like the seasoned shoemaker she is. She looks at the lay of the leather, the strength of the seams, she feels the interior of the shoe, then bends the flat to see how the leather responds to movement. Then she pulls the sides from the vamp, to check for gaps and elasticity. She hands the samples to Lupe, who does the same.
“This is a beautiful shoe. Very simple,” Roberta says.
“Thank you. The design can take many materials—in fact, you could suggest materials you think would work. I like microfiber.”
“I have a fiber material, a stand-in for suede—it’s brand-new. It was developed here in the city by a textile designer who wanted to come up with a replacement for suede that mimics animal hide. It has give and is also supple. Very durable—especially for a flat shoe. And I’m working with color—it takes dye beautifully.”
“I would love to see it,” I tell her.
“What is a practical first run for you? What can you afford?”
“We can finance an initial run of ten thousand shoes,” I tell her. “But my brother has been soliciting from China.”
“I’ve lost a great deal of business to the Chinese,” Roberta says.
“This isn’t a competition. The costs need to be close—I won’t lie to you. I can’t give you this contract for more than the Chinese bid. But this is where my heart is. This is historically a family company, and if I can, I’d like to keep it in our family.”
“You want to make amends for Michel.”
I sit back in my chair. “I don’t think that would be possible. It’s also unfair to expect me to make a situation right that I did not have a hand in.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “I don’t hold you responsible for what happened. But you must understand, in your family’s view, we disappeared. It’s difficult to embrace a family that abandoned us so long ago.”
“Roberta, to be fair, you could have contacted us,” I say. “But that’s behind us. I’m here now, Roberta, as Michel’s heir, and I’m ready to move forward with you—if you want. Think about it. We could start fresh. A new beginning. Maybe the legacy of Rafael and Michel works better with a couple of generations in between for cushion.”
Roberta laughs. “That could be.”
“I’m almost an expert in dealing with family now. I had to make huge adjustments quickly when Alfred joined the company.”
“What is he like?”
“Well, that’s a long story and requires several cocktails, and as delicious as this lemonade is, it won’t ease the pain of the details.”
She laughs again. “I see. He’s a difficult one.”
“Exactly. But he’s also very smart and forward-thinking. He’s in charge of the bids and the financials. Alfred has a breakdown of the costs and the comparables, and also, we could sweeten the deal by doing the finishing in New York.”
“Why?”
“To lessen the work on your end.”
“But we have an excellent finishing department. My girls are perfectionists. They have experience with grosgrain and patent leather finishing on my formal men’s shoes. I believe they would do an excellent job on your design.”
“Okay, then, I’m officially open to finishing the shoes here.”
“Good.”
“So you’ll consider this?”
“I like you.” She leans back in her chair.
“My daughter rarely likes anyone,” Lupe says.
“I’ll be right back.” Roberta gets up and goes into the house.
I reach over and take Lupe’s hand. “Thank you for this delicious lunch. I hope someday you’ll both visit us in New York City, and I can return the hospitality.”
“I’ve never been to New York.”
“Well, when you do, you stay with me.”
“Thank you.”
Roberta comes out of the house carrying a small bundle of envelopes. She gives them to me. “When my father died, he gave me these letters. They were handed down from Rafael to his son Xavier to my father. They were tied with this string, never opened, and never answered. My father always said that even though Rafael held a grudge against his brother to his death, he must have loved Michel, because he saved these letters. Maybe you would like to have them. I believe they belong to your family.”
I look down at the bundle, kept in pristine condition. There must be a dozen envelopes. The black fountain pen ink has faded to charcoal gray. The U.S. postage stamps are dated from 1922 to 1924. At the bottom of the stack is a series of empty envelopes, addressed to Rafael and opened with a letter opener.
“Those were the envelopes with the checks. My great-grandfather opened them and deposited the money. But he did not open the letters. He did, however, leave a note that said, ‘Marker paid in full.’ I think that’s important,” she says.
Roberta and I appear to be very different. She’s a mass-production shoemaker and not a custom cobbler—but she is every bit as particular as I am when it comes to her product. Roberta’s keen artistic eye follows all the same principles that I follow when constructing a pair of high-quality shoes: it’s about design, line, shape, and execution. It’s about seeking the finest of materials from around the world—leather, suede, and silk—procuring them, and insisting upon the best techniques to build the shoe, so when it goes to be sold, the craftsmanship will showcase the value.
I saw firsthand how Roberta demands the same quality in the production of her machine-made shoes that I do in my custom line. As I grow the brand, I will need the best manufacturer I can find to build the Bella Rosa. I believe I have found her, here in Buenos Aires. And the best news: she’s family. So, three generations later, we meet again, this time on Rafael’s terms, and with the hopes of Michel that went unrealized because two brothers could not find a way to forgive one another, and accept one another’s choices. Maybe we can be better; maybe we can even do better.
After lunch, Roberta took me to the textile mill where the new microfiber fabric has been created from cotton and hemp. It’s thick and luxurious, and a strong possibility for construction of the Bella Rosa. As I head back to the hotel, I’m far later than I thought I would be, but the trip to the mill was informative and important. I feel guilty that I leave Gianluca on his own day after day, but he doesn’t seem to mind. And after all, I’m here to work, I remind myself.
I check my BlackBe
rry. My heart sinks when I see that I’ve missed three calls from Gianluca. I hope he received my message and spent the day by the pool. I’m looking forward to his strong arms around me. I call the hotel to let him know I’m on my way. The phone rings through, but he doesn’t answer. The operator comes on and asks if I’d like to leave a message. I don’t leave one.
I’m in the habit of getting business done whenever I can, even in the car between the hotel and the factory. I don’t want to lose a minute of play time with Gianluca, so I have to hustle when I have a spare moment. So I text Bret:
Me: Amazing factory in BA. Cousin wants to sign on. Details pending.
Bret: Great news.
Me: If not for you, for the loan, for everything, this would not have happened. How can I thank you?
Bret: Close the deal!
Me: XOXO
Bret: XOXO
I text Alfred.
Me: Looks good with Roberta. Go ahead and connect. I will send numbers.
Alfred: How did it go?
Me: I think you can carve out a deal! The factory is first-class.
Alfred: Unbelievable.
Me: How are you?
Alfred: Better.
Me: Hang tough, brother.
Alfred: I will!
I cut and paste Roberta’s numbers into the phone and send to Alfred. I quickly return e-mails to Tricia Halfacre, my button salesman, who found some oversize patent leather medallions she thought would be “fetching” on the Bella Rosa. There are messages from Gabriel, who misses me, and Tess, who wants to know, oddly enough, about Argentinian food. I swear sometimes my family doesn’t understand that I have a real job. Somehow, they still see me as a ten-year-old girl sewing a pair of felt boots in the shop for my teddy bear. If only they could see me now.
When I push the hotel room door open, there are no lights on. How strange. I move to go into the living room. “Gianluca?” I call out. I look in the bedroom, and then the bath; no sign of him. When I return to the living room, I trip over his suitcase. Then I see that the French doors to the balcony are open.
Gianluca sits on the balcony with his back to the doors. I put my arms around him from behind. He pulls away.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, knowing full well what’s the matter. I’m hours late when I promised to be home early.
“It’s ten o’clock at night,” he says.
“Did you get my message?”
“I received a message that said you wouldn’t be back for lunch, but that you would be home for an early supper. I called you three times. I’ve been waiting here for hours, and I did not hear from you.”
“I would have called you back right away, but Roberta took me to the textile mill, and I didn’t hear my phone. I didn’t realize that you had called.” My gut fills with guilt. I could’ve called him, many times. And when I was in the car and didn’t get him on the phone, I should have sent the porter. Instead, I answered e-mails and texts—and even communicated with my button salesman. As a girlfriend, I am about as low as you can get.
“I was worried about you,” he says tensely. “I don’t know this cousin of yours, or the barrio the factory is in—you left me here with no information, no other way to reach you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve apologized a great deal on this trip. You say ‘I’m sorry’ often.”
“That’s because I am sorry.”
He is really angry. And he’s not buying my contrition for a second. I know I’ve crossed the line. He knows I could have connected with him—he knows I put the shoes first. And he’s absolutely right. I have really screwed up here. Gianluca sits in silence.
“I can’t help it,” I whine. “Roberta had been frosty, and today she thawed—and invited me to her home for lunch with her mother. I got the whole story about my family. And then I had to see where they make the microfiber.”
Gianluca looks off, uninterested.
“You couldn’t care less,” I say, more a revelation than an accusation.
“I didn’t come this far to be treated poorly,” he says.
“You knew I had business here. This isn’t a vacation for me—it’s work. I’m sorry…” I stop. I am apologizing all the time to him. He’s right on that count. What am I sorry for exactly? Putting him out? “No, I’m not sorry, Gianluca. You surprised me here, and I’m not going to apologize for doing the work I came here to do. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”
“You have your priorities in place. I am not one of them.”
“How can you say that? I thought we were at the start of a good thing here.”
“I’m not interested in ‘a good thing,’ as you call it. I want more from you than that. Valentina, I want more for you than that. But what I want does not seem to matter to you.”
“I don’t think you should assume what matters to me—or what doesn’t.”
“That’s correct. I have no idea what matters to you. For all I know, there’s someone else.”
“There is no one else!”
“Then why do you treat me this way?”
“Am I treating you badly?” I place my hands on my chest. I can feel my heart beating.
“I don’t spend enough time with you to know.”
“I’m doing the best I can. Give me a break here. I’m working all day and coming home to you at night. But that’s not the issue, is it? I think our real problem is that I’m not the girl in the pool in Capri.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
“You fell for a sad sack who’d been abandoned by her boyfriend. You swept in and made it all better. Well, this go-round, I’m on a different track. I have a purpose here—and it’s not love first and foremost. But you were changing my mind about that.”
“Was I? Then why do you leave me here? Why don’t you ask me along, to be with you? You hide me in the hotel like a gigolo.”
“Are you serious?”
“Even your response insults me. I am not your tanner. I was your lover.”
“Was?”
“This is not going to work, Valentina.”
“Hold on a second. Don’t tell me what works and what doesn’t. If you would live in the 21st century, we might have a chance! I could text you and tell you that I’m going to be late, but you refuse to text—you don’t even have a cell phone that works, you have one of those cheesy international models for emergencies. Well, guess what, it’s an emergency to me when I can’t get hold of you. I’ve got news for you, Gianluca. There aren’t any carrier pigeons with heart-shaped vials carrying handwritten notes through the air that say, ‘Hang on honey, I’m gonna be late for dinner.’”
“It has nothing to do with phones.” Gianluca raises his voice.
“Then what is it?”
“You don’t trust me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You say you love me, but it isn’t possible to make love and mean it unless you trust.”
“I don’t understand!” I shout, but it’s unconvincing. Even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.
“If you trusted me, you would honor me. You would put me first. You would tell Roberta that I was here, waiting. Did you tell Roberta about me?”
I shake my head that I didn’t. And now I’m forced to ask myself why I didn’t. I’m not ashamed of him. I’m not hiding him. But I am just beginning to sort out what he means to me—do I have to announce that I’m falling in love with Gianluca to everyone I see? Am I required to call my mother and ask her? I begin to explain my logic, but he cuts me off.
“You see, you aren’t really in love with me. The sex is good, and you like coming back to the hotel and having a good time, but you don’t want more than that. You say you do, but you don’t.”
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want any children!” I blurt. Now, why would I bring that up? This man is forcing me to look at things I would rather not confront. I feel myself getting angrier.
“I said it was up
to you,” he says quietly.
“What kind of a commitment is that?” I yell.
“I told you, it’s up to you. But even that, even the decision to have a baby, you want me to make for you. You don’t want to decide anything for yourself, Valentina. I don’t like this wait-and-see-what-happens attitude that you have. I find it cowardly.”
“You don’t make me feel very secure.” I don’t know where this is coming from either. I’m not the woman that needs a man to make her feel confident. I am confident!
“How can I? You’re insecure within yourself. You tell me you cried when you caught your chef with another woman, but you were in fact relieved.”
“Do not bring up Roman!”
“He is part of this! He did to you what you expected—he chose someone else over you, because in your mind that’s what all men eventually do. They leave. So why not show them the door first? Why not mistreat them until they are forced to go? Why not honor your word and show up when you’re supposed to? You can’t. Because you don’t want to!”
“I didn’t mean to mistreat you. I’m trying to be here for you—and get my work done. I don’t have the luxury of taking time off to fall in love and cruise around town with you!”
“And I do? I will go home to Arezzo and a backlog of work that will take me weeks to complete.”
“Oh, now you have to sacrifice for me—”
“What do you think a relationship is, Valentina?”
“Evidently, I have no idea!”
“Finally the truth! You’ve treated me poorly. Maybe you expected me to take it, but I’ve had far too good a life to spend what’s left of it waiting around for you to grow up.”
“You are wrong! I am a grown-up!” I sound about thirteen years old.
“No, I am exactly right about this. You are a child. You have not grown up—you have not made your life your own.”
“Yes, I have!”
“How?”
“I took over the business. I…” I can’t think of any other grown-up things that I’ve done.
Brava, Valentine Page 21
