Brava, Valentine: A Novel

by Adriana Trigiani

  I've promised myself that I will go through a box at a time, whenever I get a chance, and eventually I will have distributed these mementoes to my mother, sisters, and Alfred. There are lots of pictures of my mother, the only child, enough to fill a crate, and at least one wall in the homes of each of her four children. My mother's life is chronicled from her birth in black and white to her marriage, in vivid shades of Kodachrome film. I'm getting to know her all over again.

  The photographs are so telling of the moods we were in, and what was happening when the pictures were taken. The pictures taken in the 1980s, when Tess, Jaclyn, Alfred, and I were young, tell the story of a family in crisis, and then, once into the 1990s as we go off to college, you see the mood lift and the joy return.

  My mother and father survived a crisis of my dad's own design, when he had an affair and Mom moved us into this building during the summer of 1986. Of course, she never told us the real reason she moved us into the city--she said our house needed rewiring--but it was actually our dad that needed the redo. As the years went on, we got bits and pieces of the story, until our parents felt we were old enough to handle it, and then we were allowed to ask anything about it that we wished. Today, if we discuss the past, their story is told in full, complete with my father's confession, my mother's forgiveness, and my father's return to the fold.

  My father's ancient infidelity is now part of the fabric of our family. We don't embroider over it, or pretend it never happened--it's just become one of those things--like a cancer diagnosis, a failed driver's test, surviving the mumps, or the celebration of a deserved promotion with the Parks Department. Dad's indiscretion is dropped into conversation like any date or period of historical significance in the story of our family. So, then too, is The Aftermath, the "better years," Mom calls them, after our parents renewed their vows and we, their four children, stood up for them in church, knowing full well what they, and we, had been through. In a sense, they gave us the gift of forgiveness by forgiving one another. It was a lesson that took with my sisters and me, but not with Alfred. We had to convince him to come to the church. Finally, though, after a lot of pleading, he showed up.

  Sometimes I marvel at my family's ability to accept the worst, and to forgive, but that's due to my mother and father's determination that no one, not even a seductress named Mary from Pottsville, Pennsylvania, would come between us. How ironic, then, to think that it isn't an outsider that threatens to tear us apart and destroy us now, thread by thread, but a boll weevil from within. The real enemy of our family unity, as it turns out, is a sharp businessman with a cold heart--my brother.

  Of all the things Gram left behind, my favorite memorabilia is the collection of annual calendars that used to hang over the desk in the workshop. They are the true minute book of this corporation, an unofficial ledger of business transactions that date back to my great-grandfather's arrival in the United States.

  We have the calendars as far back as 1910, each month illustrated by whatever business or supplier sponsored it. The oldest ones were provided by a company that made Red Goose shoes. There are circled dates and notes made first by my great-grandfather, then my grandfather, and finally Gram. The word affitto is written on the last day of the month, until 1918, where it changes from affitto to pagamento d'ipoteca. I could never throw these out--not with my great-grandfather and grandfather's notes scribbled on them--so I flip through them, placing them carefully back in the box without wrinkling or tearing the pages.

  I'm the sole custodian of our family history, and not because anyone asked me to be. The truth is, no one else is interested in the contents of these dusty old boxes, nor do they want to store them. I'm the only Angelini who treasures these old documents and is inspired by them.

  My sister Tess has no patience with anything antique. Even her home decor is sleek and modern: Ikea meets Richard Meier. Tess rebelled against Mom's interior decoration, ornate English and French, in our family home in Queens. Jaclyn has a streamlined Swedish look in her condo--Gustavian, with distressed furniture and neutrals. Alfred and Pamela are New Jersey chic, a rambling faux farmhouse filled with highly polished Ethan Allen. I don't think any of them have attics or closets filled with junk. They prune as they go. Pamela would take one look at these old calendars and recycle them.

  I flip through 1912, looking at the styles of the time. In less than a hundred years, the world is completely different. They thought they were mod back then, with advertisements for cars with rumble seats and bathing costumes made of fine wool.

  I have a separate box of my great-grandfather's sketches. I often refer to them when I'm drawing, as they are the template for our couture shoes, each named after the heroine of a famous opera. For eighty years, there were six key designs, until Gram added a seventh in 1990. Occasionally I get out his sketch pad, but I did a thorough transfer of the drawings from paper to computer, because I didn't want to add wear and tear to the delicate drawings, done in his hand with charcoal and ink.

  As I pick up the last calendar to replace it in the box, a sheet of thick sketch paper falls out of it. A woman's dress shoe is drawn in meticulous detail. It has a slim, stacked heel, and it's made of woven leather, with an ornate flap on the top of the shoe, modified from a Louis XIV style. The toe is rounded, while the vamp is sleek. It is unlike any of the designs in my grandfather's hand. He sketched in an architectural fashion, and his renderings have actual measurements printed carefully next to the components and notes written in Italian, specifying grommets, velvet piping, laces--whatever the requirements of the shoe might be.

  This shoe, however, is pure fancy. You could hang the drawing on the wall--it's artful and loose, playful and fun. The shoe rests on a cloud, with a thunderbolt indicating a storm underneath it--a powerful image, almost like an advertisement. In the corner of the drawing, I see the signature of the artist. It says:

  Rafael Angelini

  I've never heard of a Rafael Angelini. I find this odd, as I know all the names of my cousins in Italy. My grandfather was an only child, like my mother. My great-grandfather, Michel, had sisters. There was Zia Anna, Zia Elena, and Zia Enes. No Rafaels. And, as far as I know, none of their children were named Rafael.

  Maybe my grandfather designed under the name Rafael. Maybe under a pseudonym, he let go, created with abandon, designed whimsical shoes, fashionable shoes, courant shoes. Maybe he even had the idea, long before I did, of developing a line of shoes that could serve a mass market. But why wouldn't I know this? Surely this would be part of the family story.

  I look closely at the drawing. This was definitely not drawn by my great-grandfather's hand. There's another Angelini. But who is he? I lay the drawing carefully on the bed, so I'll remember to ask Gram about it.

  Then, I open one of Gram's prized possessions: a turquoise leather case with a white patent leather top. There's a gold metal handle and a buckle on the side. I snap it open. It's filled with record albums.

  I can't believe Gram left her collection of Frank Sinatra records behind. Gram never collected china or silver, or Hummels or Lladro; her only vice was The Chairman of the Board.

  The dust jackets of the Sinatra LPs are stored alphabetically in the case. They are uncompromised and untouched by time. I would wager there's not a scratch on the record albums inside the sleeves. There's even a pristine chamois cloth folded neatly in an envelope inside in the lid to dust them before playing them.

  I remember when Gram would stack the records on the turntable, and the automatic plastic arm would slip across to hold them in place. Then she'd carefully turn the knob, and like magic, one record would drop, the needle would slip over to the outside groove, and then, suddenly, the house was filled with music.

  When we were children, we were pretty much allowed free rein with anything in this house, except the Sinatra albums. We were allowed to play Louis Prima and Keely Smith records, or Boots Randolph instrumentals, or even the Perry Comos, but the Sinatra collection was sacrosanct. Only Gram could load Sin
atra on the hi-fi.

  These were the songs that played through my grandmother's youth, courtship, and married life. When Sinatra was young, so was Gram. She was a bobby-soxer, only twelve years old when she bought her first record in 1940, with "I'll Never Smile Again" on the A side and "Marcheta" on the flip side. She danced to "For Every Man There's a Woman" at her wedding to my grandfather.

  My mother remembers Gram taking her to the Fulton Record Shop and waiting when a new album was to be released. Gram was a diehard fan, but she left the sound track of her life before Dominic Vechiarelli behind, which says everything about her desire to start over. All that's left of her years of stewardship over these albums is the nostalgic scent of the old record shop: high gloss ink and plastic. If I needed proof of my grandmother's ultimate intentions, it is here, in my hands. She's never coming home.

  I lift out her prized albums and sort through them. I prop them across the headboard of her bed. The covers are a fest of Frank. Sinatra in a single beam of light in front of a microphone; young, thin, and totally sexy. Sinatra illustrated pulp fiction style in vivid tones of turquoise and magenta, on the runway with a TWA airplane behind him, extending his hand to a woman whose lacquered red nails rest in his hand. Another with a sky blue background with a photograph of Frank wearing a dapper fedora. As I shuffle through the collection, Frank Sinatra gets older, but he never loses his luster. The images of the glamorous past get to me. So, I throw on my parka, grab my glass of wine, and head up to the roof, balancing the glass on the stairs as I unlatch the door.

  The winter clouds have rolled away, and all that is left is a night sky of the deepest blue, the same shade as the ink on Gianluca's letter. I go to the edge of the roof and look down across the West Side Highway. The blinking red lights of a police car parked by the pier look like ruby buttons on black suede boots. Even this roof feels different since Gram left. It doesn't feel safe any longer, it feels as though it can't be trusted--as if the clouds opened up and carried her away.

  This is the biggest change for me. This roof, with its tomato plants in summer and snow drifts in winter, was our sanctuary. In the fall, we would roast chestnuts on the grill, and sit by the fire, waiting for the nuts to cook through, and pop open with a soft crackle. The scent of the iron skillet on the fire and the sweet chestnuts was always a comfort.

  I look over at the grill, covered in an old tarp, and wonder if I'll bother to make the trip over to the Chelsea Market to buy a sack of chestnuts to roast. Will I continue to do the things that Gram did, the rituals that brought us such joy? Will I commit to keeping the treasures of the past alive in the present?

  With every crate I unpack, with every box I sort, the list of things I must do grows. There's the business, the building, the family obligations. I think it's time to pull the Roncallis together and dole out the traditions, the recipes, and the assignments; to be as specific about who will do what as my mother has been in labeling her jewelry, each piece marked with a name and stored, to be given out after the moment when, God forbid, she passes on.

  As I look over to the Hudson River, the expanse of black water seems to widen in the dark, like a pit of velvet quicksand. But I don't feel consumed by my river, or by this night sky, nor do I feel small, standing downstage of the skyscrapers that loom behind me like black daggers. It's the boxes in my grandmother's bedroom, filled with everything my grandmother was and is, that overwhelm me. Papers, contracts, photographs, articles, sketches, and documents filled with the history of our family and the company that made us. Our history can only be told through the things she saved, and now that Gram is gone, it's left to me to decide what's worth keeping.

  5

  Polka Dots and Moonbeams

  GABRIEL BIONDI WAVES TO ME from our booth in Pastis, where we have a standing breakfast date once a month, because if we didn't keep to this schedule, we'd never see one another. Gabriel works nights at the Carlyle, and I work days in the shop, and rarely do the two schedules intersect. We chose Pastis because it's the closest thing to a French bistro we can get in Greenwich Village. And while we live in New York City happily, once in a while we like to pretend we're in Paris.

  The antique mirrors, black-and-white-checked tile floors, and polished oak tables give the restaurant the down-home feeling of a warm, expansive kitchen. I weave through the chatty crowd. A couple of tables are packed with men in suits, but the rest are neighborhood locals who come regularly for the best eggs, bacon, and brioche in the Village.

  Gabriel gives me a kiss on the cheek, his jet black hair tucked under a beret. He wears a fitted black cashmere sweater over jeans so tight they show off every hour he spends in advanced spin class at the gym. Gabriel has turned his shape into an upside-down triangle: wide at the shoulders and slim at the hips. "I got the poached eggs for me, and I ordered the French toast for you."

  "Of course you did. That's why you have no ass and I do."

  "I have an ass. It's just pert and shapely. Like a new peach, I like to say. Or I've been told." He helps me off with my coat. "I want to know everything."

  I peel off the rest of my winter layers and pile them next to Gabriel in the booth. "You first. How are you? How's work?"

  "They cut my hours. Not good. But I have time to think about my life. Excellent. And I have time to focus on my friends. Even better. Where's the letter?"

  I open my purse. I store Gianluca's letter carefully in a second envelope, preserving it like a butterfly saved in a ziplock bag for fifth-grade science class. The onionskin stationery is as delicate as wings, and I don't want anything to smudge the ink or tear the paper. After all, this is a document of intention, and I'd like to honor any coming my way. "Be careful."

  "Relax. A love letter from Gianluca Vechiarelli is hardly on par with an original Shakespeare manuscript."

  "Yeah, well, Shakespeare never sent me a sonnet. This is all I got."

  Gabriel unfolds the letter carefully and reads aloud.

  "'Cara Valentina.' That's a sexy start. ' Please accept my apologies for tonight at the Inn. I was carried away with emotions that I have been feeling for quite some time.' Boy, he wants you in a big way. ' You could not know of these feelings, for I had not admitted them to myself.' Smart man. Mention feelings upfront. Reel her in. ' But when I saw you at the church...I was filled with...great longing.' Longing. Huh. Aka: pent-up sexual attraction that can only be released via you, my youngish American. ' I have not had the true love I had hoped for...' Translation: Never had it but now I've found it, and guess what? You're it! You're his true love. You! Cara Valentina. It's right here in navy blue. Might as well be a marriage license, sister. ' Your beautiful face.' He's a goner. ' Reciprocate the feelings...' Good. ' Longing to kisses.' Hot damn. Marry me, Gianluca. ' Do you feel as I do?' Wow, that's direct." Gabriel gives me the letter. "He's in love with you."

  "Do you think?"

  "I know. Look, a man doesn't show up at a hotel full of family, especially your brood, and find the exact room you're staying in and almost seduce you unless he's cuh-ray-zee about you. Tommy Tanner wants you so badly he'd risk running into your father in the bidet just to be with you. Think about that."

  "I don't want to fall for him." The truth is, I don't have time for any man right now. I've got a business to run and a new one to build. The last thing I need is a distraction. "I can't fall for him."

  "Too late for that, sister."

  "I live in New York, he lives in Italy," I say.

  "There are airplanes."

  "Come on, Gabriel. It's an impossible situation."

  "That's why you carry the letter around like a Dead Sea scroll. It's so impossible that you have to reread his letter over and over again to remind yourself why you can't possibly fall in love with him. Face it, you already like/love him, and you like/love thinking about him."

  "I don't want to like/love. I want to be the kind of person who just has fun and doesn't get all wrapped up in it."

  "You mean the opposite of what you had with Roma
n."

  "Exactly," I say.

  "Well, that was different. Roman works in a kitchen, and people are always hungry. You really couldn't compete with that. It's primal. Gianluca, on the other hand, is a tanner, and once he cuts a few hides, he can take a break. So you've got a better scheduling situation with him, although there's the geographical problem--two countries, two hearts--but really, do you need him underfoot twenty-four/seven?"

  "Not right now."

  "So enjoy the attentions of an older man. And read the letters. Handwritten letters are a sex life in and of themselves."

  Gabriel is right. I read the letter right before I go to sleep and imagine what Gianluca is doing. I hear the inflection of his voice when I read, and I feel his intent. Then I think about him, and how we happened to get to this place. I remember every detail of my visit to Arezzo when we first met, how he was gruff and didn't seem to like me at all. And then, how he made excuses to be with me during my visit, how attentive he was, and how he would make plans, pick me up, drop me off, check to see if I needed anything. And then when he came to Capri, I was swimming, and he suddenly appeared by the pool, a welcome surprise. I was brokenhearted and pining for Roman, but that did not deter him. He's trying to build something with me. Why can't I at least let him try?

  Gabriel continues, "Just enjoy the man. Why does everything have to be an emotional circus? Keep it simple. If you can. If you want to."

  "Okay, Doctor Love. I get it. So, how about you? Are you seeing anyone?" I ask.

  "No. And it's brutal out there. The competition is beyond fierce. Look at me. No one in his right mind would dare kick sand in my face on Far Rockaway beach, but have you noticed? Every guy that checks the 'Yes, I'm gay' box these days is in perfect physical condition. Our BMIs are probably close to our shoe sizes--and that's a national average. Every single homosexual man in America is buff. When did this happen? And why? Now, all of a sudden, if you're gay, you have to attract a mate with your personality. You have to be charming to find a boyfriend. Well read. Fascinating. The bod isn't enough."