"Do you want to be with me?" he asks.
The truth is, he already has my answer; he had it in Arezzo in February. He knows that I want him, but do I want all that goes with my desire for him?
Love builds in a series of small realizations, he wrote.
Maybe tonight will be one of them.
Gianluca moves toward me and takes my hands. The same shivers I had on the balcony in Capri, at the church in Arezzo, from the accidental way his hand brushed mine when we reached for the same panel of fabric at the mill in Prato, ripple through my body.
His beautiful hands have the strong and sure grip of an artist, one who walks in the world first through feeling, and then through touch. Gianluca is a craftsman who makes something lasting from nothing, who knows when to be gentle, and when to be certain, and when to be direct, and when to step back and observe. He is an artist who considers the angle, the placement, and the frame of the object he desires, so as best to appreciate it. Tonight, he is the lover who makes me beautiful; in his hands, I am the best I can be.
How succinct Gianluca's purpose was in winning me. How clear his vision as he removed every obstacle one by one, until he had me alone. Gianluca knows exactly how to treat me, because he took his time to observe me with an eye no other man ever has. As he kisses me, I feel something I can't name--it's as if we've already written our history, and this love affair resumes from long, long ago, when in fact, it is just beginning.
As his lips travel down my neck, I see moments in my mind's eye, of times we were together, in Capri floating on the turquoise waves of the Mediterranean Sea, and in Greenwich Village, on the roof with a blue afternoon sky behind him, when I disappointed him and let him go, and now in Buenos Aires where the sky is saturated indigo, where the stars make lavender pools of light in the dark and I finally see clearly enough to choose him.
With each picture I see, I remember him and how he looked at me and took me in. He appreciates me for exactly who I am, and he understands me as I wish to be understood.
Gianluca and I embody that old Italian word: simpatico. We are like-minded souls who say and do things that please one another, because it comes from a place of recognition.
We lie down in a field of feathers, sinking deep into the covers, finding one another as we move through; we're tumbling through clouds, weightless, nothing but an endless sky over us, and the world below, beneath us, so far away, its details blur so as not to matter.
In Gianluca's arms, I stay.
We sail, we fly, and we sail and we fly deep into the night, long into the blue, with no destination in mind, just now, just this very moment.
9
The Street of Dreams
GIANLUCA SLEEPS DEEPLY IN OUR bed. Even breakfast, rolled into the living room on a silver trolley filled with delicate croissants, raspberry horns, and a pot of rich, black coffee, did not disturb him. I pull the silk draperies closed against the early morning sun so as not to wake him.
I'm showered, dressed, and ready to meet my cousin Roberta. I went through my morning ritual with such urgency, I kept dropping things in the bathroom. There is a lot more riding on this trip than I want to admit.
I text Gabriel.
Me: Gianluca is here.
Gabe: In BA?
Me: In my room.
Gabe: OMG. Ding! Ding! Ding!
Me: I know.
Gabe: You realize that you had to actually leave the airspace over the continental United States to get laid?
Me: Enough!
Gabe: How's the food?
Me: Trays of fruit and chocolate and cookies.
Gabe: Sex and cookies. My favorite marriage. Go and get busy with John-lucky.
"Where are you going?" Gianluca rolls over in bed and looks up at me. His eyes are a clear china blue in this yellow room.
"I was just leaving you a note. I'm going to the factory."
"I'll go with you."
I sit next to him on the bed. "No, no, you stay and rest."
"Because I'm old and I need it?" he teases.
"Yes."
He reaches for my hand as I turn to go. I look down at him.
"You look beautiful," he says.
"Thank you." I lean down and kiss him.
"Don't worry," he says. "She will like you."
I close the door to the suite and walk to the elevator. It's slow to arrive, and the empty moments send me into a slight panic. I have a few free minutes to think about all the things that could go wrong. Roberta will think I'm an idiot, so we'll be forced to make the shoes in China. Then I up my anxiety. It's rude to abandon Gianluca after the night we shared. Are we now in a relationship? Will it last? Ridiculous, improbable, disjointed thoughts tumble over one another until the elevator doors open. I check my tote for the files I brought to share with Roberta. My sketches of the Bella Rosa are printed in color and include a grid of specifications. I've done my homework. I remind myself that I am completely prepared. I can't help it, I'm afraid. I can only hope these jitters are about my first-day-of-school nerves, and not the work itself. I am walking into a completely new and therefore uncertain situation.
The cab speeds through the streets of Buenos Aires, through the barrios El Centro, San Telmo, and Palermo, whose moods change from residential, to arty, to high-tech and whose architectural styles flip from French Colonial to Spanish to Italian with every turn of the wheel.
Last night, Buenos Aires was washed in every shade of blue, and this morning, in bright daylight, it's as though this city was built out of candy.
The stucco on the Mediterranean houses is the color of orange circus peanuts; the doors are painted in shades of bubble-gum cigars: bright yellow, soft lilac, and hot pink. Garden walls are washed in vivid tones of bright white, magenta, and periwinkle, trimmed in licorice black, resembling a dish of Good & Plenty. Tall wooden fences are drenched in bright Kool-Aid blue. Even the textures of the landscaping burst forth like showers of candy from a pinata: low mounds of nasturtium stuffed with buds that resemble Red Hot Dollars, and the pecan trees seem to be loaded with Root Beer Barrels.
The cab pulls up in front of 400 North Caminito, a large, rustic pumpkin-colored factory building with rows of Catholic-school-style windows propped open. A weathered sign says:
Caminito Shoes Inc. Since 1925
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the sign, noting that the factory is named after the street, and not the family.
There are two metal entrance doors. One reads "Oficina," and the other says "Fabrica."
I enter the office, which has the familiar scent of rich leather and beeswax. The scent soothes me, and reminds me of home and also why I made this trip in the first place--to find a way to grow the Angelini brand while keeping it all in the family.
I approach a woman who sits at a desk behind the entrance window.
"I'm Valentine Roncalli from New York."
She smiles. "Si, si," she says, coming out from behind the window. "We are expecting you. I am Veronica Mastrandrea."
"Just like Perry Street," I say as I take in the office. The steady hum of the machines in the factory beyond the front office creates a rhythmic buzz that stops and starts.
The industrial flap windows, propped open on metal bars, create a nice breeze and also let in lots of bright light. The furniture is plain and functional, built from heavy oak, stained dark.
The desktops are cluttered with papers, ink pads, and stamps. Shoe boxes lie open on the desk, used as filing boxes for stubs and bills (I do the same at home).
Thick, leather-bound ledgers are propped open, with figures written in the margins in pencil. On the far wall, a shelf is filled with a series of hand-carved wooden lasts, the forms upon which shoes are sized. The lasts are lined up neatly by size. Computer screens are lodged amid the old-world equipment, sticking out obtrusively like pay phones in the jungle.
There are a few dusty framed certificates on the walls, written in Spanish, some garnished with gold seals. A spiral-bound ca
lendar for 2010 hangs on the back of the door, just like the ones I found in storage after Gram left, flipped open to the month of May.
"I am Roberta Angelini."
I turn to face my cousin for the first time. She extends her hand.
"I'm Valentine." As I look into her eyes and take in her face, I lose my ability to speak. "You're...Roberta?"
A tight smile breaks across her face slowly.
Roberta Angelini is beautiful, and to my surprise, she is black.
As she takes me in, I can tell that I am, on the other hand, exactly what she was expecting.
"You're shocked," she says, placing her hands in her apron pockets.
"I am." I did a poor job of hiding my surprise. "I didn't know you were black."
"And yet I knew for sure that you would be white."
As we look at one another, obvious family traits become apparent. Roberta's nose is like my sister Jaclyn's: small, with a short bridge that comes to a very exact point. Her cafe-au-lait skin is smooth and flawless, like my mother's. She wears her hair pulled off her face ballerina style, in a high ponytail looped into a delicate bun, like Tess. Her eyes tilt upward, but the lids are languid. She is trim and small.
I long to call Gram and tell her the news, if this can even be called news.
"Before we talk business," Roberta says, "I will show you the factory."
As I follow her, I picture the members of my family in a group shot--I line up the cream-colored people like wooden pins in a bocce set, face by face, build by build, baby by baby. We have Italian (Angelini, Roncalli, Cavalline, Fazzani) and Irish (McAdoo) under an American tarp, and the lone Japanese cousin who married my dad's nephew, but that's as much diversity as we got--until now.
"This is production," Roberta says, opening the door. I follow her into the main room, an enormous airplane hangar of a room, with distressed wooden floors that buckle under the weight of rows of machines.
The noise that was a low and steady hum in the office now blares at full force inside the factory. The machines grind, pulse, and whir in rhythmic bars of sound. Roberta shows me the first section of machines, which resemble large sewing machines. The base of the machines has heft, curves of iron with a silver wheel, which the operator spins to and fro to control the speed.
The operators sit behind their machines on small rolling work stools. They assemble the separate leather pieces cut from a pattern, and then sew the shoe's upper together, tongue to vamp, with deft movements that come from years of rote practice.
The operators move the pieces under the thick needles as they pulse up and down, the speed of the needle controlled by a pumping action made with operator's knee to the pad affixed under the worktable. A foot pedal on the floor serves as a brake. When a seam is complete, the operator pulls the shoe, snips the thick thread, and sends it down the row to the next operation.
A wooden last, or shoe model, is inserted into the partially assembled shoe. Operators toss the shoe and last into a bin, which is wheeled to the next section of operations.
A row of more compact versions of the sewing machine is used to sew the welt to the shoe. The shoes then move to the next fleet of machines, where the heels are attached by a press, using sleek nails and cement. A trimming machine, which employs small and speedy blades, trims away excess binding and leather, cutting the shoe to size. The toe caps are stamped on a set of machines that look like upright hammers that pulse back and forth.
A large rolling machine works the leather and makes it pliable. I am envious of the machine, which uniformly stretches and presses the leather simultaneously. I roll the leather by hand, and it takes me hours to get it loose enough to work with, and to sew. Hand-rolling is a painstaking process that takes hours; here, it takes mere minutes, and the results are just as beautiful.
The roller, with its shimmering, smooth wheels and flexible mount, is the machine that put the custom shoe business in the museum.
Workers operate small drills with fine points that perforate the oxford with holes for laces. A small handheld press snaps the metal grommets into place. Then a piping machine attaches trim, while a buttonholer creates finished seams around the grommets. Once these tasks are completed, and the shoe has been passed down the line, the operator tosses the shoe into another set of deep cloth bins with wheels.
I follow Roberta into finishing. The physical space fans out to accommodate machines that serve several functions to complete work on the shoe. Here, some of the operators stand to do their work, and like the rest of the workers in the factory, they move quickly. There are wooden lasts affixed on poles at eye level, where a worker takes the shoe, places it on the last, and works the pliable leather by hand to remove any creases and to check the accuracy of the size and measurements.
In our shop, I use a small brush machine, operated by foot pedals, to buff the leather. Here, the same idea is expanded to accommodate hundreds of shoes. A long conveyor belt with brushes attached on either side runs through the center of the finishing department. The finished shoe is fed onto the belt, held in place by the movement of the brushes.
The completed leather shoe, minus the laces, is anchored by the thick sable brushes and polished to a high gloss by the time it reaches the far end of the belt. It would take me an hour to achieve the same level of shine manually.
At the far end, the freshly machine-polished shoe drops into a bin, where it is checked by hand and sorted into separate cubbyholes in a large, freestanding wooden grid, shaped like an open egg crate. Workers are positioned on either side, one loading from the conveyor and one on the other side retrieving the finished shoes, to inspect them before boxing them to be shipped.
"Is this similar to your shop?" Roberta shouts over the noise.
I shake my head that it's not. I hold up my hands to indicate something much smaller. "This is my factory."
"Many years ago, we were the same. But we have expanded several times, and now we employ over two hundred people."
"I can see that. Where do you do the cutting?"
She motions for me to follow her. We pass through the finishing department and climb a small flight of stairs to the second floor.
The cutting room resembles an oversize operating room in a hospital. Bright honeycomb-shaped work lights hang over one long table that extends down the center of the room.
Over the table, an oval track extends the full length of the table. A large circular saw for cutting leather is attached to the track. The serrated blade peeks out from a metal sleeve, which is strapped to a rig that has a full range of mobility in the hands of the cutter.
Assistants layer the leather, in flat sheets, methodically on the table. The leather is about five layers deep, separated by layers of sheer pattern paper. The assistants step back, while the presser comes forward to smooth the pattern paper against the leather with a flat board.
The head pattern cutter pulls a pencil from behind her ear and marks the periphery of the paper.
From my point of view, the pattern paper looks like an elaborate map, with complex blue veins and small gray markings that will guide her movements and the path of the blade as she cuts the leather.
Roberta motions to the cutter who oversees the process.
"This is Sandra Forlenza." Roberta introduces a tall woman with jet black hair. She has regal Inca bone structure and is all business. "Her people are from Ecuador. She is the best cutter and forelady in the business."
Sandra shakes my hand. "You come at the most interesting time."
The workers speak about process to one another in Spanish. How I wish I had paid more attention in Wade Miller's Spanish class at Holy Agony. I could really use it now.
"What kind of shoes are you making?" I ask Roberta.
"Dress shoes. Men's. These are oxblood leather for Ermenegildo Zegna."
Roberta motions for me to stand back.
Sandra grips the handle on the overhead saw and guides it to the layers of leather on the table. Then, with one calibrated
movement, she drops the blade onto the paper. The motor shrieks as the blade bores into the blue veins.
Sandra guides the machine with her hands, anticipating every nuance and movement of the blade as she goes. She uses the strength of her entire body as she carves. Her shoulders separate as she lifts the blade and guides it to and fro over the pattern.
I cut from June's pattern by hand; my margin of error is great. Sandra, however, must maintain complete control; she has to hit the mark every time she drops the blade. One slip, and the layers of expensive leather will be ruined.
Roberta motions for me to follow her back through the factory to the office. Roberta walked a few steps ahead of me throughout the tour. She doesn't do chummy, and while she is polite, her manner is brusque. I can see that there's warmth beneath the frosty veneer, but she's not letting out much sunshine on my behalf. I hope she likes me, but I really can't tell yet.
"I appreciate the tour," I tell her. "Your operation is very impressive."
"Not what you were expecting?" she asks.
"I didn't know what to expect."
Roberta looks off. Her expression reminds me of my grandfather, a man who never worried about pleasing people, but rather, took his time when deciding about someone. Like him, Roberta is emotionally detached. I'm not offended by her cool demeanor; I find her attitude familiar, so I understand it. Roberta Angelini is first and foremost a professional.
I noticed when we went through the factory that she did not speak directly to any of the operators, and yet she connected to the work they were doing. Sometimes she would nod, or touch a shoulder here and there, or pick up a last and check the workmanship. It was apparent that she has the respect of the workers. I imagine with this size of an operation, she would have to be a tough taskmaster. The leadership role seems to come naturally to Roberta. My new cousin is a straight shooter, and I will have to be the same when it comes to dealing with her.
"Roberta, look, let me say this up front. I'm here to see your operation because I need a manufacturer for my shoes. And I would like to keep the contract for the Bella Rosa in the family."
Brava, Valentine: A Novel Page 18