Your brother, Michel
I put down my pencil and pick up the letter. I close my eyes, all the while holding the delicate paper in my hands. It took guts for Michel to write letters to his brother especially when he didn't receive a reply.
I'm ashamed that I thought Gianluca's old-fashioned letters, written on similar onionskin paper, were somehow less relevant than a text message, which can be delivered instantly.
A handwritten letter carries a lot of risk. It's a one-sided conversation that reveals the truth of the writer. Furthermore, the writer is not there to see the reaction of the person he writes to, so there's a great unknown to the process that requires a leap of faith. The writer has to choose the right words to express his sentiments, and then, once he has sealed the envelope, he has to place those thoughts in the hands of someone else, trusting that the feelings will be delivered, and that the recipient will understand the writer's intent. How childish to think that could be easy.
It wasn't easy for my great-grandfather or for Gianluca.
I used to believe that people don't change, that it's impossible, that we just become more of who we are as life goes on. But that's not true. When we're loved, we're presented with options to change. We can hold on, we can forgive, we can sever ties completely. We can disappoint one another, or celebrate the best of ourselves--but what we can't do is turn away. The truth is right here on paper.
How ironic that the love letters I received from Gianluca, and doubted, or even dismissed, now seem to have been written in a whole different light. He fell in love with me when he chose to describe his feelings on paper. And then, he came to Buenos Aires to convince me that I was worth loving. And what did I do? I didn't believe him, and I didn't trust him, because what are words? Facts? But when I read this letter written brother to brother, the truth becomes apparent. And the truth, when it's all over, is the only thing that remains.
11
It Isn't a Dream Anymore
"WHEN I TELL YOU TO look, open your eyes," Gabriel says.
I take my hands away from my face and drink in Gabriel's handiwork, the newly decorated living room and kitchen at 166 Perry Street. "Oh, my God--or should I say, Oh, my William Haines."
"I knew you'd get it. I knew you'd see old Hollywood in the new decor!"
"I saw it immediately!" My mother beams from the kitchen. "Like bang! Bang! Bang!" She shoots an imaginary gun around the room at the window treatments, the paint, the recovered, and sometimes replaced, furniture.
"Very elegant," Tess comments.
"I'm gonna have you do my house," Jaclyn promises. "I love the blue."
"I'm so happy the Sisters Roncalli concur."
"You've got a flair, Gabriel," my mother practically purrs.
"Yes, I do. And I have the taste to back up the pizzazz. The blue, Jaclyn, is because this level is just a floor away from the sky itself. The sky was my inspiration. I want you to feel uplifted when you enter."
The living room is wallpapered in cream with a black-striped border. Gabriel has positioned his zebra-print love seats in front of the windows. He created draperies that mimic stage curtains, opulent turquoise silk drapes with black silk braid tiebacks. He used Gram's simple black onyx-based lamps to anchor the love seats. He took the old wooden coffee table and painted it with high-gloss black enamel. There's a crystal vase filled with white roses placed artfully on the table.
He kept the farm table--but refinished the top, which now, instead of stained flat walnut brown, is rubbed through to show the natural woodgrain finish. He recovered the seats on the twelve dining chairs with a calm but fun flowered chintz in sea green, sky blue, and beige.
The marble kitchen counter, which used to fade into the chrome stove behind it, pops against the new wallpaper. He recovered the red stools at the kitchen bar in black patent leather, using the same bronze studs from the old rendition.
Gabriel repeated the wallpaper in the kitchen area. He mounted the oil portrait of my grandfather making shoes in the shop (which previously hung in Gram's bedroom) on the wall behind the table.
"I hope you like Gramps." He points to the portrait.
"My father resembles Vincent Price in that painting. In real life, his features were not nearly as pointy," Mom says critically. "But the gold-leaf frame is to die for!"
"Thank you, ladies. I know you've lived with the same old, same old for all these years, but I couldn't take another minute of it."
I take in the beauty of Gabriel's work while I remember the way things used to be.
"What's that look?" he says to me. "That wistful thing happening on your face. What's that all about?"
"Was I wistful?"
"Terribly."
"Well, I was just remembering what it was. And I guess I had a moment of sadness."
"Then we'll put it back," Gabriel says, not meaning it.
"No. I love it. I am embracing change and all that comes with it," I tell him. "I think it's magnificent, and I can't thank you enough for doing all this work."
Gabriel exhales, relieved. "I was so nervous."
"Why?"
"Well, it's your house."
"It's our house. You generously pay rent."
"Better you get it than cousin Joey. He blows it at OTB on the horses. Besides, I've redone every rental I've ever lived in on this island, and why should this be any different?"
I roll back the gates on the windows in the shop, letting in the morning light. I'm about to sip my morning coffee when Bret sweeps into the shop. "I've got good news."
Bret throws his valise on the worktable and opens it. "Or should I say: a great opportunity for you."
"But we got the loan--I've already put the check in the bank. What could be better than cold hard cash?"
"I was in a development meeting with a group of investors that has come together to buy up companies on the cheap. This is the only good news in a recession--it's a buyer's market. Anyhow, I told them about you, and they're interested in selling the Bella Rosa in their chain."
"Who are they?"
"They're a group that sells to major department store chains--like Neiman's, Saks, and Bloomingdales."
"I've heard of them," I joke.
"They usually go for household name designers, but you're an up-and-coming brand, at least, that's how I pitched you. I showed them the samples and the portfolio, and they were very impressed. They wanted to know how far along you were in production."
"Alfred and Roberta have been talking--they're saying fall is a safe bet. We could have the order complete by then."
"I want you to meet with them."
"Absolutely."
Bret sits down on the work stool and looks at me. "What happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're different."
"Me? Really?"
"Something changed," he says.
"I had a love affair."
"Who is the lucky guy?"
"Gianluca Vechiarelli. You met him."
"But he's in Italy."
"He surprised me in Buenos Aires. And we had a great time--and then he surprised me again, when he broke up with me."
Gabriel comes into the shop. "I know, I know. I'm up at the crack. Why? Because I'm on fire. Now that I've got the living room done, I'm doing the master bedroom. I have appointments at the D&D building--Scalamandre silk, by the bolt, on sale for a song. The only good thing about this economy are the deals."
"What's your vision for the master bedroom?" I ask.
"It's gonna be an homage to Lady Mendl."
"Whoever that is." Bret smiles.
"I don't have time to teach you." Gabriel checks his pockets for his wallet and keys. He does this whenever he leaves the house. I know about Gabriel's habits more than I would a husband, if I had one. "I'm tired of being the arbiter of taste for all those who know me." He looks at me, then at Bret. "What's wrong? I know why she's sad"--he points to me--"but you?"
"I was about to tell Val when you walked in
." Bret sighs.
"You know it. You can always count on me." Gabriel sits down on a work stool and props his face on his hand. "So?"
"Mackenzie and I are going through a tough time."
"What's the matter?" I ask.
"She's not happy."
"Buy her a bracelet," Gabriel suggests. "Those suburban housewives love a diamond tennis bracelet."
"She has one already," Bret says.
"Make it sapphires. Very hot gemstone right now."
I glare at him. "Bret is serious."
"I don't know what to do. I thought all marriages went through these periods--and you know, you work through it and come out the other side. But she's not content to ride it out."
"Is she leaving you?" Gabriel asks bluntly.
"No. But she wants us to go through counseling."
"That's the kiss of death."
"Gabriel!" I could kill him.
"Well, it is. If you're going to unload in front of a third party, you probably have hit the rocks."
"Ignore him. Counseling will help," I assure Bret.
"How do you know?"
"It saved my parents' marriage," I remind Gabriel.
"Mac's parents weren't so lucky. They went to counseling. Then they divorced." Bret's eyes fill with tears.
I reach out and place my hand on his. "Now, come on. This will all work out. She's not going anywhere."
"I really love her. And I love my girls. I can't imagine having them grow up with divorced parents. I can't fathom that."
"Then you work it out," Gabriel says. "People hit snags every day..." He looks at me.
"And they bounce back," I reassure Bret.
"Thanks guys," Bret says. "I just didn't see my life going this way. I thought we were better than this."
"Trouble doesn't know a stranger," Gabriel says. "My grandmother used to say that in Italian, but I can't remember how it went--but that was the gist. Bad times visit all of us. Just as sure as they come, they will go."
"Thanks, Gabe." Bret turns to me. "I'll call you later." Bret snaps his valise shut and goes.
We sit in the early morning quiet of the shop for a long while. Gabriel reaches across the worktable and takes a sip of my coffee. "You realize that out of everybody we know, we have the only marriage that's working."
"That's because I give you free rein with the decorating."
"Uh-huh," Gabriel agrees.
"And I'm grateful for your cooking."
"That's true." Gabriel looks off, out into the early morning light, and thinks. "And you know why we'll last a lifetime and beyond?"
"I have no idea."
"Because we have never ever had sex, and we never ever will. Our relationship is the most satisfying of all because we will never disappoint each other."
I stand back from the mirror as June models the gift I bought her in the Palermo barrio in Buenos Aires. The box I sent from the hotel finally arrived. In the age of texting, old-fashioned mail seems to take a lifetime to reach its destination. "What do you think? Handmade."
"I am loving this!" June buckles the low-slung belt of braided leather with a hammered silver belt buckle low over her tunic. She turns to see the view from the back in the mirror. "Is this sexy or what?"
"Very sexy on you."
"You know, I've never been to South America. All my travels, and I never went there. I did Mexico. And a soft-spoken Mexican named Gordo."
"So many countries, so little time."
"And now I'm old. That bus is parked permanently. The battery is dead. And I can't remember where I put the jumper cables."
"I doubt that, June." I pour a cup of coffee for June, and then one for me. "How do you think Alfred is doing?"
"I believe the affair has ended," June says.
"Good."
I have been playing catch-up in the shop for most of July and August. I haven't had an in-depth conversation with my brother. We have so much to sort out about the business that Kathleen's name has barely come up. "I think my brother realized what he had at home."
"Maybe he did. You know, I've had a married man here and there. And there's laws of the jungle where they're concerned. Now, I say this as a free, single woman who was once upon a time involved with a married man--or twice upon a time, back in the day, and I'm not particularly proud of that. But in the case of a fella named Bob DuPont--not those DuPonts, I'm never that lucky--I learned from him that a married man doesn't want to see himself as someone who is out there looking just for sex, even though the point of having an affair is sex, it's exactly what you're looking for. But we're intellectual animals, and we like to think that there's something more involved than the dovetailing of two libidos. But when the sex wanes--and it always wanes, honey, trust me--you have to justify the time spent. So you have a few dinners to wind down, some without dessert and some with 'dessert,' if you know what I mean. You have to shed tears of 'poor us, had we only met in another time,' but this conversation only happens after you know the affair is kaput. Then you feel cleansed. You are able to say good-bye and move forward. That's what Kathleen and Alfred have done, I'd bet on it."
"I hope so."
"You know, I feel for your brother. It's no secret that I've always thought he was a prig. He's sanctimonious, and those are the first ones to fall. And when they do, they hit the ground hard, like a lead pipe. The pious types are tortured by their own weakness."
"I've learned a lot about Alfred since he came to work here. For the first time in his life, my brother is making mistakes. It's been painful to watch, but at least he's learning from them."
"Do you think his wife knows?" June asks.
"I told him not to tell Pamela anything about it--ever. No good would come of that."
"You're right. I am not one for true confessions--not ever. I think they're cruel. Besides that, time is the only thing that can soften the impact of a hard fall. Always has and always will." She sips her coffee. "So, what about you?"
"I'm trying to get over Gianluca."
"Still? Have you written to him?"
I shake my head that I haven't.
"Why don't you try?"
"I don't know what to say."
"Sure you do."
"No, June, I really don't."
"Why don't you start by writing how you feel about him?"
"I don't think he'd believe me." During our fight, I flailed around, unable to express my true feelings. He stood firm while I grappled. This is the difference between an impulsive woman and a wise man. He knew what I was going to say before I said it.
"Of course he would. He'd believe you," June assures me. "He's in love with you."
"He was in love with me. He was so furious with me that he got on a plane and went back to Italy. He crossed continents to get away from me."
"You're under his skin."
"In a bad way."
"That is yet to be determined," June says. "You know, when you went with the chef, I was worried. Roman wasn't as smart as you. Nice guy. Roving eye--I don't blame him, he can't help that, it's in a man, or it's not. But this Gianluca is different. He really understands you. I don't think you should walk away from that so quickly. Why don't you call him?"
"I'd just cry."
"Then write to him."
June goes to the desk and pulls typing paper off the printer. She grabs a pen from the cup. "Here." She hands me the paper and pen, clears the corner of the cutting table, and kicks the rolling stool toward me. I sit.
August 28, 2010
When I write the date I realize the entire summer has passed without a word between Gianluca and me.
Dear Gianluca,
I don't know if you remember me, but we were together in Buenos Aires in June and I made you so angry you got on a plane and went home. I think about you every day and feel terrible, then there's the night, when I feel worse. I'm writing this letter to apologize for being such a fool. I never meant to mislead you or to hurt you, but I managed to do so many things wrong that I los
t you. I hope that you've found happiness with a normal woman who treats you well. But if you haven't, I know a real nut here in New York City who would give everything she has to see you again. I'm writing this on thick paper from the printer, because it's an impulse letter and I'm not stopping to run up the stairs for pretty stationery. (At least I'm not writing to you on the back of a button order form or a water bill.) I remember how it felt when you held me the whole night through, and how I wished I could reach up and push the sun back over the horizon just to buy a few more hours of that bliss. But I can't control everything--and maybe I control nothing. I only know that my heart is broken without you--and maybe sometime, if you can forgive me, you might think about coming home.
Love, Valentina
This has been the summer of broken hearts (mine) and paint fumes (Gabriel's). When Gabriel was done with the Re-Fabulous (as he calls it) of the second floor, he turned his attention to the roof. He allowed me to keep the tomato plants (mainly because we eat them), but everything else needed and received a facelift. Those items that could not be refurbished were banished.
He sanded the old wrought iron table and chairs and repainted them deep lilac. He made new seat cushions for the seats (Cecil Beaton-inspired, bold black-and-white stripes).
Saint Francis of Assisi got power-washed and painted eggshell white. He fixed the hose in the fountain--which my mother swears has been broken since 1958--and now free-flowing with sacred water once more, it is affixed with tiny pin lights (for night drama), and scattered with blossoms in the clamshell.
He even painted the old black charcoal grill a deep lilac to go with the furniture. "It looks like a spaceship for my people," Gabriel said when he stood back and viewed his handiwork. "Italians?" I said. "No, the gays," he corrected me. Our grill now resembles a giant L'Eggs egg, the container for fine women's hosiery formerly found at D'Agostino's on a spin rack.
The final and most dramatic touch looms overhead. Gabriel made (by himself!) an awning out of lavender duck cloth. He trimmed the Greek key edges in white, and stretched it across four brass poles, anchored into the roof. This canopy creates an al fresco living room. My mother is overjoyed--finally, she has access to a glamorous outdoor space worthy of the ritziest guests at the Carlyle Hotel.
Brava, Valentine: A Novel Page 22