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 “Fábrica.”
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 calendar 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 café-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 hand-held 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.”
“We are family,” she says. “But a fractured family.”
“Maybe we can repair the damage. Whatever it is. I know that we just met and this is all so new—for both of us. In fact, I didn’t know my great-grandfather had a brother at all—”
“Ah,” she says. “And we knew all about Michel.”
I find this odd. I am very curious to find out why there was a big secret—and why one brother, Rafael, kept the reason alive, while my great-grandfather did not.
“It sounds like there was a very big problem,” I say.
She nods.
“Roberta, I’m here to explore the possibility of going into business together. It would benefit you—and it would benefit me.”
“Of course. And maybe then, we can come to a place of peace.”
Her use of the word peace tells me that there must have been one hell of a war between the brothers. Roberta does not separate her family life from the world of her work; in that way, she mirrors our tradition on Perry Street. Family loyalty is the backbone of her operation, and she protects it as she does the level of workmanship in her factory.
“I would like to try,” I tell her.
“But to be honest, I don’t know if that is possible,” she says.
Roberta is tough. This isn’t going to be easy. It’s as if she knows what I’m thinking, and gives a little.
“My mother knows the story best.” Her expression softens.
“May I have the honor of meeting your mother?” I ask.
“She takes care of my son at home. Today is not good.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I will ask her,” Roberta says.
“Thank you. Would you mind if I spent the afternoon observing in the factory? I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to take you away from your work.”
“Of course you may stay. I can place you with the foreman.”
“I would like that.”
Roberta goes into her office to make some calls. I pull out my cell phone to call Gianluca at the hotel. The phone in the room rings and rings. The call reverts to the front desk. The operator asks if I want to leave a message. I leave my cell phone number for Gianluca, and the message that I will spend the rest of the afternoon observing production at the factory. I’ll be home in time for dinner.
I ask the receptionist to call me a cab.
Once outside the factory, I feel as though I can breathe again. The urgency of the work inside the factory, the noise and the intensity of the operation, have exhausted me. It’s so different from our shop on Perry Street. There, it is peaceful in contrast. We work long hours, but we take our time. Here, it’s a mad rush to the finishing department.
I spent the afternoon observing the assembly of the shoes. The more pieces to the pattern, the more difficult it is for the operator to assemble the shoe. I sketched as I observed, trying to figure out how to get the Bella Rosa down to four pieces instead of eight on my master pattern. If I can consolidate the operations on my design, it will speed the process in production, and as a result we will be able to make the shoe more cheaply without sacrificing quality. I want to use microfiber fabric, and it appears that the use of fabric will also speed up the process, compared to cutting leather or suede.
The cab drives up and stops in front of the factory.
“Valentine?” Roberta comes to the doorway as I’m about to jump into the cab. “How was your day?”
“I learned a lot. Thank you.”
“Will I see you in the morning?”
“First thing.” I thank her and get into the cab. I give the driver my destination, and then I slump down in the back seat, exhausted.
I didn’t see Roberta all afternoon; she left me on my own. The foreman in production was helpful, but I didn’t want to bother him with silly questions, so I just watched carefully and stayed alert through the process and shift changes. I learned a lot watching the mechanics of the operation.
I call my mother. Dutiful daughter that I a
m, I know she wants daily reassurance that I’ve not been kidnapped by roving Argentinian gangs looking for prototype sample shoes.
“Ma, I have news.”
“Roberta can make the shoes?” Before I answer, I hear her calling out to my father. “Dutch? Dutch—Valentine is fine. She got there, landed, and went to the factory.” She comes back to me. “Oh, Val, this is wonderful. What is Roberta like? Is she like our people? I mean, after all, she is our people.”
“She’s very pretty. Devoted to her work—she runs a big factory, and they do it all—cutting, production, finishing. It’s really amazing.”
“How are your clothes working out? Your wardrobe?”
“You were right. The black linen suit is a classic, and it goes anywhere. Mother knows best.”
“Toldja,” Mom says smugly.
“Ma, I was a little surprised when I met Roberta.”
“Why? Was it déjà vu? Did you get chills? Was it spiritual? Does she look like us?”
“Um, yeah, a lot. She has Jaclyn’s nose.”
“Isn’t that just uncanny? The Angelini onward and upward tilt! It’s a great nose. Wish I had gotten it without the help of Dr. Mavrakakis.”
“Yeah, and she has thick, shiny hair like Tess.”
“I knew she’d be a brunette.”
“And one more thing. Um…she’s black.”
There is a pause on my mother’s end.
“Oh, honey, you know depression runs in my father’s family.”
“Ma, I don’t mean black moods. I mean black skin.”
“We’re black?” My mother is mystified. “Huh,” she says deliberately. “I didn’t know there were black Italians.”
“Well, evidently there are.”
“You learn something new every day.” My mother takes a bath in a bucket of cliché whenever she is perplexed.
“Ma, you okay?”
“I have to call my mother—and after I tell her the story, I’ll call your sisters and Alfred. It’s a shock.” She goes on, “But it’s also…courant. I mean, look at our president. I thought our cousins in B.A. would look along the lines of Julio Iglesias—you know, more Spanish than Italian, but Italianate nonetheless. The last thing I expected you to find in Argentina was a family of black cousins. But here it is.”
Brava, Valentine Page 19