Brava, Valentine

by Adriana Trigiani

  “It’s here, Mom.” I really don’t want to sit and listen to my mother as she shares every single thought that she has in her head.

  She goes on, “I don’t know what your father is going to say. I don’t think they have any black people on his side.”

  “Probably not. But Ma, it doesn’t matter. Roberta has so much going on. She is forty-four and she just had a baby.”

  “Then, you see, there’s an inspiration for you. A late-in-life baby in a wing of our very own family. But hold on. Fertility can only be tracked through your maternal line, so Roberta’s particular apparatus is irrelevant.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Well, give them…give them our best.” The ole lilt returns to my mother’s voice.

  I enter the hotel room, throw down my purse and tote in the entrance, and slip out of my shoes. “Gianluca? I’m sorry, hon. I’m home.”

  He doesn’t answer. I go into the living room. The lamps have been dimmed. The golden light is romantic, and a far cry from the blazing work lights in Roberta’s factory. I look beyond to the bedroom. The French doors to the balcony are wide open. “Hello?” I call out.

  I go out onto the balcony. Gianluca stands by the railing. A lovely candlelit table, set for dinner, twinkles in the dark. He takes me in his arms.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “I didn’t know when you were coming home. So please don’t apologize.”

  “I called—did you get my message?”

  “No, but it’s not a problem—”

  “But I called!”

  “It doesn’t matter. So tell me, how was it?”

  “It was a factory. Noisy. Big. Dusty. Exhausting.”

  He kisses me. The tension of the day leaves me, the hum of the machines that I couldn’t shake until I walked in the door. He runs his thumb across my nose. “Did you help grease the gears?”

  “No, but I got pretty close. Oh, and did I mention, the factory is also dirty?”

  “I see.”

  Gianluca takes me by the hand and walks me through the bedroom to the bath, where the deep eggshell tub is filled with bubbles. “I’ll be right back,” he says. I take off all my clothes and sink down into the hot water.

  The tub is so deep and wide. I let the water surround me like a satin coverlet. I close my eyes.

  Gianluca returns with two glasses of wine. He pulls up the vanity chair and sits down next to me. He gives me a glass of wine and toasts me before taking a sip. Then he leans over the edge of the tub and kisses me.

  “What did you do all day?” I ask.

  “I went to the Palermo barrio. I walked through it, had lunch, went to the galleries there.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “The paintings. You would enjoy them. Primitive, bright, and very Sicilian.”

  “I hope I get some time to be a tourist.”

  “I hope so too,” he says.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to work. I wish I could just be with you.” I did miss Gianluca, but it was a productive day. When I think of time at the factory, I wish I had more. I’m energized by what I saw, and what I hope to learn. But I don’t need to share that with him. He’s been waiting for me. He deserves all my attention.

  “Tell me about Roberta.”

  “Let’s start with the basics. She is very nice, accommodating—not American at all. She is quiet, contemplative—a thinker. And she carries the family grudge.”

  “What is it?”

  “She didn’t tell me. Oh, and I’m leaving out the shocker. She’s black.”

  Gianluca’s expression is interest, not surprise. “There are black Italians.”

  “Evidently. Although my mother didn’t think so. Until now. I called her on the way back.”

  “Your mother has a very deep disinterest in history.”

  I laugh. “Except for the history of fashion. In that department, she’s an expert. Oh and beauty products. She can describe the evolution of face cream from Helena Rubinstein through Estée Lauder. Those are her areas of expertise.”

  “Did you tell your mother I was here?”

  “Now why would I do that? How do you say ‘ruin a good thing’ in Italian?”

  “You say ‘ruin a good thing.’”

  “Besides, our romance is not front burner for Mike Roncalli. No, in the New York Times of my mother, you and I are strictly Metro section. The Black Angelinis carry the front page.”

  Gianluca leans down and kisses me. As he kisses me, I reach up and unfasten the buttons on his shirt. His chest and shoulders are broad; years of lifting and pressing leather have given his muscles strength and definition. It’s a working man’s body, not one that can be fashioned in a gym. I pull him toward me. “Do you notice that we never get to dinner?”

  “Are you hungry?” he teases.

  “Of a stripe. Yes.” I push his shirt off his shoulders, take his hands in mine, and kiss them. I look up at him. “At some point, though, I’m going to have to eat the local cuisine—if only to describe it when I get home.”

  Gianluca sinks into the water next to me, and his long legs wrap around mine. The furthest thing from my mind is food. I may never eat again. Wine, bubbles, and his kisses are all I need to live—maybe ever.

  10

  Here’s that Rainy Day

  THIS MORNING GIANLUCA WOKE UP early with me. We’ve fallen into a Buenos Aires routine. I get up early and leave for the factory, while he sleeps. This morning we changed all that. We dressed and had breakfast together. I promised to keep the day at the factory short and be home in time for lunch. He wants to take me down to the river walk this afternoon, knowing how much I love my river at home.

  I spent the morning in the cutting room. I photographed the steps of pattern making to show June, and also to compare to other manufacturers. I believe the cutting is what makes Roberta’s work special. Her team has an understanding of the leather, and they cut to the grain, which makes for the most pliable material. If they can achieve the same with fabric, in her hands, the Bella Rosa could become the best affordable flat in the marketplace.

  Roberta seems to have warmed up today—or maybe she’s just getting used to seeing me around. I’m slowly becoming part of the scenery, like the old lasts on the shelf—familiar, and therefore a part of things.

  “I’m going home for lunch. Would you like to come?” Roberta asks.

  “Well, I was going to go back to the hotel…” I tell her. No, the truth is, I need to go back to the hotel. Gianluca is waiting for me. But didn’t I make this trip to spend as much time as possible with Roberta? So, I quickly say, “You know what? I’d love to. Thank you.” I can’t squander any opportunity to be with Roberta, and I’ve been waiting to meet her mother. Gianluca will understand that.

  “Let me call my mother to let her know.”

  Roberta goes into her office to place the call. I take out my cell to call the hotel. The hotel room phone rings and rings. I imagine Gianluca went out exploring. The phone rings through to the operator. I leave a message that my plans have changed—I’ll be home for an early supper instead. Then I instruct the operator to leave a hard copy of the message under the door. I don’t want to take the chance that Gianluca will miss the message.

  “Let’s go,” Roberta says. “Do you mind walking?”

  “Not at all.”

  “We live very close.”

  As we walk to Roberta’s home, she tells me about her neighborhood. La Boca is known as the Greenwich Village of Buenos Aires. There are many similarities; there’s a meatpacking district, a series of small antique shops nestled among clubs and restaurants, and a thriving subculture of businesses that make handcrafted items—like Angelini Shoes. But the detail that gets to me, that says home to me in a way nothing else can or ever will, is the cobblestone streets of La Boca. I stop and take a picture on my cell. I send it to Gabriel’s phone. Just like Jane and Perry and Charles, Avalos and Olavarría and Suárez streets are paved wit
h old, glorious, and bumpy cobblestones.

  Roberta unlocks the gate, which opens into a complex of Mediterranean-style homes that face a common park. This is another small village within the village, off the busy Caminito Street.

  The homes are surrounded by a privacy wall covered with waxy green vines. There is an old fountain in the center of the complex, its marble grooves worn smooth from weather and time. At the far end, in the midst of all this antiquity, is a plastic jungle gym for kids.

  Roberta points to her home, a town house with a clay roof. The stucco is painted white, and the small entry porch is covered in multicolored tiles. Roberta opens the door and invites me in.

  The furniture is cozy, childproof white-muslin-covered sofas and chairs, comfortable and washable. Antique chests made of hammered silver are tucked in corners. The walls are filled with paintings in an amalgam of styles, floating impressionism set amid realistic sketches done in charcoal and still-life renderings in watercolor.

  Over the mantel is a whimsical oil painting of a theater tableau, a woman singing, surrounded by a chorus of peasants. I go to the mantel and look up to get a closer view. The signature in the corner is Rafael Angelini, the same man who drew the sketch that I found at home.

  “My great-grandfather’s painting,” she says.

  “He was very good.”

  “I love it because he painted it,” she says.

  An older woman brings the baby to Roberta and places him in her arms. “This is Enzo. My son. And this is my mother, Lupe.”

  Lupe is around my mother’s age, small in build like Roberta, with black eyes and a deeper hue to her complexion. She embraces me.

  “I am so happy to meet you,” I tell her.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Lupe says.

  Lupe shows me to the veranda beyond the kitchen. The words my cousins choose are very telling. Agreeing to meet, peace, these little phrases must add up to something. It’s almost as if their words are preemptive, either to avoid an argument or to start one.

  Lupe has set a beautiful table under a shady elm tree. The navy blue ceramic dishes pop against an apple green tablecloth. The center of the table has a lazy Susan, with a clay pot in the center, surrounded by strips of thin bread, called fainá, long, slim wedges of yellow and red peppers, a bowl of olives, and fronds of fresh green lettuce.

  Lupe invites us to sit, while Roberta pours our glasses full of fresh lemonade made with honey. Lupe takes the baby from Roberta’s arms. “Time for Enzo’s nap.” She takes the baby in her arms and goes.

  Roberta takes the lid off the clay pot. She picks up my dish, ladles a fragrant stew of meat and vegetables called estofado on the center of the plate, surrounds it with the fresh vegetables and the bread. She follows suit with her mother’s plate and then her own. Roberta sits and shows me how to eat the stew, scooping up the meat with the vegetables.

  “I’m in awe of your factory,” I tell her. “The workforce…”

  “Most of them have been there for many years.”

  “I could tell. So quick, so professional. And the machines, the cutting room. What an operation.”

  “I just took over for my father after he died and I do exactly what he would do. That’s all.”

  “It’s impressive.”

  “It’s a lot now, with the baby,” she admits.

  “Do you have other children?”

  She smiles. “A daughter. Ines is eighteen, and in university. I’m forty-four. Enzo was a surprise.”

  I can’t imagine how Roberta runs a factory and takes care of a newborn baby. Of course, she has Lupe, and that’s a big help. My mother made it clear before my sisters and brother had children that she wanted to spend lots of time with the kids, but we were not to consider her a nanny. Lupe lives here with Roberta’s family, but even with the workload, she seems very happy.

  I’m so tired at the end of a day, I can’t imagine having to take care of a husband and children. Tess and Charlie have figured out a schedule with the girls and Jaclyn, who works in an insurance office, runs to day care at lunchtime to see the baby with Tom. Mackenzie, who doesn’t have a job outside her home, keeps plenty busy chronicling the life she creates for Bret and their family with invitations, scrapbooks, and homespun projects like taking classes in organic gardening. Roberta’s life seems more like my own, or at least how my life would be if I had a family.

  “What does your husband do?”

  “My husband is an artist. I brought him home twenty-two years ago. And Mama said, ‘No artist!’ Because we come from a family of them, all dreamers. But finally, my mother said okay.”

  “And now, a whole new chapter with a new baby. Enzo has lots of cousins to play with in New York.” I decide to broach the topic we’ve both been avoiding. “The whole family would love to meet you. Whatever happened in the past, Roberta, is the past. We should move forward from here—I hope we can.”

  Roberta’s expression softens, so I continue. “Can you tell me what happened with Rafael and Michel?”

  “I suppose I will have to tell you if we are to move forward,” Roberta says. “What do you know about Rafael?”

  “All I know is I found a sketch in an old calendar. And then, what you’ve told me. If you don’t mind, let’s start at the beginning. Why did Rafael come to Buenos Aires?”

  “He had to.”

  “Was it about money?”

  “No, no. Not at first. My great-grandfather’s goal was to stay in New York and work there, side by side with his brother. But then Rafael fell in love with my great-grandmother, Lucretzia.”

  Roberta looks down at her hands. Her tapered fingers are lovely, but they are working hands with short nails and a thin gold wedding band. She wears no ornamentation beyond the ring.

  “She was black. Michel did not support the union.”

  “Because of her color?” I ask.

  She nods.

  I try to imagine New York City through the eyes of Rafael and Michel. Boundaries were clearly drawn. Italians did not venture above 14th Street except to make deliveries or to do building and maintenance work for hire. Immigrants laid claim to particular blocks and tenements, careful to carve out a place in the city where they could speak in their native language. But the barriers of race trumped religion and nationality. An Italian immigrant and a black woman would have a nearly impossible journey.

  “But they married anyway?”

  “Eventually. Here in Buenos Aires. They were banished, in a sense, by Michel, in every way. Lucretzia and Rafael planned to return to Italy together, but she had family here, so, they came to Argentina instead. They had one son, my grandfather. His name was Xavier Angelini, and he married Daria, a local Argentinian woman of Italian descent. My father, also named Xavier, was their only child.”

  “My mother is an only child also,” I say.

  “My father would have loved to know her. He used to complain that he had no cousins—he longed for a big family.”

  “My mother would have liked that very much, too.” My sisters and I always say that my mother had a big family because she was an only child. I imagine the same to be true for her first cousin. Everyone, it seems, tries to create what they don’t have, or what they believe they’ve missed, hoping it will fill them up.

  “Did your mother take over the shoe shop?” Roberta asks.

  “No, not at all. My mother raised a family—I’m one of four.”

  “So how did you come to work in the shop?”

  “My grandmother and grandfather took the shop over from Michel after he died. When my grandfather died, Gram operated the business alone until I became her apprentice six years ago. She got married again this year and moved to Italy.”

  “Are you the only shoemaker?”

  “I was, and now my brother Alfred has come into the business.”

  “Do you like to work with your brother?”

  “At first I wasn’t sure. For so long, it was just my grandmother and me, and our pattern cutter
in the shop. Her name is June, and she’s the best. It took some adjusting when Alfred joined the team. But now we accommodate one another.”

  “Sometimes a company needs to change. My father loved the art of making shoes by hand, but he also wanted to make money. It wasn’t enough to make a quota each year of custom shoes. My father saw that there was no way to make a profit when the number of shoes you could build a year was so limited. So he convinced my grandfather to go into machine production. Together, they ran the mill I operate now.” She smiles. “We do well at the factory, but even better in La Boca real estate. This complex is owned by our family. We rent out all the houses you see here.”

  Even our fundamental family investment strategies are the same—we anchor the business with real estate: we own the building on Perry Street, and here, the Angelinis own the housing complex in La Boca.

  Lupe joins us at the table. She refills our glasses before she pours her own.

  “Mama, tell Valentine what you know about Rafael before he came to Buenos Aires.”

  “There are many stories. These come from my father-in-law who heard them from his own father.” She sits down. “Rafael had a brother named Michel. I was told that Michel had a hard life. He was widowed young and had a child.”

  “That was my grandfather.”

  “The story goes that Michel could not bear to stay in the village where his wife had lived in Italy—”

  “Arezzo.”

  “That’s right. So Michel begged Rafael to go with him to America, to begin again. The plan was to open a shoe shop together, and raise your grandfather.”

  “This part of the story is exactly as I know it, except I did not know about Rafael,” I say.

  “It is understandable,” Lupe says. “Because there was an argument and then an estrangement, which left Rafael to leave New York for Argentina.”

  “I told Valentine all about Lucretzia,” Roberta says.

  “When Rafael decided to marry Lucretzia and leave for good, he asked Michel for his money. You see,” Lupe continues, “the brothers sold their building in Italy, split the money, and then moved to the United States to start over. They were partners.”