by C. L. Donley
There she was, standing behind a random staff member in black, wearing large earphones and holding a clipboard. She wore a stylish trench over a plain dress shirt, skinny jeans, and red flats. Her hair was pulled back in her signature style, the front had gone from long strands to sharp bangs that accentuated her glowing cheekbones when she smiled. A guest pass hung around her neck. She’d spotted him first, because she was looking straight at him.
“Lark,” he greeted her with kisses on both cheeks. She stood staring, looking petrified. A thousand words were backing up trying to work their way up and out of her.
“Whatever you have to say can wait.”
“I owe you an explanation.”
“You do not. You wanted to keep things casual for this very reason. You musn’t torture yourself.”
Dario could see his absolution made her emotional.
“No crying today. The show will begin soon,” he said, wiping a tear with his thumb.
“Where do I sit?”
“With me.”
“Where’s my surprise?”
“You’ll see. Once the show begins.”
Sergei was the second to present that night. He spoke with the help of the interpreter that was with him the day they had their first meeting, not a block away from where they were now.
“I must thank Dario Di Rossi, chief operator of Di Rossi Textiles, for not only providing my fabrics but also mentoring me, and teaching me about color and silhouettes, and putting together a collection. He gives a whole new meaning to the term client services.”
Lark looked over at Dario who’d just gotten a Di Rossi Textiles a priceless ringing endorsement in front of the entire elite of the fashion industry. His expression was that of complete lack of surprise. He glanced over at Lark and simply gave her an effortless wink, as though he knew what she was thinking.
“My inspiration for this collection is a particular woman. She is professional, smart. She wants to be beautiful, wants to be stylish. But she wants to be taken seriously, she wants to be respected by both women and men. And this is her collection.”
Dario looked over at Lark who simply applauded with everyone else, completely oblivious to Sergei’s description of her. The lights dimmed and the show began.
The first model came down the runway in a dress shirt and pencil skirt and Lark’s exact hairdo. Dario couldn’t stifle his grin when he glanced at her again and she was still oblivious. Mixed in were pieces that incorporated iconic pieces of Russia’s heritage and history, including a provocative mock Adidas outfit, reminiscent of Sergei’s humble beginnings.
The models came down the runway in pieces that gradually increased in intensity, culminating with a dramatic mustard yellow dress on the darkest woman Lark had ever seen in person. Sergei got a standing ovation when his show was over, and the room was abuzz about the young burgeoning designer from Russia who was self-taught and essentially discovered by the head of Di Rossi textiles.
Everyone wanted an interview with the handsome young visionary poised to take over for Luca Di Rossi. Lark stood in the shadows as mic after mic was shoved in his face and he described his vision for the company, his mission statement going out to the world. And all without paying a penny.
When it became clear that the hype around Dario wasn’t going away anytime soon, Lark let the crowd around her engulf him, until she was practically pushed out of the venue. She looked on as she drifted further and further away from him like a piece of driftwood in an ocean of bodies. She would likely have to wait hours now to find resolution. She saved him the trouble and quietly made her way past the press, beyond the barricade and back out to the Manhattan streets.
She kept her arms folded and her eyes on her feet, the surreal feeling of self-sabotage confronting her again. But all was not lost. Perhaps he would be in touch, she thought, perhaps not. Her heart beat against her breast like a prisoner as she continued to walk in the opposite direction of him. Her mind began the same string of excuses, its version of an apology. If he wants you, he knows where to find you, the familiar mantra droned on. But she knew now the revolving door of her fearful justifications.
She moved past anonymous New Yorkers on the sidewalk, fighting the flow of foot traffic that seemed to all be going in Dario’s direction. The panic was nearly unbearable. She was undeniably in over her head in regard to her emotions, which fueled both her heart and her rebellious feet.
Suddenly she felt someone abruptly grab her arm. She spun around in time to meet Dario’s eyes as he pulled her close to his chest. The unseasonably warm night air gently blew his hair. Without hesitation, her arms went around his neck and they kissed.
They kissed until they were swaying in the middle of the massive sidewalk, until people clapped, whistled, and finally complained when they had to walk around them.
They broke apart and he held her hand and led her lazily, wordlessly down the street.
“You didn’t have to come after me.”
“I’ve let you run from me, twice now. I cannot bear a third.”
They kissed again and she gripped his arm with her other hand as they walked. She marveled within herself, feeling the last two months blow away like a fog. It was as though they’d never been apart. Ever. They found themselves in front of Riverside Park.
“You told him about the gold dress,” Lark finally broke the silence.
“I didn’t. But I picked out the fabric,” he confessed.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said.
“For what?”
“For what?? For everything. For the way I left. For running first. Instead of just telling you how I felt. I wanted to run, but I didn’t want to end it.”
“…I understand.”
“You don’t,” she shook her head, the sun beginning to set as they looked out at the scenic waterfront.
“You lied to me,” he said.
“About what?”
“When I asked you on the plane back from Paris if you trusted me. You do not.”
“I didn’t lie. I just… I trust that you believe that you mean what you say. I’m afraid it doesn’t go beyond that.”
“Why didn’t you want to end it?” he asked, a tinge of hope rising in him at her words.
“Because I love you,” she replied in Italian.
It was all he needed to hear, all there was to know.
“In English,” he insisted.
“Why?”
“Because it is harder for you.”
Lark swallowed. He was right. She could’ve said it in the other ten languages and more. But the moment she said it in her native tongue, she was sure he would turn and walk away. Laugh. Become a pillar of sand.
The emotion came so violently she was shaking. Her skin reddened as the tears built up in the creases of her tightly shut eyes. She took a moment just to cry, maybe in shame, maybe remorse. Grief. For herself, for the others, the ones she met in the same place or worse.
Finally, she confronted her fear, letting Dario be the one to disappear. Though she didn’t dare open her eyes.
“I love you,” she said in a low voice.
When there was no answer, she didn’t panic. Her breath slowed. She let herself believe he was gone. So she could stop struggling. So she could move on.
Her eyes came slowly open. Dario was a tall blurry figure standing still in front of her. He retrieved a handkerchief and she took it.
“I love you,” she said again before applying it to her face, the irrational fear she had of rejection slowly dampening.
Dario remained quiet. Lark took a breath. That was one problem down. Now to deal with the others.
“But we’re from two different worlds.”
“Si.”
“You don’t fit in mine, and I don’t fit in yours.”
“You fit beautifully in my world.”
“I was only pretending. It was excruciating.”
“Va bene. I will come to you. Where should we live?”
“I wasn’t talki
ng about our countries.”
“How else are we worlds apart, cara mia?”
“Your… family,” she began, almost as though the word was enough to make her sick.
“I don’t know all that my mother said to you, but we had a talk and I assure you. It won’t happen again.”
“Your mother was the only one there to tell me the truth.”
“What truth was that?”
“That I am not good enough for you.”
“I am growing weary of this nonsense idea,” he said.
“Okay… I am not… whole enough then. I don’t know how to be fueled by anything except my next assignment, or where I’m going to live. Honing my skills to survive. Living in your big house, it feels like nothing is ahead of me. Absolutely nothing. Except more of the same. Maybe I don’t want what I say I want. Maybe I have grown too accustomed to being a temporary tolerance.”
“You could never be a temporary tolerance to me. I love you, cara. I love everything about you.”
But then, she imagined the hate. When the look of contentment would lose its charm. It gave her a cold shiver.
No, she thought, a lump forming in her throat. She must never go through that.
“Whatever you love about me will fade away. Love just means that it will take longer. Much longer. I don’t have the patience to wait.”
Lark took a breath and then switched to Italian.
“You are telling me to ask for acceptance from the most unlikely place. We have absolutely nothing in common. Nothing.”
“When I told you about my family, do you remember what you said the night we met? When I walked you home?” he asked.
“I said… it sounded like a dream.”
Dario sighed. “This is my fault. Perhaps I made you think that it matters what my family thinks about you. Of course, I want them to like you, to love you, but ultimately this does not matter.”
“I know. Still. Daughter, wife, mother. These roles. Being thrust upon me. I will ruin them all.”
“You are thinking too much about it. Shall I tell you what family is, since you have sworn ignorance of it?”
She wiped away a tear as she nodded.
“Family is merely a choice. Sometimes it is a wise choice, sometimes not. But it begins all the same. It must be born, just like a baby. In fact, a baby is the very embodiment of a family. You feel like an alien, but you are part of a family. You carry two people with you always. Perhaps you do not know them, but if you were to meet them, your sense of belonging would likely astound you, but yet at the same time, it would not. And if you were to meet the two that they carry, the same would happen, and so on and so on.”
Lark let the breeze blow her tears sideways across her cheeks, looking across the water as she listened.
“You are right, I cannot give you the feeling that you seek, the one that I know very well. Too well. I ache for you to have it, not because I think it would make you a whole person, but because it would make you happy to understand how… arbitrary it is.”
Dario hooked a finger underneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him which she did, unabashedly, her face raw with emotion.
“It does not matter how much family I have, if that family is to continue, I have to make a choice. Just as you must make a choice. Ho trovato qualcuno. Ci siamo scelti, ma lei è morta.” I found someone. We chose each other, but she died,” he said. “She died, but I thank God every day that we made a family, because I have a piece of her to look at always, even when it hurts.”
His gentle words cleared her foggy rationale. She closed her eyes, trying to hold on to the simplicity he was so patiently trying to impart. It was the most thoughtful thing any man had ever done, welcoming her back into the fold of human relationships. You can do this, I know you can, he chanted through his touch, through his calmly beating heart against her head. She was starting to believe it.
“I cannot conceive of how badly the family that bore you has let you down. But I would bet much of my fortune that your mother and father, wherever they are, do not let a day go by without thinking where you are and what you are doing. And that they are not concerned about your many languages, though it is impressive.”
Lark cried as he continued to probe her fears. If she couldn’t resist him before, it was utterly impossible now.
“Be my family, Allodola. The way that you already are. You have entered my life, and you can no longer leave it. I will not try and persuade you to have a child with me, cara. But I think that if you do, you will understand better what I am saying to you. You are a good person, Lark. Motherhood will not depress you, as you fear. But this will not be an assignment, this will be forever. And no one will make the decision for you. You will choose. And then, if you want it, you will have family. Always. I promise.”
“You promise?” she wept.
“Yes, cuore mio. It will be very unfamiliar at first, but you have said yourself. You adapt.”
“I do say that,” she sniffed after a moment.
“Yes. I listen.”
“You do,” she laughed. She felt her inner saboteur frantically trying to come to the surface. It was still there but growing faint in her ear, its directives sounding less and less coherent.
“Then… I choose… you,” she breathed.
“D’Accord?”
“Si.”
Dario put his hand in hers, the same way he had when he first grabbed her hand the night they were strangers. It felt the same, as though he had chosen her then.
“I understand you’ve left the agency.”
“Yeah, I’ve been…contemplating going into business for myself. I’ve been contacting my previous jobs to see if they would follow me if I started my own business.”
“Everyone except me.”
“I…was going to call. Obviously. Eventually.”
“Va bene,” he adjusted his voice and posture to that of the professional she once worked for. “I have a business proposition for you then.”
“Go on…”
“I suspect that tonight will raise the profile of the Di Rossi company for a short time. And in that time, I plan to take advantage, traveling to as many places as I can. And…”
“And, you’ll need an interpreter.”
“Si. Do you know of anyone? That can work on such short notice?”
“I do.”
“Someone qualified?”
“Si.”
“Who is also beautiful?”
Lark huffed. “How do you do that?” she smiled.
“Do what?”
“Plan so far ahead. And get everything you want.”
“I cannot take credit for this one, I’m afraid.”
“How did you know I was going to contact you?”
“I didn’t.”
Lark gave him the Italian gesture for insanity.
“You’re crazy.”
“Since I’ve been with you, I can’t stop doing crazy things.”
Lark laughed again.
Epilogue
“Allodolaaaaaah!” Dario’s mother Violetta bellowed from the living room.
“What is it, nonna?”
“Has Matteo eaten?”
“Of course,” Lark answered, trying and failing not to sound exasperated.
“Va bene, I didn’t know. You look… very busy.”
Lark rolled her eyes. Signora Violetta Di Rossi Benetto was full of jabs, it seemed. But Lark was convinced it was loving. Compulsively so. Whatever animosity arose between the two women was instantly deferred once Matteo came into the world.
“Matteo is fine.”
“Where is Gino?”
“Gino is getting him ready for his nap and then we’re going. We’re already late for the airport.”
“Oh, why would Roberto tell you to fly in your condition?”
“I’m only four months along Violetta, it’s fine.”
“Still. You work like a peasant woman.”
Lark was the owner of Lark Di Rossi Linguistic
s, the company she started four years ago. Currently her husband was her primary client.
“Yes, but I like it, nonna.”
“I know you do. Just keep your feet up, Allodola you know how you swell!”
“I know,” Lark absent-mindedly answered.
Just then Gino came whizzing past the doorway. A long moment later, two year old Matteo toddled past the same doorway laughing deliriously, much more than the situation warranted. It wrenched a smile from Lark’s lips.
He was stout with chubby hands and feet, and all brown— brown eyes, brown skin, brown silky curls— delightfully ambiguous and adorable. He was mostly toothless, beaming and not watching where he was going at all.
“I guess nap time isn’t happening,” Lark sighed.
“Gino be careful in the house with Matteo!”
“He’s fine nonna,” Gino insisted.
A second later there was a loud crash. Everyone waited with bated breath, everyone except Violetta who rushed out of the room to the direction of his cries.
Lark touched her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. That woman was incapable of letting Matteo cry it out, which Lark was desperate to successfully do one day. She’d had many talks with Violetta about space, which seemed to have no effect. That Gino turned out well-adusted at all was a miracle.
She looked up to see Gino in the doorway smirking at her exasperation. They locked eyes and Lark let out a knowing sigh. Gino snickered.
“Pronto?” Gino asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s go anyway, before we never get out of here.”
“Allodola, you are rich now. Make them wait,” Gino suggested.
“Does your father hear you talk like that?”
“Allodolaah! I think Matteo hurt his head, I don’t think he should lay down. I will make him some pasta!”
Lark turned to look at Dario’s son, now 22 years old.
“Get me outta here, Gino.”
“Andiamo, Signora Di Rossi.”
* * *
Dario was already in France for Paris fashion week. A gaggle of clientele would be showing today, including Sergei and Park Tae-Hwan, who would be debuting his SALVA brand in Europe. He could go down to the venue himself, but he decided he would wait. He felt much more comfortable having his interpreter by his side.