Brava, Valentine

8. Be Careful, It’s My Heart

AS THE PLANE DESCENDS INTO Buenos Aires, it dawns on me that my mother should be living my life. When she was thirty-five years old, she had four children, a husband, and a teaching degree that lay dormant like hyacinths in winter. The closest she would ever come to leading the life of an international jet-setter was listening to the rhythmic rumble of the airplanes over the old neighborhood in Queens as they made the turn to land at La-Guardia.

Mom was practically giddy at the airport as she helped me check my luggage. Whereas most normal travelers loathe the paperwork and lines, my mother revels in the boarding process. She counts on the helpful redcaps. She waits patiently as she takes her place at check-in where they hand you your seat assignment. She makes pre-boarding relationships, cultivating “new friends” on her way to “new experiences.” My mother holds a boarding pass the way most people cradle a winning lottery ticket.

I peer out the window. Nightfall over Buenos Aires is a swirl of purples; the clouds dimpled with blue hold up a moon that looks like a silver pocket watch.

I planned an evening arrival in order to get a full night’s sleep before hitting the ground running in the morning. The hotel arranged a car service to pick me up at the airport. The Four Seasons Buenos Aires is deluxe-and I would never have the means to stay there, except that Gabriel tapped into his Carlyle hotel contacts to arrange the deal of a lifetime (though I’m told bargains are the norm in Buenos Aires). I put on fresh lipstick, because you never know who you might meet. My mother once ran into Dr. Christiaan Barnard in 1975 and still moans that she “didn’t have her face on.”

I wonder what this trip will bring. Fourteen days to fill with possibilities. Will I meet anyone like Costanzo Ruocco-the great Caprese shoemaker-or the likes of the Neapolitan D’Amico sisters who make our shoe embellishments in Naples?

This time, unlike on my trips to Tuscany and Capri, I won’t be distracted by a boyfriend who cancels at the last minute or a hot Italian who wants to step into the void. I won’t be worried about Gram’s welfare. I won’t be concerned about my father’s health or my mother’s hope that I marry before she needs a facelift. I’m on my own.

When I’m working in the shop on Perry Street, I have to steal time to sketch new ideas, because building custom shoes takes up most of the day. There are also appointments with vendors and fitting sessions with customers. I lead a very structured life in order to meet my deadlines, but all of that changes when I travel. Time becomes my own.

If I want to sketch all morning, it’s my choice. If I want to play with patterns on paper long into the night, I can. I have uninterrupted spools of hours on end to look at the world in a new way. Fresh color combinations ignite, classic notions are scrapped, and new techniques are introduced as my imagination goes wild with possibilities. I can think freely when I’m away from home because I’m not worried about the boiler, the water bill, or the mortgage.

Maybe Gram is right-maybe the best thing an artist can do is to leave her comfort zone. Maybe creativity is all about the guts to try something new, somewhere new. I close my eyes and reboot my imagination as the car careens through the streets of Buenos Aires. When I open them, the city, completely new to me, is a blur of deep blue split by seams of light. I’m glad I landed in the dark; there is nothing to distract me as I remember my purpose. I have a job to do, and I won’t rest until it’s done.

The porter at the Four Seasons greets the car, opening my door with a flourish, as though I’m a party guest and not a hotel patron. At first glance, the La Recoleta district in Buenos Aires looks like the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Sleek glass towers loom among the frill of old world architecture like pavé diamonds set in stainless steel.

The entrance to the hotel is as grand as the neighborhood. Flowing fountains set amid classic statuary create the feeling of a piazza. I follow the porter under the awning and through the polished brass doors. The lobby is regal, with black-and-white marble floors and high arched ceilings. The sleek furniture is covered in navy damask-and-gold velvet stripes. I feel as if I’ve landed in a Dorothy Draper candy dish.

There is barely a wait at the front desk. When I am handed my key, the night manager says, “It’s our pleasure. We have upgraded you to a suite.”

“Upgraded is my second favorite word,” I tell him.

“And what’s the first?” He smiles.

“Complimentary.”

He laughs as he shows me to the glass doors that lead through the outdoor gardens to La Mansion, a French inspired villa, the original hotel building behind the modern tower. As he opens the doors, soft teal beams of light shoot up from the ground onto the stone façade, etched in scrollwork. Romantic balconies jut out over the garden, spilling over with greenery and lush white blossoms. The effect is pure Marie Antoinette, Rococo details and neoclassical design in the heart of Buenos Aires.

I follow the porter outside and through the gardens to the entrance. I tiptoe, looking over the hedges to the oval swimming pool, anchored by waterfalls. The pool is the color of lapis, a blue so deep it’s practically indigo. The surface shimmers in the light as though it’s been sprinkled in gold dust.

The porter opens the door to my room, which isn’t a room at all but an opulent suite, with a large living room decorated in moss green and honeysuckle yellow, in French toile and deep rose velvet. “It’s too much,” I say aloud.

The porter nods. I’m sure he’s heard that before.

He loads my luggage into a closet as big as my bedroom in New York. I tip him, and he goes, leaving me to wander through the beautifully appointed rooms. I open the louvred doors that lead out onto the balcony. The breeze blows through and billows the silk draperies like regal capes.

The balcony has a view of La Recoleta. The endless sky over the city’s many neighborhoods is not obstructed by buildings or mountains. The city below seems carved into the earth like an intricate mosaic of colored tiles. The stars poke through the night sky like silver straight pins.

I kick off my shoes and lie back on the king-size bed. I’ve fallen into a vat of feathers, and the pristine white sheets carry the scent of a clean summer day. Paper crackles under my back. I must be lying on the breakfast order form. I reach under and pull out the paper. But it’s not a menu. It’s an envelope addressed to me, in a familiar script, handwritten with a fountain pen, in cobalt ink.

A total surprise. A letter from Gianluca. I open the envelope slowly, so as not to tear it. I pull out the letter inside, unfolding the sheer paper carefully. Okay, signor. Redeem yourself.

14 maggio 2010

Cara Valentina,

I hope you had a restful flight, and that your room, with its balcony, pleases you. I know you like to sit outside at night, under the moon.

I’m in the tower on the eleventh floor, looking out over the city. I am taking a swim at the pool by the mansion. Perhaps you would like to join me.

I put the letter down. Dear God. My heart is pounding. I think I’m having a stroke. I could use Aunt Feen’s blood pressure cuff right about now. He is here. In Buenos Aires. Now! Right now! In the next building! I inhale deeply and continue to read his words.

…then, if it pleases you, I thought we would have dinner. If you are tired, of course I understand, and will see you in the morning. And only…if that also pleases you.

Love,

Gianluca

I spring off the bed like I’m tinsel that’s been shot out of a New Year’s party horn. Please me? Oh, he has no idea.

I go to my suitcase in the closet and zip it open. I shuffle through the ziplock bags lined up like selections in the frozen food bin of a grocery store, searching for my bathing suit. Did I pack one? No. Now what do I do? The gift shop! I wonder if the gift shop is open.

As I turn to go to the hotel manual by the phone to call the front desk, I see a box on the closet shelf, tied with purple ribbon. My name, in Gianluca’s familiar script, is written on the tag.

I open the box. It’s a bathing suit. A tasteful yet sexy black one-piece maillot, with a plunging V in the front and sheer black mesh panels on the sides. It’s a classic suit. And it’s retail; this is no Chuck Cohen knockoff from the Loehmann’s sale bin.

I take off my clothes and slip into the suit. Even the mirrors in this hotel are flattering. Then I remember it’s chilly outside. I plow through my suitcase again and find a black velour hoodie and pants. (My mother insisted I bring it; “It’s casual chic for breakfast in the hotel,” she said. Yes, yes, Mama is always right.) I pull it on over the suit. I slip into a pair of black Bella Rosa flats, and grab the keys.

I almost skip through the mansion foyer and out the door to the gardens. Then, like an eighteenth-century duchess in a maze looking for her lover, I zig-zag until I figure out a direct path, and run through the hedges, toward the pool, to him.

I slow down as I approach the deep blue water, lit from within.

The pool reminds me of the lakes inside the Blue Grotto in Capri. The surface ripples in the breeze. I look around. I’m alone. No Gianluca. Was it a dream? Did I imagine the invitation? No, I couldn’t have-who dreams up a new bathing suit? But I read the letter so fast-maybe I missed the instructions. Did he say to call first? I’m about to turn to go back to the room to call him when I hear, softly, from behind:

“Ciao.”

I turn to face Gianluca. In this light, he’s actually more handsome than he was at Gram’s wedding. How is this possible?

“How was your trip?” he asks.

“Who cares?” I throw my arms around his neck. He laughs. The strong tilt of his nose and his firm jawline are as sleek and fine as the carved river stones that form the waterfall behind him.

“How do you like the room?” he asks.

“Did you upgrade me?”

“I cannot upgrade you. You cannot upgrade the very best.”

“Do you always say the right thing?”

His expression, his eyes, the color of the deepest night sky, so clear, say more than his letters ever could about how he feels about me.

Gianluca takes my hands in his. The rush of feelings that goes through me is familiar, yet completely new. I reach up to embrace him, I kiss his cheeks, his nose, and then he pulls me so close, my face rests in his neck like a velvet collar. His lips find mine, and this time, I’m ready.

“Did you come alone?” he whispers in my ear.

“Yes.”

“No nieces?”

“No.”

“No nephews?”

“Uh-uh.”

“No Aunt Feen?” He kisses my ear.

“No, none of the above.”

“Just you? Alone?”

“I swear.”

He kisses me tenderly. I’m lost in the moment-I forget the country, the hemisphere, the place. As we kiss, I could be anywhere-we are anywhere, the corner of Hudson Street, or the platform of the train station in Forest Hills, or high on the cliffs of Anacapri when the moon is out-it doesn’t matter. There is no world outside this kiss. Everything is a blur, forgotten, gone. The wind rustles the satin leaves of the eucalyptus trees, filling the air with the scent of clean mint.

“Do you really want to swim?” I ask.

“Do you?”

“Well, the suit fits.” I unzip my hoodie.

Gianluca laughs. “Then we swim.”

I dive into the pool; the water is as warm as a bath.

Gianluca dives in and finds me in the water. His arms wrap around me like silk ropes. I kiss his neck. “Your last letter was terrible.”

He laughs. “Too short?”

“It read like instructions for assembling a washing machine.”

“My apologies.”

“If you’re going to seduce me…”

“Tell me how.”

“As if you need instructions.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know. I like when you compared me to a peony. That was good. And when you write how you feel. That’s always good. Here’s the deal, Gianluca. Have I mentioned that I like to say your name? It has the entire history of Italian civilization in its delivery. At least I think so.”

“Thank you.”

“As a general rule, you should never write love letters filled with imagery and then send a swatch of shoe leather. The sentiments in letters should delight and build until the woman is so enthralled she cannot imagine the world without you.”

“Ah.”

I let go of him and swim off into the deep end, into the blue water.

The night air on my face is cold compared to the warmth of the water below. But the contrast is lovely; it’s waking me up in every way, from the long flight, from my anxieties about meeting Roberta, and from my ambivalence about getting involved with a man who might take me away from my work, when my career needs my undivided attention.

Gianluca meets me at the deep end. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really. Are you?”

“No.”

“So, what should we do?”

He smiles, and that’s his answer.

Good answer.

Room service has left a good-night tray with a silver service espresso pot, cream and sugar, and a plate of fresh fruit: mango slices, strawberries, and kiwis, artfully arranged like a sunburst. There’s a polished sterling silver bowl filled with chunks of fragrant dark chocolate. There is also a fine bone china platter of tiny almond cookies sprinkled with candied orange bits. A small gold card with a handwritten note from the porter is propped on the tray. It says: “Complimentary.”

“Why are you laughing?” Gianluca wants to know.

“The way this night is going, I’m getting everything I want.”

“That is how it should be.”

“And what do you want, Gianluca?”

“Do you have to ask?” he says.

“Yes, I do. I don’t like questions answered with questions. Have you ever heard of…show, don’t tell?”

He thinks for a moment. “No.”

“Well, it means that I prefer to express my feelings with action, not words.” I climb onto his lap, and this time, unlike on Gram’s wedding night in Arezzo, I don’t withhold my feelings.

“I like both. Action and words.” He kisses my neck.

“But I’m not a poet, I’m a shoemaker.”

“A good shoemaker is a poet,” he says.

“Right.” I kiss him.

“Do you think you can find the words tonight?” he whispers. “To tell me how do you feel about me?”

I take his face in my hands. “I think I can’t describe it.”

“Try.”

“Okay, I never imagined you before I met you. You’re the kind of man who ends up with women who wear high heels and aprons.”

He laughs.

“I didn’t see myself with a man who had children, or was older, or who had a big life before he met me. And by big life, I mean a long marriage.”

“I understand.”

“But, and here’s what I pray for, I pray to stay open to the possibilities of everything in life. I also hope to never limit my choices by my own prejudice-or the limitations of my upbringing. But, here’s where I need your help. I was surprised by my feelings for you, too.”

“Why?”

“When I met Orsola-and she’s as fine a woman as any I’ve ever met, and you raised her-I could see that you are a wonderful father. Most women have to wait to find out if a man will be a good father. If they ever do. But with you, I knew right away.”

“Orsola is the best part of my life.”

“That’s very obvious. You’ve been a good father. As a daughter myself, I don’t think there is anything more important than that. It says more than anything else I know about you, who you really are. But here’s the problem…”

Gianluca waits as I find the words to explain my feelings. At Gram’s wedding, when I was helping corral my nieces and nephews, it dawned on me that I might like my own children to chase and coddle, to correct and defend-that it wasn’t enough to be an aunt with an extra pair of hands. And then, later, when I held Bret’s daughter Piper in my arms, I felt the yearning that can only be instigated by the embrace of a child holding so tight, she almost became a part of me.

I have walked past Bleecker Park, filled with children, hundreds of times and never looked inside the fence to see what was going on. I tuned out their laughter and loud yells, their games and their joy. But lately, on my coffee run, I stop and observe them. I find myself standing at the fence, wondering if this exotic zoo is a place I will visit, or will I actually live inside someday? Will I ever be one of those mothers chasing her four-year-old down the ramp on the beat-up public scooter that the neighborhood kids share? After a while I check my watch and realize a mound of work waits for me back at the shop. On the way back, I consider what a child would mean to me in my life. I usually dismiss the notion once I’m back at the cutting table and tackling my to-do list. I put motherhood out of my mind until the next time I find myself outside the gates of Bleecker Park.

There’s a moment for every woman who loves her family and embraces their good qualities while attempting to negotiate the mania, when she decides that she might want a family of her own to love and shape. It’s only natural. I’m in my mid-thirties, and time tells me I must think about these things, or make the decision to brush past them and build a life without a family of my own.

I shape my question to Gianluca carefully because, depending upon his answer, I only want to ask it once.

“Why would a man who already has everything I hope to have someday be interested in retracing those steps and starting over, building a new life? Last year in Italy, you said you weren’t interested in having another child. Have your feelings changed?”

Gianluca inhales deeply. My heart races; I realize I’m afraid of his answer. He pulls me close. He says, “That would depend upon you.”

“It’s all up to me?”

“I think so. A baby is the woman’s choice,” he says. “I don’t know how else to say it. Why do you speak of children tonight?”

“I went to a friend’s house recently. A birthday party. And there was a baby there who reached for me, and when she fell into my arms, I felt something I had never felt before-a connection, I guess. A possibility of some sort. Maybe it’s my age. Or maybe it was just that particular little girl. I don’t know.”

“Or maybe you are thinking about life in a different way now,” he says gently. He kisses me. The kiss is like the soft wax seal on the envelope of a letter. There is something final about it-for him. Then he says, “Maybe you are ready for more.”

The concept of more for a woman who has to stretch to reach for enough is almost unthinkable. I have no idea what I deserve, because I never know what to ask for. Gianluca has already had the life that I think I want. He already knows how the story ends. Gianluca begins a second life tonight, a new act, a new phase, as I move into my first one. I have no idea what to expect.

I try to let go of the old habits and prejudices I have about love in order to make room for the mystery. I don’t have any control over what will happen. I’d like to know where this is going because I don’t want to get hurt again, but I don’t have any control over that either. I have to accept that I don’t know where this leads-I have to be bold about it and move toward happiness and trust that everything will work out the way it is supposed to.

“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.