Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

Found a job on Capri. Loving it. May never come home. You may have to come here after all. Love, V.

I join Gianluca on the balcony. “What do you think?” I point to the gardens of Quisisana and the sea beyond.

“Bella.”

“Now you see why I want to stay.”

Nightfall over Capri looks like a blue net veil has settled over the glittering island. I put my hands on the railing and arch my back, looking up, to drink in as much of the endless sky as I can.

Suddenly, I feel hands around my waist. Gianluca pulls me close and kisses me. As his lips linger on mine, softly and sweetly, a ticker tape of information runs through my head. Of course he’s kissing you, what did you think he was going to do, you invited him up to your room, at night, you showed him the romantic balcony, with a jillion stars overhead, you asked him what he thought, and his thoughts went to sex and now you’re in a pickle. Gabriel’s words ring in my ears: no ring, no thing. This kiss was lovely and I want more. I’ve never bounced back from a failing love affair in the arms of someone new, so why start now?

I put my arms around him, and slide my hands up to his neck. He kisses me again. What am I doing? I’m giving in, that’s what. I’m also initiating, that’s worse. Everything on this island encourages making love, while every scent, texture, and tone creates an irresistible backdrop for one thing, and one thing only. It starts in the cafés at intimate tables and chairs where knees and thighs brush person against person; the sweet sips of coconut ice after a long walk in the hot sun; the decadent scent of soft leather in Costanzo’s shop; the fresh food, ripe figs plucked right off the tree; the delicious salty sea air and the moon like a prim pearl button on a silky sky longing to be unfastened. Even the shoes, especially the sandals, filmy straps of gold on brown skin, ready to be slipped off and undone, say sex.

The Italians lead sensual lives, everybody knows that, I know that, and that’s why I’m not resisting these kisses.

Somehow it would feel like an insult to life itself to resist what seems so natural. These kisses are as much a part of an Italian summer day as pulling a fig off a tree and eating it. Whatever romance is left in the world, the best of it can be found in Italy. Gianluca holds me like a prize as the touch of his lips surrounds me like the warm waves in the pool. I find myself going under as Gianluca kisses my neck tenderly. When I open my eyes, all I see are stars, poking through the blue like chips of glass.

Then I remember Roman, and how it was supposed to be us on this balcony, under these stars, making our way to that bed by the light of this moon, and I begin to pull away. But I’m not sure I have the strength to resist. I’m the girl who always has the second cannoli! Don’t I deserve this? Doesn’t everybody?

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“Why?” Gianluca says quietly. Then he persists, kissing me again. This is not like me. I never so much as look at another man when I’m involved with someone. I’m very faithful, in fact, I’m often faithful when it hasn’t been agreed upon in advance. I can be true after one date. I’m that faithful. My natural inclination is old-fashioned devotion. Spontaneity and variety are not for me. I think things through, so I’ve never had to tiptoe around my past with regret. I skip through, unencumbered, free! I’m a clean-slate woman. I need to tell Gianluca that I don’t do this sort of thing before we go any further. I take his hands and step back. Even worse. I like his hands around mine. The touch of his fingers, those strong working-man tanner hands, sends small shivers up my arms and down my back, like cold raindrops hitting my skin on a hot day. I’ve got some kind of malaria going on here.

“What am I doing?” I let go of his hands and turn away from him.

“I understand,” he says.

“No, you don’t.” I bury my face in my hands. Nothing like taking cover in a moment of shame, only I wish I had a hood and a pashmina shawl and a lonely cell to crawl into.

But before I can explain what I’m feeling, or take the blame for my impulsive behavior he is gone. I hear the door from my room to the hotel hallway snap shut. I put my hand on my mouth. Underneath my hand my lips are not pursed in indignation. No, instead, much to my surprise…I’m smiling.

As I pack up my tools on my last day at Costanzo’s shop, I try not to cry. I can’t explain what this time has meant to me. I feel foolish that I ever wanted to come here as a tourist and lie around the pool and sleep all day, when what I gained in the exchange cannot be quantified. Under Costanzo’s direction and subtle encouragement, I became an artist.

Sure, Gram taught me how to make shoes, but there was never time to teach me how to walk in the world as an artist. There was never time to encourage me on that path, because it wasn’t something my grandmother knew. The dreamers were my great-grandfather and grandfather. Gram is a technician, a practical cobbler. She designed a shoe once, but it was only out of necessity. She drew the ballet flat and built it only after she lost customer after customer to Capezio. She did not sketch it out of a desire to create, but rather, a need. She needed to make money. Shoemaking was never a form of self-expression for Teodora Angelini, rather, it was food on the table, clothes for my mother, and money for the collection plate at Our Lady of Pompeii Church. There is nothing wrong with that, but now I know I want more. I want to say more.

New York City is everything to me, but I know now, in the frenzy and the noise, amidst the urgency and rush, that the voice of the artist can be drowned out in the pursuit of making a living. I understand the lure of security, the need to make money to pay our bills and meet payroll, but an artist needs time to think and to dream. Time, unstructured and free, nurtures the imagination. Afternoon siesta may appear to be restful, but for artists like Costanzo, it’s time to review the work of the day and reflect on new colors and combinations. Costanzo also taught me that ordinary life is artful. He taught me to look at everyday things and find the beauty in them. I’m not just a cobbler, I am creating a particular shoe for a customer who is trying to express something about herself to the world. My job is to deliver that message, to find the meaning in the ordinary.

I don’t see a pesky seagull looking for crumbs anymore. I see a palette of clean white, dressed in black feathers with bold white spots. Shoes. I don’t see a stone wall where the sun hits it full on at noon, I see a particular shade of gray with a gloss of gold. Leather. I don’t see a gnarl of vines on a black fence. I see forest green velvet and black leather laces. Boots. I don’t see a blue sky with clouds, I see a bolt of embroidered silk. I don’t see a bunch of pink peonies being carried through the piazza by a new husband on the way home to his bride, I see a jeweled tassel on the vamp of a party shoe. Embellishments.

And when I look at a woman now, I don’t see fashion, I don’t see age, I don’t see size. I see her . I see my customer, who needs me to give her the very thing that says who she is, as I express who I am through the work I do. Simple. But this knowledge has transformed me. I wasn’t the woman I was when I landed in Rome a month ago, and I won’t be the same when I return home. I will see home with these new eyes. Now, this frightens me a little: what if I’ve changed so that I don’t have the same goals I was focused upon when I left? What if I return home and Roman isn’t the man for me, and fighting with Alfred isn’t worth saving the shop and the building? What if the eyes of this artist have changed the very soul of who I am? What if I don’t want what I once dreamed of?