Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

18 maggio 2010

Cara Valentina,

Enclosed is the leather sample you asked me to send. It’s a basket weave of suede and leather, which gives the look of double-sided satin. I think you will agree that it is exquisite. Thank you for your letter. All is well here. I know you are busy, so I will close.

Love,

Gianluca

I let his letter fall onto the floor next to my bed. Gianluca’s first dud, written and sent without poetry or passion, and on the eve of my big adventure. I would have liked a sexy opus to read over and over again on the plane, but I guess I’ll have to turn to the new Jackie Collins novel for that . Gianluca knows I’m nervous about this trip, and I’ve shared my reservations with him. You would think, wise old man that he is, that he’d come up with the exact right thing to say to make me feel more confident.

I hear a fire alarm in the distance, somewhere in Chelsea. I can’t sleep. I get a special brand of insomnia before I fly. I imagine turbulence, a horrible flight, the plane is struck by lightning, a belly landing because the wings have snapped off, and once I’m on the ground, having slid down the emergency chute, Roberta meets me and hates me on sight. I develop a rash over my entire body and cannot walk. I’m put in a bad local hospital where they pump me up with drugs and change my name. I develop amnesia and have to be airlifted out on a gurney to a small hospital on the Galapagos Islands where a voodoo doctor can cure the rash but cannot restore my memory. I join a nunnery because the rash has so disfigured me I can only live in a colony where they wear veils. But wait! I know what’s keeping me up this time. This letter was never intended as an endearing send-off. It’s a blow-off . He’s breaking up our imaginary relationship! We’re only together on paper, bound by good stationery and his Italian-to-English dictionary. We’re doomed. It’s over. God help me, but if the plane goes down, the last words I will have read from Gianluca will be about a leather sample. Well, it was literary and luscious while it lasted. I actually believed his words, and hoped he really saw the woman he described in letters to be just like me. But she’s gone. His pen ran out of ink. The compliments, the insights, the idolatry-they’ve dried up like an old inkwell.

Face it, Valentine, I say to myself. He’s probably found someone new. Probably some shoe designer from Russia with long legs, high cheekbones, and bangs that lie flat. Or maybe she’s Ukrainian. She’s a brunette with rosebud lips and real pearls in piles around her neck. Or French. Busty and makes a good pastry. Gianluca would be a catch anywhere in the European Union. And to think, for a while, he wanted me .

I turn over and fluff my pillow into a comfortable position. Even though it’s spring in New York City, it’s autumn in Buenos Aires. Fall is my favorite time of year. I blossom in the autumn. So I’m going to put the letter out of my mind (Gianluca will be lucky if he gets a postcard from Argentina) and focus on the Bella Rosa . At least I know what I’m doing when it comes to shoes. Love will have to wait.

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.