Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

“And one more thing. Um…she’s black.”

There is a pause on my mother’s end.

“Oh, honey, you know depression runs in my father’s family.”

“Ma, I don’t mean black moods . I mean black skin.”

“We’re black ?” My mother is mystified. “Huh,” she says deliberately. “I didn’t know there were black Italians.”

“Well, evidently there are.”

“You learn something new every day.” My mother takes a bath in a bucket of cliché whenever she is perplexed.

“Ma, you okay?”

“I have to call my mother-and after I tell her the story, I’ll call your sisters and Alfred. It’s a shock.” She goes on, “But it’s also…courant. I mean, look at our president. I thought our cousins in B.A. would look along the lines of Julio Iglesias-you know, more Spanish than Italian, but Italianate nonetheless. The last thing I expected you to find in Argentina was a family of black cousins. But here it is.”

“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.

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 t o 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.