Gram looks out the window, as if to better remember this story that happened just a few streets away. She continues, “He worked six days and six nights without stopping, and created a beautiful pair of black leather ankle boots with a stacked heel. He created a hidden platform on the interior of the shoe that evened out her stride without being visible to anyone else.”
“Brilliant.” I wonder if I could ever build such an ingenious shoe.
“When Jojo came back to the shop and tried on the shoes, she stood up and skimmed across the room. For the first time in her life, her steps were uniform and her posture straight and tall. Jojo was so grateful, she threw her arms around your great-grandfather and thanked him.
“Then he said, ‘Someday, I’m going to marry you.’ And he did, a year later. And a few years after that, my husband, your grandfather, was born in the house I showed you.”
“What a romantic story.”
“They were happy for a long time. But when she died of pleurisy ten years later, my father-in-law was so grief-stricken, he took your grandfather and went to America. He couldn’t bear to be in Arezzo any longer, to walk in the streets where they lived, or stay in the bed where they slept, or pass the church where they married. That’s how deep his grief was.”
“Did he ever find love again?”
“No. And you know, a cobbler can be very appealing to women.”
“Give a woman a new pair of shoes and her life changes.”
“That’s right. Well, he was a wonderful man, very funny and bright. You remind me of him in many ways. Michel Angelini was a great designer, in my opinion, ahead of his time. He’d love that shoe you designed, believe me.”
“He would?” This compliment means the world to me. After all, my great-grandfather designed every shoe our company makes. A hundred years later, his work is still relevant.
“He would be happy to know that Angelini Shoes is still in operation. He’d also be thrilled that you are carrying on his legacy. He sacrificed so much for his work. Well, at least his personal life.”
The meaning of his sacrifice is not lost on me. I get it: a creative life is an all-consuming one. If we aren’t in the shop building shoes, we are sending them; and if we’re not shipping them, we’re creating new ones. It’s a cycle that never ends, especially when we do our jobs well. “It’s sad he never found another woman to share his life with.”
“My father-in-law was crazy about her. The truth is, no one could ever compare to her. He told me that many times. He missed her right up until the moment he died. And I know that for sure because I was with him.”
“Gram, I’ve always wondered about something. Why does the sign over our shop say ‘Since 1903’ when, in fact, it was 1920 when Grandpop and his father emigrated?”
Gram smiles. “He met Jojo in 1903. That was his way of honoring her.”
I think about Roman, and if our love will last. It seems the women in my family have to fight for love to sustain it. It doesn’t come easily to us, nor does it stay without a battle. We have to work at it. I look over at her. “Is something wrong?”
“The last trip I took with your grandfather was this time of year, the spring before he died.”
“We didn’t even know he was sick.”
“He did. I think he knew that it was the last time he would see Italy. He had a bad heart for years. We just never talked about it.”
Gram breaks a roll open and puts half of it on my plate. I remember Tess telling me about Grandpop having a friend. We’re far from Perry Street, and Gram is opening up in a way that she never allows herself at home. I’m usually as reticent to discuss these matters as she is, but the moment is here, and the wine is hearty, so I ask, “Gram, did Grandpop have a girlfriend?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Tess told me that he did.”
“Tess has a big mouth.” Gram frowns.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“What good would it do?”
“I don’t know. An honest family history is worth something.”
“To whom?”
“To me.” I reach out and put my hand on hers.
“Yes, he had a girlfriend,” Gram sighs.
“How was that even possible? When would he find the time?”
“Men can always find the time for that,” Gram says.
“How? You lived and worked in the same building.”
“This is a buying trip, not a Lenten retreat,” Gram says. “I save my secrets for the confessional.”
“Pretend I’m a version of Father O’Hara with better legs.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you confront him? Did you confront her?” I have a vision of my independent grandmother standing up for herself, like Norma Shearer when she takes on Joan Crawford in The Women.
She nods. “After my husband died, I saw her on the street. I told her I knew, and she denied it, which was nice of her. Then I asked her if she made him happy.”
“Did she answer you?”
“She said no, she couldn’t make him happy. He wished that he could make it work with me. Well, that got to me. With all our problems, the truth is, I loved your grandfather. We had tough times in our business and that really took a toll on us at home. I was hard on him when he’d try new things and fail, and he grew to resent me.”
“Being an artist is all about trying new things.”
“I know that now. I didn’t then. I also learned that when a man resents his wife, he acts on it.”
“You must have been furious.”
“Oh, of course I was. And I did what lots of women do with rage. We bury it. We withdraw. Stop talking. We go to bed angry and we wake up angry. We fulfill our obligations, we keep up the house and the children, but the very act of holding it all together is resentment in a different form. My way of hurting him was to act like I didn’t need him.”
Gram lifts off her glasses and brushes away a tear.
She continues, “I regret that deeply. Maybe, I think, on one of those days when he was taking a break and having a cigar on the roof, I should have climbed the stairs and gone outside and put my arms around him and told him that I loved him. Maybe we could’ve gotten it back. But I didn’t and we couldn’t and that was that.”
I’m jet-lagged and can’t sleep. I sit in the window of the Spolti Inn and wait for morning. The houses are dark, but the moon is bright, turning the main street into a glistening silver river. The rolling hills fall away in the darkness as the clouds pass in front of the moon like party balloons.
I throw back the coverlet and climb into bed. I pick up Goethe’s Italian Journey. My bookmark is a photograph of Roman standing in the door of Ca’ d’Oro. I close the book and pick up my cell phone. I dial. Roman’s phone goes to voice mail. So I text him:
Arrived safely. Bella Italia! Love you, V.
Then I dial home. Mom picks up the phone.
“Ma? We got here.”
“How was the trip?”
“Good. I’m driving a stick shift. Gram and I will need neck braces after a month in that rental. It bucks like Old Paint. How’s Dad?”
“Hungry. But the organic diet seems to be working.”
“Give the man a plate of spaghetti.”
“Don’t worry. He sneaks salami, so when he’s cured, we can’t say it’s the bean curd that did the trick. Hey, I put a surprise in your suitcase for Capri. It’s in the red Macy’s bag.”
“Great.” My mother’s idea of a surprise is a 75-percent-off demi-bra and matching tap pants made with a print of dancing coffee beans that have the word Peppy embroidered across the rear end.