While Gram fills in the details of our trip so far, Gianluca is busy pulling samples of leather off the shelves and arranging them on the table. He breathes deeply as he arranges the squares, squinting at them and then moving them into different positions. I take a peek at his face. He’s good-looking, but there’s more gray in his hair than black, so I figure he’s somewhere in his fifties.
Gianluca has the same nose as his father, straight and fine, with a high bridge. There are deep grooves on the sides of his mouth, which either come from smiling or screaming, and if I were betting, I’d go with the latter. He catches me looking at him. He smiles, so I smile back at him, but it’s slightly uncomfortable, as if I’ve been caught shoplifting.
Gianluca has a slight overbite and deep blue eyes, the exact color of the morning sky over Arezzo. It’s common knowledge that Italian men check out American women, but what you never hear is that we return the favor in kind. I study him with the same eye I use to look at the leather. I’m interested in quality, integrity, and texture; after all, fine Italian craftsmanship and the pursuit of it is the reason we climbed this hill, isn’t it?
Gram and Dominic have not stopped talking. He says something and she laughs her big laugh, which I hear only occasionally when we’re home. The truth is, I’ve never seen her like this. If I weren’t so enthralled by the exquisite leather Gianluca is laying out on the table, I’d be wondering what the hell is going on here.
“So, you make the shoes?” Gianluca says to me.
“Yes. I’m her apprentice.” I point to Gram. “I’ve been training for four years.”
“I’ve been working with Papa for twenty-three years.”
“Wow. So, is it working out?”
Gianluca laughs. “Some days good, some days not so good.”
“This morning?” I cover my ears.
“You heard us?”
“Are you kidding? They heard you in Puglia.”
“Papa? Teodora and Valentine heard us argue.”
Dominic makes a motion, like he’s brushing a fly off a slice of bread. Then he puts his hand on his thighs, scoots the stool even closer to Gram, and resumes his conversation with her. I almost lean across the table to say, “Why not sit in her lap, Dom?”
Soon the front door of the shop pushes open, and a gorgeous young woman enters, tossing her purse onto a table. She has long brown hair, and wears a tight, dark brown suede skirt and a sleek black tank top. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, anchoring her hair with them. She wears the most exquisite pair of sandals I have ever seen. They are flat, with thin T-straps covered in tiny chocolate brown jewels that lead to a center medallion shaped in a fleur-de-lis made of baguettes of black onyx. She heads straight for Gianluca and gives him a hug. Evidently, this Tuscan air is good for everybody’s love life but mine.
Gram turns and looks at her. “Orsola!”
“Teodora!” The young woman goes to Gram and gives her a hug.
“This is my granddaughter, Valentine.”
I extend my hand to the Tuscan hottie. “Nice to meet you. You must be Gianluca’s wife?”
Gianluca, Orsola, Dominic, and Gram laugh loud and long.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Gianluca is my papa.” Orsola grins. “You just made his big ego even bigger.”
“An Italian man with a big ego? That’s impossible,” I tell them.
Gram gives me a look that says, Watch it. Your humor doesn’t play in Arezzo.
She’s right, so I quickly cover my tracks. “Orsola, I’ve got to know. Where did you get those sandals?”
“Our friend Costanzo Ruocco made them for me on Capri. Every summer we visit on holiday.”
“I’m going to Capri in a few weeks.”
“Oh, you must visit him. I will give you his number and address before you go.”
I was hoping to meet other shoemakers on this trip, as there are artistic questions I have that Gram cannot answer, and sometimes, I have ideas that Gram doesn’t like, and it would be nice to run them by a master who has no stake in the argument.
Orsola follows Gram and Dominic to the back of the shop. Gianluca pulls out a few more samples and places them on the worktable. I sit down and begin choosing some for Gram to approve. There’s a supple beige calfskin that would be an excellent choice for our Osmina design. My head swims with the possibilities as I look around the shop. Leathers in shades of cream and ebony, embossed with small gold Florentine symbols, others in patterned basket weaves, still more in colors I only dream about: ice blue patent leather, deep ruby red suede and faux leopard on shiny black horsehair.
Gianluca pulled a drawer from the supply closet and set it on the table. It is filled with leather laces in pastel shades of mint green, pink, and gold; white leather buckles; black leather trim; and patent leather bows with hand-cut fasteners. I dump the contents of the drawer on the table, as there doesn’t seem to be two of any particular style.
I push the mound around, separating the samples. A metallic glint catches my eye. I pull a braid of gold leather, white satin ribbon, and white calfskin out of the pile. It’s very Chanel, braiding you might see on an expensive purse or even as a trim on a leather jacket, but there’s an original touch to it, a fourth skein of twisted flat hemp that gives a straw-and-hay effect to the gold.
“Orsola braids the leather,” Gianluca says.
“This is magnificent.” I study the braid of gold under the light. “I just designed a shoe this would work on.”
“Orsola can make anything you need.”
“She’s very talented. And beautiful. Your wife must be a knockout because your daughter…” I whistle.
He smiles. “Orsola’s mother is beautiful. But I’m divorced from her.”
“I thought divorce was illegal in Italy.”
“Not anymore.” He turns and opens a cupboard filled with brightly colored suedes. He lifts a few samples out and places them on the table.
Gram appears in the doorway of the back of the shop and leans in. Her knees don’t seem to be bothering her now. “So, do you see anything you like?”
“We’re in trouble.” I hold up a sheet of soft calfskin. “I like everything.”
Dominic stands behind Gram, placing his hand on the small of her back. “I don’t have too much of that,” he says.
“How much do you need?” Gianluca asks.
“We can get about three pairs per sheet, right, Gram?”
Gram nods.
“Do you have four sheets?” I ask Gianluca.
“We do.”
“We’ll take them.” I look at Gram.
She nods her approval. “Val, why don’t you choose the rest?”
“Because I’m not sure what we need?” My voice breaks.
“Yes, you are.”
“Gram, it’s an entire year’s worth of inventory. You trust me with this?”
“Absolutely.”
Gram turns to face Dominic. “See my knees?” She lifts her skirt. “I need new ones.”
“New ones?”
“Titanium. I’m told they’ll give me the legs of a showgirl and then I can climb these hills like a goat. But, for now, I’ll just have to lean on you.”
Dominic extends his arm, Gram takes it, and they turn to go.
“Uh…where are you going?” I call after her pleasantly.
“Dominic’s going to show me a new technique he’s using to emboss leather.”
I’ll bet, I think to myself as they go. Gianluca has moved another large stack of leather from the shelves for me to go through.
I take my sketchbook out of my purse and flip through it to find my list of things we need.