“How long has your father been a widower?”
“Eleven years in November.” He picks up a stack of crisp linen samples from the end of the table. “Are both your parents living?”
I nod that they are.
“How old are they?” he asks.
“My father is sixty-eight. If you ever meet my mom, you mustn’t let on, but she is sixty-one. We have an age thing in my family.”
“What is an age thing?”
“We don’t like getting old.”
“Who does?” He smiles.
“How old are you?”
“I am fifty-two,” he says. “That’s too old.”
“For what?” I ask him. “To change careers? You could do that in a second.”
Gianluca shrugs. “Working with my father is my obligation.” He seems resigned, but not actually unhappy about his situation.
“In America, when something isn’t working for us, we change. We go back to school and develop a new skill, or we switch jobs, or employers. There’s no need to toil away at something you don’t love.”
“In Italy, we don’t change. My desires are not the most important thing. I have responsibilities and I accept them. My father needs me. I let him think he’s the boss, but his siesta has become longer the older he gets.”
“So do Gram’s.”
“You work in your family business.” He sounds defensive.
“Yes, but I chose it. I wanted to be a shoemaker.”
“Here, we don’t choose. The dreams of the family become our dreams.”
I think about my family, and how that used to be true for us. It was family first, but now, it seems, my generation has let go of all of that. I could never work with my mother, but it’s different with my grandmother. The generation that separates Gram and me seems to bind us to a common goal. We understand each other in a way that works professionally and at home. Maybe it’s because she needs the help, and I was here at the right moment to give it to her. I don’t know. But my dreams and the dreams of my grandmother somehow met, and blended, creating something new for each of us. Even now, it seems, she is handing the reins over to me; never mind that the horse has a lame leg and can’t see, to her the Angelini Shoe Company is worth something, and to me, even with mounting debt and the production of custom shoes in jeopardy, it’s a priceless legacy. I only hope that I can hang on to it so I might pass it along to the next generation.
Gianluca and I enter a tall atrium in the center of the complex where the factory workers take their breaks. Some of the younger ones are on their BlackBerries, others chat on cell phones, while the middle-aged employees have an espresso and a piece of fruit. There are workers here close to Gram’s age, which is a huge difference compared with back home. Here, the older artisans-the masters-are revered and an integral part of the process of making fabrics. My brother, Alfred, should see this so he might understand why Gram keeps working. The satisfaction a craftsman seeks, after years of work, is perfection itself. A master may not reach it, but after years of study, training, and experience, she may come close. This, in itself, is a goal worth aiming for.
Gianluca brings me a caffè latte, while he carries a bottle of water for himself. “My wife drank caffè latte, never espresso.”
“My kind of girl.”
Gianluca sits down next to me.
“I feel bad that you got stuck with me. I’m sure you have all kinds of important things to do.”
“I do?” He smiles.
“Sure. You have a daughter and a family in Arezzo. You probably have a hobby or a girlfriend.”
He laughs.
“What’s funny about that?”
“There is no subtlety with you.”
“Well, forgive me. I’m just trying to make conversation.”
He swigs his water, and leaves my question lying on the table like the rejected pile of flimsy silk linen. But I am curious about this man, I don’t know why. I have nothing to lose, so I get personal with him. “Why did you get a divorce?”
“Why aren’t you married?” He answers with a question.
“You first.”
“My wife wanted to move to the city. But she knew I couldn’t leave my father. So we agreed that she would live in Florence while I stayed on in Arezzo, and I would visit, or she would come home on weekends. Orsola was going to university, and it seemed like the arrangement could work. We were doing what we needed to do, what we wanted to do. But that doesn’t make a marriage.”
“Sounds ideal to me. Very romantic to have two lives that come together once in a while and sparks fly.”
“It’s no good. You take each other for granted.”
“I know all about that.” The reasons behind Gianluca’s divorce sound an awful lot like the excuses I use when Roman disappoints me. Sometimes I feel that we put our relationship on hold in order to do our work. Somehow, though, I think love fixes all of this. Isn’t love the most practical of all emotions? Isn’t it a constant? “Do you still love her?”
“I don’t believe you can love someone who doesn’t love you.”
“Sometimes you can’t help it.”
“I can,” he says simply. “Now tell me about you.”
My phone pulses. I fish it out of my purse. “Saved by technology.” I check the phone. “It’s Gabriel,” I say aloud. I’ll text him later.
“Your boyfriend?” he asks.
“No, no. Just a friend.” I snap my phone shut and put it back in my purse. “We should get back to work,” I say.
I follow Gianluca back through the atrium to the hallway that leads to the workroom. There’s a set of glass doors that separate the hallway from the atrium. Gianluca dials the security code. I look at the reflection of the two of us in the glass.
“Nice couple, eh?” he says, meeting my eyes in the glass.
I nod politely. I remember something Gabriel told me back in college. He said a man never spends time with a woman unless he wants something. Gianluca is spending an awful lot of time with me. I wonder what he’s after. More business? Maybe. But we make only so many pairs of shoes a year. It’s not likely I’d double my leather order. It’s almost as if he wants an excuse to be away from the tannery. I heard the yelling. It isn’t all fun and games at Vechiarelli & Son. Maybe I’m his excuse to take some time away from the shop.
We return to the workroom and take our seats at the table. Sabrina left a new pile of swatches on the table.
“It is still your turn,” says Gianluca. “I want to know about you. Tell me about your boyfriend.”
“Well, his name is Roman. He is a chef in his own restaurant. He makes rustic Italian cuisine.”
Gianluca laughs. “All Italian food is rustic. We’ve been eating the same food for the past two thousand years. Will you marry this Roman?”
“Maybe.”
“Has he asked?”
“Not yet.” The look on Gianluca’s face annoys me. “Hey, for the record, I was asked once before.”
“Of course, you had many suitors.”
I just look at him. Is he joking or does he actually believe I’m a femme fatale? Let him think whatever he wants. My romantic past, my pre-Roman era, seems historic to me now. A woman can reinvent or erase her history entirely when she travels. This is one of the great benefits of leaving home.
“Do you want children?” he asks.
“You know, for the longest time I didn’t know. But now, I think I might.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirty-four at the end of this month.”
He whistles low. “You’d better hurry.”
“Who are you? The fertility police?”
“No, it’s that I’m older and I have experience. You need energy to raise children. You should do it soon. It’s the best thing I ever did.”
“Orsola is beautiful and has a big heart. You should be very proud of her.”
“She is the best thing to come out of my marriage.”
“Do you think you’ll marry again?”
“No,” he answers quickly.