I see a family, two children and a mother and a father, on their way to the pool. The children skip along the winding path through the garden as their parents follow closely behind. I watch as they reach the pool. The children pull off their cover-ups and jump in, while the mother chooses chairs and arranges the towels. The husband puts his arms around his wife, surprising her from behind. She laughs and turns to him. They kiss. How effortless happiness looks from here. People, everyone else that is, find happiness by falling in love and making their own families. It will never happen for me. I know it.
I take a shower and dress. I load a tote bag with my phone, wallet, and sketchbook. I head out the door. I can’t stay in this room another minute; it’s just a reminder of who is not here. The thought of this makes me burst into tears, so I stuff the box of tissues into my tote bag.
The lobby is quiet since it’s early yet. I go to the front desk. I open my purse and pull out my wallet.
“Checking out?” the young man asks.
“No, no. I’ll be here for the week, as scheduled. I’d like to take Mr. Falconi’s name off my room. I want to put the room on my credit card instead, please.”
“Si, si,” he says. He swipes my room key and finds my information. He takes my credit card and makes the change on the bill.
“Thank you. Oh, and I’d also like to take a tour boat around the island.”
“Absolutely.” He checks the schedule. “There is one leaving in twenty minutes, from the pier.”
“Would you call me a taxi?”
“Of course,” he says.
The tour boat is not really a boat at all, but a skiff, with several rows of wooden benches painted bright yellow, upon which tourists, including me, sit four across. There are about eighteen of us, mostly Japanese, a few Greeks, a couple of other Americans, an Ecuadorian, and me.
The captain is an old Neapolitan sea dog with a white beard, a straw hat, and a beat-up megaphone that looks like it’s taken its share of dips in the Tyrrhenian Sea. As the boat pulls away from the pier, the thrust of the motor plows us to the surface of the water.
Captain Pio explains that he will show us the natural wonders of Capri as the woman next to me shoves her elbow in my face getting a picture of Pio with her cell phone camera. Soon, all the tourists are snapping Pio with their phones. He pauses and smiles for them. I think of Gianluca, who said that he hated all this technology. In this moment, I do, too.
I miss big, bulky old-fashioned cameras that you wear around your neck on a strap. Most of all I miss the fact that you used to have to save the film for the best moments because it was too expensive to squander. Now, we take pictures of everything, including pictures of people taking pictures. Maybe Gianluca is right, technology doesn’t lead to better living and art, it’s madness.
I love watching the boats on the Hudson River, but it is a very different thing to be on one pitching and bouncing over the waves. I am surprised at how rocky the ride actually is because from the docks, the boats appear to move smoothly over the water. Isn’t this the way it is in love? It looks so easy and effortless from the distance—but when you’re in it, it’s a different experience. You feel every bump and wonder which wave will overtake you, will you survive or drown on the treacherous water, will you make it or capsize?
Our skiff is unwieldy as we are tossed in the surf like an old plank. Big waves come out of nowhere, tossing us a foot in the air, to land us with a thud on the water. The bouncing begins anew when a new wave rolls under us. My teeth begin to hurt from the pounding of the surf against the sides of the boat. I feel the weight of every human body on this boat. We sit so closely together that when a rogue wave hits the side, it’s like the group is body-slammed with a lead pipe.
Pio guides the boat into a calm inlet (thank God) and points to a natural rock formation that resembles a statue of the Blessed Mother as she appeared in the grotto at Lourdes. Pio says the Blessed Mother is a miracle of wind, rain, volcanic rock, and faith. At that point, even I pull out my phone and take a picture.
Pio backs us out of the inlet, showing us the indigenous coral growing beneath the water’s edge along the sea wall. As the waves lap against the rocks, we catch glimpses of the glassy red tentacles of coral. I begin to cry when I remember the branch of coral that Roman gave me when he promised me this trip. The Asian woman next to me says, “You okay? Seasick?”
I shake my head no, I’m not seasick, I want to scream! I’m heartsick! Instead, I smile and nod and look away at the ocean. It’s not her fault that Roman Falconi didn’t show up! The stranger is just being polite, that, and she doesn’t want me throwing up on her faux Gucci purse.
As Pio guides the boat back onto the sea, and we are tossed to and fro anew, I see lots of other boats like ours stuffed with shoulder-to-shoulder tourists making the rounds. When we pull out of one inlet, another boat pulls in to take our place.
“When are we going to see the Blue Grotto?” the American husband of the American wife asks.
“Soon, soon,” Pio replies with a weary smile that says he answers this question a thousand times a day.
We hear the sound of accordion music drift across the water. All heads turn toward the playful tune. A sleek catamaran, with a black-and-white-striped canopy, sails into view from around the rocks. A man plays the accordion as his companion reclines on a pile of pillows on the carpeted deck, a wide-brimmed sun hat shielding her face. It’s a romantic sight, one that makes every person crammed on this dinghy sorry that they didn’t splurge and hire the private boat.
The music grows louder as the catamaran sails into view.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” the American woman says. “Senior love.”
I take a closer look at the catamaran. Dear God. It’s my grandmother under that hat, like a Botticelli courtesan in repose, except she’s not eating grapes, she’s being serenaded by Dominic. I’d put my face in my hands to hide, but there’s not enough room to bend my elbows.
Captain Pio calls out to the skipper of the catamaran, “Giuseppe! Yo, Giuseppe!” The skipper salutes in return. Given the way our loaded skiff is being pummeled by the waves, I’m surprised the skipper didn’t read Pio’s greeting as a distress signal. The tourists on our boat wave at the lovers, and then commence snapping their pictures of them. How odd to be on vacation and take photos of other people having fun. Gram and Dominic have their own paparazzi. I could scream, so I do.
“Gram?” I holler. My grandmother sits up, pushes back her sun hat, and peers across the water toward our boat.
“You know them?” the American woman asks from behind me. Too tight a squeeze to turn to face her, I shout, “Yes,” while facing forward.
“Valentine!” Gram waves to me. She pokes Dominic, who waves with his accordion.
“Enjoy!” I shout as we sail by. Gram settles back on the pillows and Dominic plays on.
How do you like that? My eighty-year-old grandmother is being seduced on the Tyrrhenian Sea and I’m crammed on this boat like a tuna haul for the local fish market—as if I need another reason to weep on the isle of Capri, I just got it.
“How did you like the Blue Grotto?” Gianluca asks as we walk to Costanzo Ruocco’s shoe shop.
“We couldn’t get in. The tide was too high.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, as he smiles.
“Is that funny?”
“No, no. Just typical.”
“I know all about how the locals put up a sign to keep the tourists out.”
“Now, don’t give our secrets away.”
“Too late. I know all about you Italians and your secrets. You keep the best extra-virgin olive oil over here instead of shipping it to us, you keep the best wine, and now I find out it’s true, you close down a national landmark whenever you want a private swim. Nice.”
I follow Gianluca down the narrow sidewalk along the piazza and down the hill. The front door of Da Costanzo is propped open, between two large picture windows that anchor the door. They are f
illed with open, jeweled sandals for ladies, and men’s loafers in every color from lime green to hot pink.
We enter the shop, which is one small room filled from floor to ceiling with dozens of shoes on slanting wooden display shelves. The leathers range in color from hearty earth tones to jelly-bean brights. The basic sandal is a flat with a T-strap. The embellishments, bold geometrics, are what makes them special: interlocking circles of gold leather, open squares of moonstones attached to small circles of aquamarine, jeweled ruby clusters, or a large emerald triangle attached to thin green leather straps.
Costanzo Ruocco seems to be about seventy years old and wears his white hair brushed back off his face. He leans over a small cobbler’s bench in the back of the shop. He looks down at his work, squinting at the job at hand. He holds il trincetto, his small work knife, and trims the straps on a sandal. Then, he trades the knife for il scalpello, a tool with a sharp point. He plunges a small hole in the sole of the sandal and threads a braid of soft leather through it. Then he takes il martello and hammers the strap to the base. His hands move with dexterity, speed, and accuracy, the signs of a master at work.
“Costanzo?” Gianluca interrupts him gently.
Costanzo looks up. He has a broad, warm smile and the unlined skin of a person without regrets.
“I’m Valentine Roncalli.” I extend my hand to him. He puts down the sandal and squeezes my hand.
“Italian?” he says to me.
I nod. “Both sides. Italian American.”
A young man in his thirties, with wavy dark hair, pushes open a mirrored door that leads to a storage area behind Costanzo and enters the shop. He places a box of nails, le semenze on Costanzo’s worktable.
Costanzo says, “This is my son, Antonio.”
“Ciao, Antonio.”
Gianluca places his hand on my shoulder. “I will leave you with Costanzo.”
“She is not safe,” Costanzo jokes.
“Good,” I tell him.
He laughs heartily.
“I’m taking Papa and your grandmother up to Anacapri today,” Gianluca says as he goes out the door. Antonio waits on a customer as I pull the work stool close to Costanzo. He doesn’t seem to mind. I wasn’t entirely prepared to spend my afternoon with the shoemaker, but what else do I have to do? The thought of another solo tourist outing like the boat ride this morning is enough to make me seasick. So, I do what all Roncalli women before me have done—I make the best of it.
“How long have you been a cobbler?” I ask Costanzo.
“I was five years old. I have four brothers and we needed to learn a trade. I’m the third generation of shoemakers in my family.”
“Me, too,” I tell him.
He puts down his scalpello. “Do you make sandals?”
“Wedding shoes. In New York City.”
“Brava.” He smiles.
The walls behind Costanzo’s work space are cluttered with a collage of photographs. There are plenty of pictures of people I’ve never seen before wedged between Italian icons like Sophia Loren, on holiday and wearing flat gold leather sandals, and Silvio Berlusconi, wearing Costanzo’s loafers in navy blue. I point to a picture of Clark Gable.
“My favorite actor,” I tell him.
“Not me. I like John Wayne.”
We laugh.
“I made Clark Gable’s shoes for It Started in Naples,” he says as he picks up il martello and hammers the edge of the strap.
“What was he like?”
“Tall. Nice. Very nice.” He shrugs.
“Do you mind if I stay and watch you work?”
He smiles. “Maybe you can teach me something.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you design your wedding shoes or do you build other people’s designs?”
“Both. My grandfather designed six basic patterns, and now I hope to create new ones.”
“Va bene,” he says. He picks up il tricetto and takes the blade of the knife along a calfskin sole, trimming it like he’s peeling an apple. A ribbon of leather falls to the floor. He hands the sole to me, and indicates his tools on the bench. “Show me how you sew,” he says.
I take the sole, mark the points around it to place the stitching with la lesina o puntervolo. Then I pick up la bucatrice and punch a series of holes where I made the markings. I pull a thick needle from his pincushion (a velvet tomato, just like Gram’s!) and thread it with a sturdy but thin skein of beige hemp. I knot the end cleanly and pull it through the hole at the heel first, working along the side to the toes, and then down the other side. The process takes me about three minutes. “Fast. Good.” Costanzo nods.
I spend the rest of the afternoon at Costanzo’s side. I hammer and sew. I cut and scrape. I buff and polish. I do whatever he asks me to do. I appreciate the work; it keeps my mind off what was supposed to be my vacation.
I lose track of the time until I look up and see the pale blue of twilight settling over the cliffs. “You come for dinner,” Costanzo invites me. “I have to thank you.”
“No, I appreciate that you’re letting me work with you. Here’s how you can thank me.”
Costanzo looks at me and smiles.
“May I please come back tomorrow?” I ask him.
“No. You go to the beach. You rest. You’re on holiday.”
“I don’t want to go to the beach. I’d rather come back and work with you.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it, but the minute I do, I know the words are true.
“I must pay you.”
“No. You can make me a pair of sandals.”
“Perfetto!”
“What time do you open?”
“I’m here at five A.M.”
“I’ll be here at five.” I sling my tote bag over my arm and go out into the piazza.
“Valentine!” Antonio calls after me. “Thank you.”
“Oh, are you kidding? Mille grazie. Your dad is amazing.”
“He never lets anyone sit with him. He likes you. Papa doesn’t like anyone,” Antonio laughs. “He’s besotted.”
“I have that effect on men. See you tomorrow,” I tell him. Yes, some effect I have on men, except the one who counts, Roman Falconi.
As I walk past the tourists who climb onto their buses, talking too loudly and laughing too much, I feel more alone than ever. Maybe I’ve figured out a way to turn this disaster into something wonderful after all; I spent the day learning from a master, and I actually enjoyed myself. And, if my instincts are right, or at least better at work than they are at love, I have a feeling I have just begun to learn what I need to know from Costanzo Ruocco.
“Valentine? Andiamo,” Costanzo calls to me from the back of the shop. Costanzo was surprised when I actually showed up for work as I’d said I would. Little does he know he’s actually doing me a favor by salvaging this vacation.
I put down my work and follow the sound of his voice through the supply room and outside to a patio garden where there is a small table and four chairs. A white cotton tablecloth covers the table, anchored from blowing away in the Capri breezes by a pot of fragrant red geraniums.
Costanzo motions for me to sit next to him. He opens a plain tin lunch bucket and unloads the contents. He unwraps a loaf of bread from a sleeve of wax paper. Next to the bread, he places a container of fresh figs. Then he lifts out a tin of what looks like white fish covered in black olives. He pulls out two napkins. From under the table, he lifts a jug of homemade wine. He pours me a glass and then himself.
He cuts into the bread, which isn’t bread at all, but pizza alige, soft dough filled with chopped onions and anchovies. He slices the hearty pizza in thin, long slices, then places two on a plate for me. I bite into the crisp crust, which gives way to the salty anchovy, softened by the sweet onions and butter in the folds of the dough.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod emphatically that it is.
“Why did you come to Capri?” he asks me.
“It was supposed to be a vacation. But m
y boyfriend had problems at work and couldn’t make it at the last minute.”
“He canceled?”
“Yes.”
“When you go home, you end it, right?”
“Costanzo!”
“Well, he likes his work more than you.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I think so.”
“You know, I’m actually glad he couldn’t come here because if he had, I wouldn’t be spending time with you.”
He smiles. “I’m too old for you,” he laughs.
“That seems to be the case with most of the men I’m meeting in Italy.”
“But if I were young…” He fans his hand.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Costanzo.” We laugh heartily. I’m feeling genuinely happy for the first time in days.
Italian men put women first. Roman’s priorities are more American than Italian, as he puts the restaurant first. To be fair, I can’t say that I have my priorities straight, or that I’ve mastered the art of living. I live for my work, I don’t work to live. Roman and I have lost our Italian natures. We’re typical overextended, overworked Americans with the worst kind of tunnel vision. We waste the present for some perfect future we believe will be waiting for us when we get there. But how will we get there if we don’t build the connection now?
The way I live from day to day in New York City suddenly seems ridiculous to me. I’ve mortgaged my happiness for a time that may never come. I think of my brother, and the building, the Bergdorf windows, and Bret’s investors. I love making shoes. Why does it have to be more complicated than that? Costanzo walks to work, builds shoes, and goes home. There’s a rhythm to his life that makes sense. The small shop sustains Costanzo and his sons beautifully. I sip the wine. It’s rich and intense, like every color, mood, and feeling on this island.
Costanzo offers me a cigarette, which I decline. He lights up his cigarette and puffs.
“What do you do in the winter, when the tourists are gone?” I ask him.
“I cut leather. I make the soles. I rest. I fill up the hours,” he says. Costanzo looks off in the distance. “I fill up the days and wait.”