The maître d’ smiles at Gianluca when he sees him. He shows us to a table overlooking the bluffs to the sea below. The tables remind me of Ca’ d’Oro, intimate and beautifully set. I must remember to bring Roman here. “What’s this restaurant called?” I ask.
“Il Merlo. It means blackbird,” Gianluca replies.
We sit at our table. The waiter doesn’t bring a menu, just a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle and pours.
“La sua moglia, bianco e rosso?” the waiter asks.
“Rosso,” Gianluca tells him.
“Excuse me. But did the waiter just call me your wife?”
“Si.” He grins.
“Oh, okay. Either you look young, or I look old. Which is it?”
Gianluca laughs.
“Not funny. In my family old is something to avoid and deny until death, when it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s a downer.”
“What does that mean?”
“A downer is the opposite of hope. La speranza. Non la speranza.”
“Ah, so…I’m too old for you.”
“I don’t mean to insult you,” I say. “But your daughter is almost my age. Well, not almost. I could be her sister.”
“I see.”
“So, it’s really Mother Nature talking, not me. I don’t think you’re old, in fact, in many circles a fifty-two-year-old is young. Just not for a thirty-three-year-old woman.”
The waiter brings us tiny shrimp in olive oil and a basket of small rolls. Gianluca scoops up the shrimp with the bread. I do the same. “How old is Roman?” Gianluca asks.
“Forty-one.”
“So, he could be my brother.”
“Technically, yes.” I scoop up some more shrimp. “I guess.”
“But he is not too old for you.”
“Oh, God, no.”
Gianluca nods his head slowly and looks out to sea. Between the coconut-and-rum cocktail at the hotel, and the wine I’m sipping now, I’m feeling chatty. “Look, Gianluca, even if you were thirty-five, I could never go out with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because your father is dating my grandmother. Now, if that isn’t a Jerry Springer episode waiting to be Tivoed, I don’t know what is. If your father married Gram, you would be my uncle. Are you beginning to see the picture here?”
He laughs. “I understand.”
“Look, you’re a handsome man. And you’re smart. And you’re a good son. These are all wonderful attributes.” I scan Gianluca for more positives. “You have your hair. In America, that would send you to the top tier of Match.com. I just don’t think of you that way.”
Gianluca reaches across the table and dabs my chin with his napkin.
“I cannot argue with that,” he says.
I lean on the railing of the balcony outside my room as a full moon pulls up over the faraglione, throwing silver streamers of light on the midnight blue water. I feel full and happy after that delicious dinner. Gianluca can be a lot of fun for an older man. I like how Italian men take care of things. He reminds me of my father and my grandfather, and even my brother, all of whom swoop in, like the Red Cross, during a crisis. That’s why I’m so impatient with Roman. I know what he’s capable of, so when he can’t fix something, I assume it’s because he doesn’t want to.
I hear muffled voices, followed by soft laughter as two lovers make their way back into the hotel from the garden below. I watch as they weave through the cypress trees on the twirling path, stopping only to kiss. If you can’t be happy on the isle of Capri, I doubt there’s anyplace on earth you could be.
I go inside to my bedroom and pull the sheer draperies to the side, leaving the terrace doors open. I climb into bed and lie back on the pillows. The gauzy moonlight cuts a white path across my bed, like a bridal veil.
I put my hand on the pillow next to me and imagine Roman there. I can’t stay mad at him, and I don’t want to. Maybe I had too much to drink and the island alcohol triggered my forgiveness. Maybe I want romance more than acrimony. Whatever it is, I’ll call him in the morning and tell him about the cobblestone streets, the pink stars, and this bed, which seems to float over the ocean when the doors are open and the night breeze happens through. The anticipation of sharing all of this and more with Roman sends me into a deep sleep.
13. Da Costanzo
WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, I roll over and reach for my phone. I open it and text: Dear Roman.
The hotel phone rings. I go to the desk and pick it up.
“Valentine, it’s me,” Roman says softly.
“I was just about to text you,” I say.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay, honey. I got all your messages and I know how sorry you are. I totally understand. When you see this room and the view, you won’t even remember what it took to get here.”
“No, I’m really sorry,” he says.
I sit down on the couch. “About what?”
“I can’t come at all now.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
He continues, “There’s a problem with my backers. It’s serious.”
I still say nothing. I can’t.
“Valentine?”
Finally, I say, “I’m here.” But I’m not. I’m numb.
“I’m as upset about this as you are,” he goes on. “I want to be there with you. I still do,” he says. “I wish…”
Someday I know I will look back on this as the moment I stopped pretending I was actually in a real relationship with Roman. Who allows this sort of thing? I forgive and forget his cancelled dates and missed opportunities with such regularity, I believe that it’s part of working at our relationship. It’s our normal. Roman’s first obligation is to his restaurant. I knew that when we began dating, and I know it now, stranded here on Capri without him. I’m not surprised; I’m resigned. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I crawl back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I am a failure at love. Roman’s excuses seem real, I believe them every single time. The excuses can be grand: threats of imminent financial ruin, or silly: the sink flooded in the restaurant kitchen. The scale of disaster doesn’t matter, I take it in and accept whatever he throws at me. I pretend I can handle it while I seethe inside.
I feel terrible, so why not surrender to the worst of it? I search my heart and list all the ways in which I am a failure. I make a mental list. I’m almost thirty-four (old!), and I have no money saved (poor!), and I live with my grandmother (needy!). I wear Spanx. I want a dog but won’t get one because I’d have to walk it, and there’s no time in my life to walk a dog! My boyfriend is a part-time lover who spends more time at work than he does with me, and I accept it because that’s what I believe I deserve. I’m a lousy girlfriend. In fact, I’m as bad at relationships as he is! I don’t want to sacrifice my work for him either.
Roman Falconi makes promises and I let him wiggle out of them because I understand how hard it is to live a creative life, whether it’s making shoes or tagliatelle for hungry people. The phone rings. I catch my breath and sit up before reaching for it. Roman must have come to his senses and changed his mind. He’s going to make the trip! I know it! I pick up the phone. I tell myself not to blow it. Be patient, I tell myself as I breathe.
“Valentina?”
It’s not Roman. It’s Gianluca. “Yes?”
“I want to take you to meet my friend Costanzo.”
I don’t answer.
“Are you all right?” Gianluca asks. “I told him that you are waiting for your boyfriend to arrive and so he made time for you this afternoon.”
“This afternoon is fine,” I say, hanging up the phone after we agree upon a time to meet.