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 filled 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 speciaclass="underline" 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.