New York City is everything to me, but I know now, in the frenzy and the noise, amidst the urgency and rush, that the voice of the artist can be drowned out in the pursuit of making a living. I understand the lure of security, the need to make money to pay our bills and meet payroll, but an artist needs time to think and to dream. Time, unstructured and free, nurtures the imagination. Afternoon siesta may appear to be restful, but for artists like Costanzo, it’s time to review the work of the day and reflect on new colors and combinations. Costanzo also taught me that ordinary life is artful. He taught me to look at everyday things and find the beauty in them. I’m not just a cobbler, I am creating a particular shoe for a customer who is trying to express something about herself to the world. My job is to deliver that message, to find the meaning in the ordinary.
I don’t see a pesky seagull looking for crumbs anymore. I see a palette of clean white, dressed in black feathers with bold white spots. Shoes. I don’t see a stone wall where the sun hits it full on at noon, I see a particular shade of gray with a gloss of gold. Leather. I don’t see a gnarl of vines on a black fence. I see forest green velvet and black leather laces. Boots. I don’t see a blue sky with clouds, I see a bolt of embroidered silk. I don’t see a bunch of pink peonies being carried through the piazza by a new husband on the way home to his bride, I see a jeweled tassel on the vamp of a party shoe. Embellishments.
And when I look at a woman now, I don’t see fashion, I don’t see age, I don’t see size. I see her. I see my customer, who needs me to give her the very thing that says who she is, as I express who I am through the work I do. Simple. But this knowledge has transformed me. I wasn’t the woman I was when I landed in Rome a month ago, and I won’t be the same when I return home. I will see home with these new eyes. Now, this frightens me a little: what if I’ve changed so that I don’t have the same goals I was focused upon when I left? What if I return home and Roman isn’t the man for me, and fighting with Alfred isn’t worth saving the shop and the building? What if the eyes of this artist have changed the very soul of who I am? What if I don’t want what I once dreamed of?
Costanzo told me over lunch one day that he was a widower, and his eyes filled with tears, so I didn’t pursue it. But I don’t want to leave Capri without knowing about his wife. As much as he has taught me about art, I feel there is much to know about other things, the guts of life, the pursuit of true love.
I join Costanzo on the veranda, where he has our lunch laid out on the table, as he does every day. I see buffalo mozzarella and luscious ripe tomatoes sliced thin. He’s drizzling olive oil on them as I join him.
“Our last lunch.”
“The Last Supper,” he laughs.
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“No woman wants to leave Costanzo Ruocco,” he laughs again.
I sit down and place a napkin on my lap. Costanzo fills my plate with the fruit of his garden. A quiet breeze moves through the garden rustling the tablecloth. “Before I go, I wish you would tell me about your wife.”
Costanzo reaches into his shirt and pulls out a gold neck chain with a wedding ring attached to it.
“What was her name?” I ask gently.
“Rosa,” he says. “She was born Rosa de Rosa.” Costanzo holds up his hand. He gets up and goes into the shop. When he returns he hands me a manila envelope. I open it. Inside are many pictures, some black and white, some small colored snaps, in the vivid blue Ektachrome from the 1960s, some from an instamatic camera in the 1970s, when their sons were born, and more still with a Polaroid instant camera, the kind of pictures that we used to take, develop on the table, and adhere to cardboard squares.
Gently, I place the stack of photographs on the table. The largest, a black-and-white picture of Costanzo and Rosa on their wedding day, was taken by a professional. She is a petite brunette, with gorgeous, wide-set brown eyes. She reminds me of my sister Jaclyn. Rosa wears a small whimsy in her hair, with a circle of net, and a white satin ballerina-length gown with a neck and a fitted waist that gives way to a full circle skirt. On her tiny feet are elegant kid pumps. Costanzo stands behind her, his hands on her waist.
“I married her on September 23, 1963. The happiest day of my life.”
“Bella,” I tell him.
“I called her Bella Rosa. And sometimes, just Bella.” Costanzo’s voice breaks.
“And you are very handsome.” I make the hand-fanning movement just like Costanzo. He laughs. After all, I remember, and will never forget, he is Italian. The male ego arrives intact with the birth certificate. “You miss her terribly.”
“I can’t speak of her because, in my life, with all the words I have ever heard, there have never been any to describe what she meant to me. I try, but even the word love is not enough. She was my world. I have never, for one moment, since she died, stopped loving her or thinking of her. Even now, if she could walk through that door, I would give up my own life for just a moment with her.”
I reach across the bench and take Costanzo’s hand. “Every woman should be loved the way you loved Rosa.”
“It’s hard for me to live without her. Almost impossible. I welcome death when it comes because I will see her again. I only hope she wants this old man.”
“Oh, she will. There’s a lot to be said for older men.” It hasn’t been just art I’ve learned about in my time on Capri.
“She died in 1987. Nothing is the same. The figs don’t taste the same, or the wine, or the tomatoes. She took everything good with her. I learned everything about life from her. About love, of course.” Costanzo stands and looks at me. “You wait. I have something for you,” he says as he goes back into the shop.
I spent the week in Da Costanzo learning things I needed to know. I learned about gropponi, the best cowhide for making soles; capretto, the softest lamb leather, is wonderful for straps; and vitello, the firmer hide, works well on a full shoe. And I learned that the world outside this island is encroaching on the craftsmanship that was born here, gobbling up Costanzo’s techniques and designs without his permission, only to mass-produce its version for the resort crowd.
Shifty entrepreneurial Americans come through, buy Costanzo’s sandals, take them home, copy them, and steal the designs outright, and actually have the crust to go to the same suppliers as Costanzo and try to buy the elements he uses to build his signature sandals. The suppliers, wise to the thieves, refuse to sell supplies to the upstarts. Loyalty is still the best Italian trait.
Costanzo also taught me little things, tips that add up to the work habits that eventually become an artist’s technique. When shaping a heel, I now take my knife and peel the edge like the skin of an apple until it’s winnowed down to the exact size of the customer’s foot. Costanzo taught me to sew flat seams inside a shoe, which make them more comfortable for the customer. He taught me to embrace color, to never fear it. If the prime minister of Italy can wear melon-colored leather loafers, anyone can.
I learned things on my own, too. I learned that tourists on Capri are very loud because they are so enthralled by the view, they raise their voices in excitement. I learned that travel is still the best way to shake up your life, shift your point of view, and embrace inspiration, but you must be wide awake and eager to take it in, or it’s a waste. And I learned that my grandmother doesn’t need me to care for her, or worry about her, she is self-sufficient. She does just fine on her own.