This is an excerpt from my forthcoming book, “But For Those Who Love.”
This spans 10 years of Consuela (Connie) Moreno’s life; from 17 when she enters the New York School of Design, until 27, as one of Paris’s top designers. “Time is Too slow for those who Wait. Too swift for those who Fear. Too long for those who Grieve. Too short for those who Rejoice. But for those who love Time is Eternity”—Anonymous
Chapter 4 So how did love come into the picture? It came when I became the best and brightest designer in New York’s School of Design. It came in December, in the form of Brazilian, Victor d’Arezzo. We met by chance. I hadn’t wanted to attend a dinner party given by Waldemar but he insisted I be present to meet his family from Brazil. The over six foot two, hazel-eyed, dark curly haired, golden-brown, Victor d’Arezzo was mestiço—a mélange of Italian and Amerindian, and African, part of Brazil’s melting pot. He personified everything beautiful about Brazilian men. Handsome with a muscular physique, he strode with an air of assurance. In time, I would find him to be hard-hitting, hot-tempered, righteous and dishonorable. I sat next to Victor, unable to speak. Known for being the mouth, my voice was gone. Instead, I observed the man’s behavior and clothing. He wore a Brioni suit. Very expensive taste. After dinner, Lisa said I’d gawked at him. I hoped not. “Damn! It’s a wonder your eyes didn’t pop out of their sockets,” she said when we waited downstairs for her father to take us home. I laughed to hide my embarrassment. “Lise, I couldn’t help myself. Victor’s table etiquette appeared faultless; he knew the correct silverware to select for dining. But I was the one having trouble, so I carefully watched him and Lisa, who sat across from me. I nervously fingered with my napkin, and listened as he discussed a book by V.S. Naipaul, “A House for Mr. Biswas,” the erection of the Berlin Wall, and the Bay of Pigs with the man on his right. In their conversation, he said he spoke five languages: Brazilian-Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French and English. When he turned toward me, picked up my place card and read my name, my heart quickened inside my chest. I licked my lips nervously. “Ola! Consuela Moreno” he said softly, extending his hand. “Victor d’Arezzo. Where are you from?” His eyes were a dazzling brown with flecks of gold. They crinkled when he smiled. “Philadelphia,” I whispered, swallowing. “And your family, are they from the Caribbean?” “Yes, Hispaniola—Dominican Republic.” “Ah, yes,” he said nodding, “Republica Dominica, the Spanish side. “Habla Espanol?” (Do you speak Spanish?) “Habla Espanol un poquita,” (I speak very little Spanish), I said. “My grandparents, father and relatives speak fluent Spanish.” “That happens a lot when people come to the States. Their children are not interested in learning a second language. Too bad.” “I know enough Spanish to get by,” I said, clearing my throat He grinned, displaying beautiful, white, evened teeth, on the canvas of his golden skin, and I began to melt inside. I oozed. It was the feeling of chocolate in summer’s heat. With intense emotions, my heart thumped wildly inside my chest like bongo drums. I became tongue-tied and spoke just above a whisper. I have the chance to talk to this gorgeous man and I can’t speak above a whisper. He asked me about books by Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, and Claude McKay, and poetess Gwendolyn Brooks, some of his favorite reads. I had never heard of them. And yes, I was embarrassed. They were well known Black writers. In school, I had read Willa Cather, Victor Hugo, and James Joyce. And of course, I read Flaubert, at home in my room, which was considered too racy by nun’s standards. But my ignorance of black writers appeared to amuse him. “It’s all right,” he said in a reassuring voice. “I take it you know nothing about the Harlem Renaissance either?” I shook my head and repeated the name, Harlem Renaissance. Damn, I lived in Harlem and knew nothing about that era and their great writers. I felt inadequate sitting next to him. “Brazilians are interested in Americans. Those of us, who have the education, glean all we can about our North American brothers and sisters.” He stared at me with his piercing brown eyes, and I squirmed in my seat. The look was fathomless, sensual. His accented voice was low and husky. My spine tingled. “What do you do in your spare time?” His stare was intense now. I felt breathless. Laughter filtered throughout the room. I glanced at Lisa. She appeared in animated discussion with another guest, a man named Tacito and the woman who sat next to him. He stared at me. I smiled and nodded. But my interest lay elsewhere. But Lisa seemed to have the situation well in hand. She fit in with this group. She was poised and knowledgeable. Maybe not as pretty but still, she had it all together; her look, voice, personality and clothes. Funny how she envied my talent and I envied her wherewithal and sophistication. She was where I wanted to be, hoped to be, and would be, someday. But right now, I was feeling anxious. This suave man’s attention titillated and frightened me. “Excuse me,” he said, and repeated his question. Light smoldered in his hazel eyes. I laughed, feeling nervous inside. I was hooked. He hooked me when he smiled. He had me when I looked into his expressive brown eyes. He captivated me when he picked up my place card, and said my name in his husky voice, laced with Brazilian-Portuguese. He had me when beneath the table, my right leg quivered. His presence grabbed my attention and confused me. The feeling of losing control at the sound of a man’s voice and presence was new to me. I looked over at Lisa. She too gave him the once over. Ah, yes, he had enthralled her too. “I sew, embroider, and design. Every free minute, I have is spent on my craft. I’ve designed three prom gowns,” I said proudly. My voice was now a treble high and again, feeling, ungraceful, I laughed nervously. “My life is pretty dull.” “Is that so,” he said in his throaty voice with amusement in his eyes. ‘ After dinner, he and Waldemar disappeared. I thought of the man that had robbed me of my senses. Would I ever see Victor d’Arezzo again? Who is Victor d’Arezzo? I want to know everything about him…everything there is to know.
This spans 10 years of Consuela (Connie) Moreno’s life; from 17 when she enters the New York School of Design, until 27, as one of Paris’s top designers.
“Time is Too slow for those who Wait.
Too swift for those who Fear.
Too long for those who Grieve.
Too short for those who Rejoice.
But for those who love Time is Eternity”—Anonymous
Chapter 4
So how did love come into the picture? It came when I became the best and brightest designer in New York’s School of Design. It came in December, in the form of Brazilian, Victor d’Arezzo.
We met by chance. I hadn’t wanted to attend a dinner party given by Waldemar but he insisted I be present to meet his family from Brazil.
The over six foot two, hazel-eyed, dark curly haired, golden-brown, Victor d’Arezzo was mestiço—a mélange of Italian and Amerindian, and African, part of Brazil’s melting pot. He personified everything beautiful about Brazilian men.
Handsome with a muscular physique, he strode with an air of assurance. In time, I would find him to be hard-hitting, hot-tempered, righteous and dishonorable.
I sat next to Victor, unable to speak. Known for being the mouth, my voice was gone. Instead, I observed the man’s behavior and clothing. He wore a Brioni suit. Very expensive taste.
After dinner, Lisa said I’d gawked at him. I hoped not.
“Damn! It’s a wonder your eyes didn’t pop out of their sockets,” she said when we waited downstairs for her father to take us home.
I laughed to hide my embarrassment. “Lise, I couldn’t help myself.
Victor’s table etiquette appeared faultless; he knew the correct silverware to select for dining. But I was the one having trouble, so I carefully watched him and Lisa, who sat across from me.
I nervously fingered with my napkin, and listened as he discussed a book by V.S. Naipaul, “A House for Mr. Biswas,” the erection of the Berlin Wall, and the Bay of Pigs with the man on his right. In their conversation, he said he spoke five languages: Brazilian-Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French and English.
When he turned toward me, picked up my place card and read my name, my heart quickened inside my chest. I licked my lips nervously.
“Ola! Consuela Moreno” he said softly, extending his hand. “Victor d’Arezzo. Where are you from?” His eyes were a dazzling brown with flecks of gold. They crinkled when he smiled.
“Philadelphia,” I whispered, swallowing.
“And your family, are they from the Caribbean?”
“Yes, Hispaniola—Dominican Republic.”
“Ah, yes,” he said nodding, “Republica Dominica, the Spanish side. “Habla Espanol?” (Do you speak Spanish?)
“Habla Espanol un poquita,” (I speak very little Spanish), I said. “My grandparents, father and relatives speak fluent Spanish.”
“That happens a lot when people come to the States. Their children are not interested in learning a second language. Too bad.”
“I know enough Spanish to get by,” I said, clearing my throat
He grinned, displaying beautiful, white, evened teeth, on the canvas of his golden skin, and I began to melt inside.
I oozed. It was the feeling of chocolate in summer’s heat. With intense emotions, my heart thumped wildly inside my chest like bongo drums. I became tongue-tied and spoke just above a whisper. I have the chance to talk to this gorgeous man and I can’t speak above a whisper.
He asked me about books by Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, and Claude McKay, and poetess Gwendolyn Brooks, some of his favorite reads. I had never heard of them. And yes, I was embarrassed. They were well known Black writers.
In school, I had read Willa Cather, Victor Hugo, and James Joyce. And of course, I read Flaubert, at home in my room, which was considered too racy by nun’s standards. But my ignorance of black writers appeared to amuse him.
“It’s all right,” he said in a reassuring voice. “I take it you know nothing about the Harlem Renaissance either?”
I shook my head and repeated the name, Harlem Renaissance. Damn, I lived in Harlem and knew nothing about that era and their great writers. I felt inadequate sitting next to him.
“Brazilians are interested in Americans. Those of us, who have the education, glean all we can about our North American brothers and sisters.”
He stared at me with his piercing brown eyes, and I squirmed in my seat. The look was fathomless, sensual. His accented voice was low and husky. My spine tingled. “What do you do in your spare time?” His stare was intense now. I felt breathless.
Laughter filtered throughout the room. I glanced at Lisa. She appeared in animated discussion with another guest, a man named Tacito and the woman who sat next to him. He stared at me. I smiled and nodded. But my interest lay elsewhere.
But Lisa seemed to have the situation well in hand. She fit in with this group. She was poised and knowledgeable. Maybe not as pretty but still, she had it all together; her look, voice, personality and clothes.
Funny how she envied my talent and I envied her wherewithal and sophistication. She was where I wanted to be, hoped to be, and would be, someday. But right now, I was feeling anxious. This suave man’s attention titillated and frightened me.
“Excuse me,” he said, and repeated his question. Light smoldered in his hazel eyes. I laughed, feeling nervous inside. I was hooked.
He hooked me when he smiled. He had me when I looked into his expressive brown eyes. He captivated me when he picked up my place card, and said my name in his husky voice, laced with Brazilian-Portuguese. He had me when beneath the table, my right leg quivered. His presence grabbed my attention and confused me. The feeling of losing control at the sound of a man’s voice and presence was new to me.
I looked over at Lisa. She too gave him the once over. Ah, yes, he had enthralled her too.
“I sew, embroider, and design. Every free minute, I have is spent on my craft. I’ve designed three prom gowns,” I said proudly. My voice was now a treble high and again, feeling, ungraceful, I laughed nervously. “My life is pretty dull.”
“Is that so,” he said in his throaty voice with amusement in his eyes. ‘
After dinner, he and Waldemar disappeared.
I thought of the man that had robbed me of my senses. Would I ever see Victor d’Arezzo again? Who is Victor d’Arezzo? I want to know everything about him…everything there is to know.