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He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling. “My goodness! He was quite a businessman, your dad.”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
He nods, his expression admiring. “I didn’t realize he’d passed away. I’m so sorry, Yara.”
“Did you know him?”
“No,” he says. “I never had the pleasure. But I have mentioned him a time or two in my lectures. He rose from humble beginnings—I mean, relative obscurity, really, and very little formal education—to being CEO of one of the largest garment companies in New York.” He scratches his head. “He attended Hofstra, too. Later in life, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You’re exactly right. He got his degree when I was a little girl. He wanted me to go to college and felt he should lead by example.”
“I’m not surprised. He was a good man, your father; taking care of his Thai factory workers long before it was fashionable. He was a very good man,” says Harvey, raising his glass and smiling at me. “To your dad, Fernando Marino, an ethical boss and formidable businessman.”
I lift my glass, the contents blurring as my eyes fill with grateful tears. “To my dad.”
We each take a sip of our wine, and I sniffle softly as I place my glass back on the table.
“I wish I knew more about him,” says Harvey, “but he wasn’t one for interviews.”
“I’m his daughter, and I barely know a thing about the first two decades of his life.” I pause for a second, remembering what Harvey said before he was distracted by my father’s name. “What did you mean before about my being able to figure out the answers?”
“Oh...only that I’m sure you knew him very well, and from knowing someone, you can figure out a lot. Well-adjusted people take care of those around them. Your father took care of people. He was fair. He built something from nothing. Where did that drive come from? That confidence? That spirit and courage and optimism?” He scans my face. “Early beginnings, I’m guessing. Someone loved and encouraged him. Believed in him. Someone special, I’d wager.”
“But we never knew his family. He never spoke of them. I know almost nothing about Brazil. I don’t speak Portuguese. I didn’t even know what a caipirinha was until yesterday.”
“But you can learn, can’t you? You already are.”
“Sure. Butwhydidn’t he talk more about Brazil? Why didn’t he teach me the language? The customs?”
“You can come from somewhere solid and good, and still decide to leave it behind,” says Harvey, his index finger tracing a crease back and forth on the tablecloth. “In fact, I think it’s easier that way. For some people.”
“How do you mean?”
“You can’t go back,” says Harvey.
“Sure you can,” I insist. “There are ten flights a day from New York to Rio.”
“No, Yara.” Harvey shakes his head, repeating himself in a more professorial tone: “You... can’t... go... back.”
“Is this a quote or something?”
“More of a philosophy, I think, from Thomas Wolfe’s book,You Can’t Go Home Again. I’ll find the exact quote for you later, but the gist of it is that once you leave home, you change. And home—whatever it was to you once upon a time—ceases to exist. The only way to preserve it is never to go back.” He tilts his head to the side, swirling the last gulp of his wine around its glass before drinking it. “When your father left Manaus, he had to know how difficult it would be to return—both actuallyandmetaphorically. Maybe it wasn’t about turning his back on his home; maybe it was about protecting it for himself. Another thing to remember when searching for answers, Yara,” says Harvey with a kind smile, “is that everyone’s entitled to their secrets. Even dads.”
“Secrets?” asks Marnie, leaning over her husband. “Are you two telling secrets?”
“I don’t have any secrets from you,” says Harvey, kissing her cheek.
They don’texactlyremind me of my parents—Harvey and Marnie are cerebral, plump and frumpy, while my dad was dashing right up until the end, and my mother is still just as beautiful as ever—but the Schlemmers are kind, and their affection for one another makes something ache deep inside of me.
“Can I get anyone something from the bar?”
I look up, over Sara Markman’s gray head, to find Rio standing at our table. Although he’s posed the question to all of us, he’s staring at me. I swipe at my eyes and look away from him.
“A round of caipirinhas for the old-timers,” says Harvey, then turns to me. “And what’ll you have, Yara?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I say, flicking my glance to Rio.
He looks at me curiously, his gaze lingering on my watery eyes.
