Chapter 4
Vico
The woman from earlier remains in my thoughts for the rest of the way. There was something about her that I can't grasp. Something I can't explain, yet I know it exists.
However, she can no longer distract me now that I'm forcing my camper into the driveway. My palms become instantly sweaty, and I grip the steering wheel tightly. I only have to cover a few hundred yards of gravel road lined with an avenue of cypress trees and knee-high grass, and then I’m here.
I'm back home.
Directly in front of me stands my family's mansion. Camilla's separately built carmine-red bungalow also appears next to the tall trees. Relieved that I don't have to enter the main house, I stop at the back of the bungalow. I turn off the engine, and the hip-hop music stops, leaving an eerie silence where I can hear my heart pounding.
I feel sick.
Nothing would please me more than turning back. But that's not an option. It's better to get it over with quickly, so I step out of the van and walk straight to the wooden front door. Before I can knock, it opens. However, Camilla’s not standing in the tiled hallway. It's my youngest sister, Alessia.
With a sweeping gesture, she brushes her hip-length curls aside, her oversized neckline exposing her shoulder. "He's here!" she calls into the house before rushing into my arms.
I lift her and twirl her around, just like we used to do. And for a moment, it feels like the past.
Warm. Safe. Affectionate.
"Hey, little whirlwind." I can't help but smile.
"Finally." She sighs deeply, then breaks away from me, blinking rapidly. "Come inside," she says, turning on her heel and disappearing into the house.
The carefree moment is abruptly gone. I immediately feel like a storm is brewing inside me. It takes an effort to kick off my flip-flops and follow my sister into the modern, spacious kitchen. I spot Camilla sitting on a cream-colored armchair in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding her round belly with rosy cheeks.
Damn, that thing is huge. Are those twins? More like quadruplets.
"Don't worry, I'm staying away from the beach," she quips, playfully rolling her eyes at the ceiling fan, which is not usually needed in March but is lazily spinning today.
I give her a mischievous grin. "Good, then I don't have to call Greenpeace either." Camilla chuckles amusedly, and I walk toward her, giving her a cautious hug. She feels as warm as a radiator in the dead of winter. "How are you doing?" I ask. The pregnancy must be taking a toll on her.
Instead of answering, she nods against my shoulder. Then out of nowhere, she breaks into sobs.
First Alessia, and now Camilla. Every woman I embrace today is either on the verge of tears or actually crying. For a split second, the sea-green eyes of the Austrian woman flash through my mind as if they could be my lifeline to avoid thinking about my sisters' behavior. But I have to address it.
Gently, I stroke Camilla's back. "What's wrong?" I try to keep my voice steady because I want to be there for her. "Is there something wrong with the babies?"
She waves it off and signals for me to sit on the blue-checkered corner sofa. Alessia hands me a tall grappa glass and places the bottle of clear marc brandy right next to it as if she's certain I'll be pouring myself a drink soon. I shake my head silently. No matter what they have to tell me, I can handle it without alcohol.
She doesn't look me in the eyes. Instead, she exchanges meaningful glances with Camilla and finally settles on the opposite side of the coffee table on the bright tiles of the floor. The fan rumbles on. The sofa creaks with every movement.
My God, can someone finally say something?
I look at Alessia, then at Camilla, urging them to speak. "Thank you for being here," she says with a fragile voice as if she's been practicing the lines. "We need your help." She pauses, swallows hard, and breathes shakily.
I slide closer and take her hand in mine. "Whatever it is, I'm here for you."
"There's something you need to know. Something… I've kept from you. And I'm sorry for not telling you earlier…" Camilla seeks help from Alessia, who seems to be the prompter trying to save her.
The uncertainty gnaws at my stomach and now my lungs as well. I feel like I can't get enough oxygen.
"Alessia, go ahead and tell her," Camilla finally says.
With a sudden burst of courage, Alessia blurts out, "Father is sick. And the business is bankrupt." As soon as she says the words, she jumps up, walks to the window, and turns her back to us.
I'm unable to gather my thoughts coherently, so I turn to Camilla, who has buried her face in her hands. Thick teardrops slowly trickle down the inside of her forearms, disappearing into the crooks of her elbows.
I want to ask her how this happened, how long she's known about it, and why she didn't reach out to me sooner. But at the same time, I'm so afraid of her answer that I can't bring myself to ask. More importantly, I suddenly realize what kind of help they want to ask me for.
They want me to return and help save the family legacy.
Their home.
Our home.
Accompanied by Alessia's soft sobs and Camilla's silent tears, I reach for the grappa, empty the glass in one gulp, and immediately refill it.
Fuck.
Abruptly, Alessia turns around, her curls swaying backward. "Father wants to speak to you." Her sober tone is unlike my little sister, whose voice usually carries a melodious lilt. "He's waiting in the library."
I clench my fingernails into my palms. "Fine," I say, though it's anything but fine.
No one responds, and I’m left speechless as well. Almost robotically, I rise to make my way there.
Suddenly, someone grabs my arm. "Wait."
I whirl around and meet Alessia's red-rimmed eyes.
I know that they see me as their rock in troubled waters. And that's what I want to be for them.
But right now, I truly can't handle any more bad news.
"Let's talk about it later," I say quickly, eager to get away.
Away from their tears, the sight of which brings me to my knees.
With my hands buried deep in the pockets of my jeans, I trudge along the beaten path to the back entrance of the main house. I avoid looking up, not wanting to see the venerable building or how it has changed in the almost four years of my absence. With my head down, I open the heavy wooden door with its intricately carved ornaments and step into the dimness of the hallway. Damp, cool air greets me. Only a few more steps along the uneven stone floor separate me from the library. There, I will come face-to-face with my father after all this time to explain to him why it is impossible for me to carry on his work.
My future lies on the highest cliffs in Europe. In the place that used to be my home, everything feels constricting.
I would perish if I were to stay here, where the same curtains still billow in the gentle breeze from the drafty windows. Just this hallway alone constricts my chest. For in my mind's eye, I see myself as a little boy, walking down the corridor with nothing but swimming trunks on my body and the taste of sugary grapes on my tongue. Laughing loudly because I could easily escape from my three sisters during our game of tag. Everything was good here for so long. But that time is irreversibly over. I don't belong here. From the ruins of the past, I have painstakingly built a new life. A life that I love.
In the meantime, I have arrived at the library. The dark door with its metal fittings is only slightly ajar, but no sound can be heard from inside the room. The only thing that reaches my ears is the rushing of my own blood.
This is ridiculous. There's nothing to fear, so I pull myself together and step in confidently. The wooden floor creaks under my feet, and the air is so stale as if no one has ventilated this room for years. I even imagine still catching a whiff of the pungent smell of medical soap that hung in the air during my last stay in this room. My gaze sweeps over the floor-to- ceiling shelves covered in a thick layer of dust. None of the two thousand books seem to have been moved in years.
The room seems dead.
Just like my father, whom I now discover in an antique brown leather chair. He sits there motionless, staring out through the dirty window. His slippers, made of thin fabric, are frayed at the edges, and his jogging pants and faded shirt hang on him like on a coat hanger. His hands tremble in his lap. His fingernails are long, and his skin appears scaly and pallid.
My God, what has happened to him?
"Hello, Father," I say as I step closer to him.
He doesn't look up at me and doesn't utter a word. It's as if he doesn't even realize I'm here. But I'm acutely aware of his presence. I see every detail—the deeply furrowed forehead, the hair that is much too sparse for his nearly fifty-five years, the sunken cheeks, the grayish complexion. I don't understand. When I left Tuscany four years ago, he was stable. He had forgotten how to laugh joyfully and feel genuine happiness, but his muscles were strong, and behind his troubled expression was that iron will. Even though I couldn't see him, I felt he was there.
I was sure that everything would turn out fine. But the way he huddles on the armchair today, staring into the void behind me, speaks a clear language.
Father is not sick in the way I thought earlier. I turn around but don't see any medications or medical devices in this room. I don't even spot one of those health drinks. His body is healthy. But his soul is suffering, and there is only one possible explanation. The death of my mother has taken more than just the love of his life from him.
Gazing out the window over the gently sloping hills of Collina da Sogno, I clear my throat with effort.
"You wanted to talk to me?" I ask because I hesitate to inquire about his well-being. Not even a blind person could miss the aura of decline surrounding my father.
His armchair creaks softly, immediately capturing my attention. He nods sluggishly. "Thank you for coming," he murmurs wearily.
My stomach churns at the thought of what is about to happen.
He takes a deep breath as if preparing to dive underwater. "We're selling the estate."
What? This estate is his entire life. He inherited it from his father, and it was meant to be passed on to his children. Camilla agreed to take over the inheritance. All the details were settled.
I sink to my knees beside him in disbelief. "But then…"
"It will be over," Father completes my sentence. "It's done. Finally. Over."
Though he whispers his words, I sense the gravity behind them. He wants to sever all ties. Erase every memory.
The enthusiasm with which he fought for this patch of land his whole life no longer exists.
I don't know what to think about it, and even less can I comprehend what this information does to me. It's as if there's a void inside me, swallowing everything.
"A potential buyer has shown interest. He's coming today." Beads of sweat form on his forehead, indicating how strenuous this conversation is for him. "I don't want to burden your sister even more than she already is. Camilla is struggling enough to help me with the sale formalities. She clings to her homeland. But you…"
I don't. That's what he thinks. And he's probably right. Too many memories lurk here for me, too much nostalgia, and even more pain. The feeling of home died within me long ago. And that's for the best.
"Alessia prepared your old room for him. You must show him the estate and the grounds. I also promised that we would present him the sights of the surrounding area." He reaches for me. A cold nothingness brushes against my hand, as if a ghost were touching me. "He'll stay for three weeks to take a good look at everything. Then he must decide if he wants to buy, understand?"
The determination in his voice lacks the fragility that usually dominates it. He's serious. Whatever the reason this particular buyer is so eager, it seems to be the most important thing right now.
I don't want to ask because, in the end, it doesn't matter. I know that it's probably the best solution for everyone. We'll get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid from our skin and endure the excruciating burning for a second, only to finally be free.
The fact that I have to stay for several weeks now doesn't sit well with me. But if it's necessary, I'll do it. I gently place my hand on his bony shoulder and nod. "I'll take care of it."