Chapter 13
Hanna
The day began with a throbbing headache and a shrill ringing in my ears. When Vico came to pick me up late in the morning, I couldn't fathom stepping into the glaring sunlight. Even the darkest pair of sunglasses wouldn't have saved me from the burning pain in my head.
Vico had no issue with me canceling our plans. On the contrary, he even asked if there was anything he could do to help, and his gaze seemed strangely intense. As much as a part of me wanted to accept his offer, my headaches only respond to my medication.
Now, in the afternoon, the pills are finally taking effect. With the intimidatingly long checklist in hand and sunglasses perched on my nose, I make my way to the shaded seating area of the estate. The air is pleasantly warm, carrying the scent of grass and a wild mix of flowers. I cautiously test the stability of the wrought-iron chair before sitting down and place Florian's notes on my lap.
Yesterday, I didn't check off any of the items on the list. At least I contacted the craftsmen earlier. I forgot to mark the checkboxes, so I do that now. I manage to make just three measly ticks. Of course, I'm well aware that it's not enough. I need to work faster, even if I have no desire to do so and no one to accompany me. Vico said he'll handle a client's project first and then go on to do canyoning.
Should I really be worried about him recklessly diving into the torrents?
I shouldn't dwell on it. He should do whatever he wants.
With all the concentration I can muster, I go through the checklist. I shouldn't drive with my condition, so the only option is to visit Collina da sogno. It's a fifteen-minute walk to the village center. There, as noted by Florian, I'll check out the local establishments and see if there are any charming shops for tourists to browse. It sounds like a suitable excursion for the last hours of the day, so I pack my backpack and set off.
Along the way, I can't get enough of the surroundings. The landscape in Tuscany is characterized by rugged cliffs and pointed firs. It's rough and wild. But here, gentle beauty dominates the panorama. The oaks and chestnut trees sway gracefully in the wind. The unspoiled nature is intermittently interrupted by wheat fields and olive groves. Spring is already nearing its end here, and soon, lavender and poppies will open their intensely colorful blooms, enriching the green world with their splashes of color.
I take deep breaths, one after the other, allowing the idyllic surroundings to wash over me. Still, I don't stop, afraid to get lost in daydreams and forget my mission. Besides, the village is already in sight. The bright terracotta roofs and ancient stone facades glisten in the afternoon sun.
Shortly after, I leisurely stroll through the historic village center. A cobbled square with a fountain adorns the heart of the village. There are indeed several small shops here, their facades overgrown with wild vines and ivy. In front of the café, wrought-iron chairs and tables with stone mosaic tops stand invitingly. Everywhere, I discover charming details—the rustic wine barrel converted into a high table, the ground cover with tiny white flowers peeping through the cracks between the cobblestones.
This place looks like something out of a fairy tale—enchanted and beautiful.
Inevitably, I imagine what it would be like to explore the village with Vico. I'm sure he could tell me a lot about its history and inhabitants. Or about himself. And his life.
Wait a minute, what am I thinking?
Startled by my strange thoughts, I pause at a specialty shop and focus on its display window. Bottles of olive oil, jars of pickled olives, pasta, pesto, and honey are lovingly arranged on upturned wooden crates. Italian pop music drifts out from the open door. The shop is so inviting that I want to step inside.
A petite elderly lady nods at me friendly from behind the counter. "Ciao, Signora. Come sono?"
"Very well," I respond to her inquiry about my well-being in Italian, and at that moment, I realize that my headache has completely vanished. "And how are you?"
Her smile reveals a gap between her upper front teeth. "On such a wonderful day, I'm always happy," she says with exuberance. "May I show you something, or would you like to look around on your own?"
I would love to browse this store for hours. Not just the Italian specialties, but also the soaps and souvenirs stacked on the shelf next to the sales counter, catch my interest. But unfortunately, I don't have hours, so I point at the table with the spices. "Tell me about these."
She grins mischievously. "You're from Austria, right? Your Italian is excellent." I nod in agreement, and then the lady with the wide smile peels herself off her stool and waddles toward me. "These are a selection of Tuscan herbs. Look here, this is oregano. If you want to prepare a real Italian pizza at home, this one is a must-have."
Even though I'm already familiar with the herbs, I still enjoy listening to her talk about their cultivation and harvest and what makes their unique flavor. Then she moves on to the shelf with olive oil and takes out a slim bottle.
"This here is a special treasure," she says, handing me the tiny bottle, the price of which makes me break into a sweat. Twenty euros for two hundred milliliters?
I take it with utmost care. "What makes it so special?"
"It's pressed from olives of the Leccino and Moraiolo varieties, making it exceptionally aromatic." Her rapturous expression captivates me. "Would you like to taste it?"
I quickly shake my head. "It's far too valuable for that."
"But why! Life is meant to be enjoyed," she responds gently, smiling, and takes the bottle back from my hand to open it. "Smell it."
Hesitantly, I sniff at the opening, and an intense blend of bitter and oily notes enters my nose. It smells like everything I've experienced so far here in Tuscany. Like the warmth of the sun and the green of the rolling hills. I feel my lips curling into a smile.
Beaming, I look up at the saleswoman with her salt-and-pepper hair. "This is wonderful."
"A true treasure," she says, lovingly caressing the dark bottle's exterior.
"I'll take one," I hear myself say, even though I don't have any money to spare. But I feel compelled to do something nice for her. When she looks up at me, I know what it is.
Her eyes are suddenly filled with wistfulness. "With pleasure," she says, blinking rapidly.
Curiously, I tilt my head. "Is everything okay?"
She gives me a pained smile. "Of course. It's just…"
"Yes?" I nervously shift from one foot to the other, although there's no reason for it.
"Treasure the oil. Savor every drop. Promise me that?" she asks, her voice hoarse.
With that price, I'll definitely cherish it. "Of course."
With the bottle in her hand, she walks over to the sales counter. "They no longer produce this, you know. The olive farmer has given up his agriculture." She reaches for a sheet of brown paper and places the olive oil on it. "For over two hundred years, the family has cultivated the olive grove and produced the finest oil in the region. It's such a shame."
I'm not sure how to react. The end of the business clearly saddens her. "Why does the farmer want to end the tradition?"
She sadly shrugs her shoulders. "No one has seen him in the past few months. He's apparently ill. Too ill to continue his life's work any longer."
Her pain is so palpable that I can't quite believe the time-honored agriculture is coming to an end. "But there must be children who can step in, right?"
"Some cannot, and others do not want to," she says, her fingers caressing the bottle with a wistful smile. "That's the way of time. Everything changes. Even things that were so good that they should never have ended."
What a sad story. "But family is the most important thing," I inquire again. How can the children be indifferent to the family tradition? Don't they realize how fortunate they are?
She pats my hand. "It is, dear. It is." A heavy sigh escapes her lips. "Can I help you with anything else?"
Actually, no. But this little shop has such a cozy atmosphere that I want to savor it a little longer. "I'll continue looking around, if that's alright."
She gestures toward the shelves. "Of course. Call me if you need assistance," she says. Immediately, she settles back into her stool and picks up a half-finished knitting project.
I first look at the souvenirs and then move on to the hand-painted vases. The colors are vibrant, and the gracefully curved shapes make them look exquisite. They would certainly look great in the guest rooms of the inn, with a pretty flower and some grasses—a welcoming gift for the guests.
At the next table, I discover bottles of various sizes with swing caps. Acqua di fiori d'arancio is written on the lovingly designed labels.
Orange blossom water?
"Feel free to smell it," I hear the saleswoman call from her seat. "It's heavenly."
If she's praising it that much, I must at least open the bottle. An intense orange fragrance creeps into my nose, transporting me to another world where orange blossoms fall from the sky. They land all over my body—in my hair, on my shoulders, and in my outstretched palms. Softly, they caress me, and a gentle melody reaches my ears. On my tongue, I taste the pure essence of sun-ripened oranges—fruity, sweet, and refreshing.
"Heavenly," I repeat her description from earlier because there's simply no other way to express it.
Suddenly, the elderly lady stands next to me. "You can use the water for baking. I have a recipe if you'd like," she kindly smiles, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. "Or you can enhance your beverages with it."
I would love to buy a bottle, but I should have refrained from the olive oil already. Struggling with myself, I close the bottle again. Just as I'm about to reluctantly put it back in its place, the saleswoman places her hand on my forearm.
"Keep it," she says with a loving tone and nods eagerly. "It's a gift from the house."
She shouldn't be giving me anything. "That's kind, but…"
"A refusal is not accepted," she quickly replies, taking the orange blossom water from me and wobbling back to the counter with it. "Or have you forgotten already? Life is meant to be enjoyed."
Life is meant to be enjoyed , echoes within me.
Inevitably, I smile as I follow her to pay for my purchase. She prepares both bottles for wrapping and turns to the shelf behind her to grab a paper bag. At that moment, the golden sticker on the back of the olive oil catches my attention.
Famiglia Olivetta , it reads in small letters on the label, along with the address of the estate. It's clear now. The traditional family business that until recently produced the region's finest olive oil is owned by the Olivetta family.
Is this the secret that the two sisters kept from me during dinner? Why did they do that? And why didn't Vico say anything when he showed me around the estate?
Confused, I watch as the saleswoman puts the bottle into the paper bag.
Even though I can hardly gather my thoughts, one thing is evident: Tomorrow, I must confront Vico and finally get the whole truth. The idea of it makes my stomach churn. Moreover, I realize that I'll only succeed if I don't let myself be distracted by his captivating charm.