Chapter 8
MONDAY EVENING
Between the pasta and the main course, there was an unexpected kerfuffle.
Conversation was interrupted by the sound of raised voices outside in the hall, and I saw a dark cloud appear on Bartolomeo’s face.
He threw down his napkin and jumped to his feet, muttering a couple of fruity Italian expletives as he headed for the door.
I assumed that the voices outside meant that he had received a visitor, and, as I had been thinking earlier how unlikely this would be up here, I excused myself and followed him out of the room.
This was partly because I felt it my duty to help cover his back, but mostly because I was curious to see who had just arrived up here in the middle of nowhere.
I left Oscar alongside Cinzia, happily devouring odd titbits that she handed down to him, and I made a point of closing the dining-room door behind me.
The scene that greeted me in the hall was interesting.
Marina was standing helplessly by the door looking dazed, while Bartolomeo stood, legs apart, staring at a big man in a leather jacket who appeared to have just forced his way in.
The man was about the same height as me – and I’m a bit over six feet – and he looked as if he was in his early fifties, maybe five years younger than me.
His cheeks were red, possibly after coming in from the intense cold outside, but maybe also out of anger or frustration.
Bartolomeo didn’t mince his words. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, pushing your way in here uninvited at this time of night?
I have guests, and we’re in the middle of having dinner.
Get out of my house, get off my property and leave me in peace.
’ He was speaking Italian and I listened closely when the man in the leather jacket replied.
‘I didn’t push my way in – we only closed the door to keep the heat in – and all I’m doing, Signor Viviani, is trying to speak to you.
’ The man sounded 100 per cent Italian and a lot less confrontational than Bartolomeo.
‘You don’t answer my calls, you refuse to reply to my emails and letters.
How else am I supposed to speak to you?’
Bartolomeo replied instantly, his voice heavy with menace.
‘The answer to that one, Signor Gallo, is that you aren’t supposed to speak to me.
Read my lips: I do not want to speak to you, I do not want to do business with you, and I do not want you anywhere near my land. Is that clear enough for you?’
The other man hesitated for a few moments before attempting a less antagonistic approach. ‘Listen, Viviani, tell me that you have at least studied the plans that I sent you. It’s a wonderful opportunity, and it could bring you immense wealth.’
Bartolomeo snorted. ‘I already am a wealthy man, Gallo. Why would I want more money and why would I want to destroy this beautiful environment?’
‘But we wouldn’t be destroying it. We would simply be enhancing it and opening it to so many more people. You’d be doing a public service.’
For a moment, I genuinely thought that Bartolomeo was about to hit him, but he resisted the urge.
I heard a movement behind me and the sound of the dining-room door opening and closing.
I turned to see Orlando approaching and I surreptitiously backed away to a less prominent position by the coat rack, doing my best to remain unnoticed.
As the intruder spotted him, an expression of relief appeared on the man’s face.
‘Orlando, thank goodness. Come and talk some sense into your father, will you?’
The expression on Bartolomeo’s face when he turned towards his son was, if anything, even more antagonistic than it had been with the visitor.
‘Orlando, go back into the dining room.’ The order came through gritted teeth, and his tone was that of an angry parent furious with a young child.
Orlando’s expression now mirrored that of his father, and he continued to advance until he was standing by the other two men.
‘I’m not a child, and it’s about time you realised that.
’ He sounded every bit as belligerent as his father.
‘Listen to Giorgio. His project makes a lot of sense. You always think you know best, but you need to accept the fact that you don’t always get it right.
If you refuse Giorgio’s plan, you’ll be making a huge mistake – one that you and the company can’t afford to pass up right now. ’
I listened carefully, wondering what the significance of his last comment might be. Was Aquila Sports not doing as well as I had assumed? And what was this project that the new arrival was proposing?
Bartolomeo totally ignored his son and returned his attention to the intruder, his voice heavy with menace.
‘I won’t tell you again, Gallo. This whole valley is private property. You’re trespassing, and I have a legal right to eject you from my land. Do you want me to go and fetch a rifle?’
There was stunned silence for a second or two as we all processed the threat.
I readied myself to step in before the situation escalated but, fortunately, Signor Gallo saw sense.
He turned without a word, tore the door open and left, slamming it behind him.
Seconds later, I heard the sound of a powerful motor outside and a vehicle disappearing into the distance.
The three of us remained there in silence for a few seconds before Bartolomeo made the first move.
Without making eye contact with any of us or saying anything, he headed back along the corridor to the dining room and disappeared inside.
I caught Orlando’s eye and would dearly have liked to ask him to explain the scene that I had witnessed, but I could see that he was in no mood to talk.
I glanced across at Marina, who was still rooted to the spot, and, as I did so, Orlando set off in his father’s footsteps, leaving me alone with Marina.
I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘That was exciting, wasn’t it?’
She exhaled explosively as if she had been holding her breath for the duration of the confrontation and ran her hands across her face. ‘Dio mio, che paura.’ This translated as, My God, what fear, and I knew how she felt. It had looked ugly there for a few moments. I kept my tone light.
‘Whatever Signor Gallo’s selling, it would appear that Signor Viviani isn’t buying.’
In response, she shook her head. ‘That man isn’t the one who’s selling; he’s the one who’s buying – or, at least, who would like to buy.
’ She glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror, ran her hands quickly through her hair and gave me an apologetic smile.
‘I must get back to the kitchen. Paolo will be going crazy with the main course all ready to serve.’ With that, she set off at a run in the direction of the kitchen, and I returned to the dining room, wondering what exactly Signor Gallo had been trying to buy.
I caught Anna’s eye as I entered the dining room and gave her a wink, mouthing the words, ‘It’s okay,’ under my breath. Bartolomeo was once again at the head of the table, and Orlando was already seated beside Fiona but, as before, it looked as though the two of them weren’t communicating.
William shot me a hesitant glance across the table. ‘Everything all right, Mr Armstrong?’
Conscious that all eyes at my end of the table were now on me, I decided to downplay the drama of the moment. ‘All good. Just one of the neighbours who turned up at an inconvenient time – and please call me Dan.’
Seconds later, Marina appeared with our main course.
This, she announced, was roast sirloin of venison.
The slices of meat in gravy were accompanied by mashed potatoes and cauliflower smothered in cheese.
This was all predictably excellent and the servings copious, and, even with a bit of help from Oscar under the table, I struggled to clear my plate.
Fiona hadn’t been joking about the quantities involved in Piedmontese meals.
After this, we were offered a magnificent selection of local and international cheeses, but I was happy to sit back and watch a few hungrier souls try these.
Finally, we were served what Marina called Monte Bianco as our dessert.
This consisted of meringue nests filled with chestnut purée, topped with whipped cream, blueberries and another little meringue, and tasted wonderful.
At the end of the meal, we were offered coffee, and I accepted a little espresso gratefully.
After the long drive and then the mountain air, I had few worries about my sleep being affected.
Paolo, who had finally emerged from the kitchen to well-deserved applause, insisted that I try a glass of the local grappa made by his cousin further down the valley, and I must admit that I didn’t put up much resistance.
It, too, was high quality. Since coming to Italy three years ago, I had often sampled grappa – a spirit distilled from the crushed grapes left over after winemaking – and my experiences had been mixed.
Some had been so rough that you could almost feel the enamel peeling off your teeth as you drank it and would probably have made an excellent paint stripper, while others had been far better.
This definitely fell into the second category.
Yes, it was powerful stuff, but it slid down smoothly and produced a pleasant gentle glow rather than a raging inferno inside me.
I couldn’t help noticing that our host appeared to like the grappa a lot, and he knocked back several big shots before leaving the table.
How they would sit on top of Scotch, champagne and wine remained to be seen.