Chapter 2 Elisa
Elisa
Evenings at Le Giuggiole are always the same.
Mamma tidies up the kitchen, polishing the copper pots that hang from the ceiling beams, and Donatella, the housekeeper, sips her jasmine tea laced with rum.
She suffers from an irritable throat, or so she says.
“I have delicate vocal cords. I was a mezzo-soprano. Have I ever told you about the time I sang at the Paris Opera?” Yes, at least twenty times.
Next to her is my older sister, Giada. She’s Belvedere’s beautician-hairdresser-mani-pedicurist, and at the moment she’s hard at work on Donatella’s nails.
Linda, the youngest in the house, does her summer-break homework sitting at one end of the long oak table. It’s homework that she invented for herself because, unlike her friends who wait until the last minute, Linda finished all her assigned summer homework by August.
We observe in amazement as she tackles rosa-rosae-rosae from her Latin textbook. She’s studying on her own to give herself a head start on the year after this one, when she’ll go to high school.
She’s the only thirteen-year-old who sulks when school ends in June.
I’m in charge of the vineyard. Donatella and Mamma manage the interiors.
I do the exteriors, and with the harvest approaching, I’m completely preoccupied with harvesting times, grape ripening, grading, and bottling.
I check the weather for the next few weeks, the humidity levels, the soil mineralization analyses, and the temperature forecasts, day and night.
Now that the days are getting busier, by evening I’m exhausted and struggle to keep my eyes open and focused on my laptop. This armchair is so comfortable . . .
“Eyes a little heavy, dear?” Donatella sings. She always addresses me with names like “joy,” “dear,” or “star,” because she insists it adds emphasis.
“What? No, not at all,” I say, jolting out of my thoughts.
“You were staring at a blank screen,” Linda points out. She never misses a beat even though she never takes her eyes off her books.
“I’m just a little dazed from the sun . . .” I say, picking at my cuticles. I hate showing that I’m tired: Mamma always used to tell me how demanding my job is, how I should pursue something less tiring, how this is no occupation for a woman.
“Want a manicure?” my sister asks me.
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply.
“What do you mean, you’re good?” She seems to disagree with me. “Look at those nails! Are you still biting them?” Her tone is severe.
“No, I stopped,” I lie. Actually, I’m trying to stop, but old habits die hard.
“What about a nice gel polish? Which do you like best?” she asks, waving two bottles under my nose.
“You can choose between London by Night blue and Thames petrol.” Giada has a minor obsession with London.
When she was nineteen, instead of taking the train to Rosignano, where she was supposed to work in a hotel, she secretly went to London, where she took a beautician course, paying for it with the money she’d earned harvesting grapes right here at Le Giuggiole.
“Neither, Giada. What’s the point? I work in a vineyard, not in fashion.” Solid argument, I think.
“Nail polish doesn’t have a point.” She stands behind me, massaging my neck and shoulders. “It’s a way to pamper yourself and relax.”
“In the meantime, how about finishing my left hand, treasure?” Donatella calls to her.
“It is finished,” Giada objects.
“But it doesn’t match my right hand.”
“Asymmetrical nails are the latest trend in Soho.”
Donatella looks horrified. “Among the lunatics of Soho, you mean.”
Giada rolls her eyes. “Can’t you ever just humor me?
” she says, and points to me. “You’re neglecting yourself.
And you,” she says, now turning to Donatella, “have always been a downer. I’m going to fix you both.
I’m setting up profiles for both of you on MatchMe,” she exclaims, waving her cell phone in the air.
“Just let me find a spot in this fortress where I can get a signal.” She wanders around the kitchen with her phone in the air.
Giada is obsessed with MatchMe, a dating app. She spends her weekends going from Lunigiana to Maremma to meet her matches. She’s on the hunt, not for just any ring but for a true, great love.
The problem is, she’s looking for love but only finding duds, perhaps because her sole criteria is no men from Belvedere.
“There we go! Behind the fridge you get another bar. Hey, I have three matches!” she gloats, scrolling through her notifications. “Lorenzo from Cecina . . . Jacopo from Pisa . . .”
“For the love of God!” exclaims Mamma.
“Oh, this one seems nice: Simone from Viareggio. Too bad his photo’s a bit blurry. I’ll ask him for a better one in the chat. I’m not going to Viareggio in the dark.”
“Remember what happened with that guy from San Macario in Piano,” I remind her. The guy in question had given her a photo of a model downloaded from Google, and since then Giada’s been harder to fool.
“Ugh, Gherardo. Bastard,” she grumbles. “Oh! He just answered!”
“Let’s see!” orders Donatella, whose opinions on the male universe are quite radical: No one is up to her standards.
Giada clears her throat, feigning embarrassment. “It’s not exactly a photo of his face.”
“Show us!” Donatella, Mamma, and I exclaim in chorus.
We all huddle around Giada, stunned and incredulous.
“What is that? An obelisk?” says Donatella.
“They put that thing in with anesthesia, right?” I add.
“That’s not a man,” says Mamma. “That’s a horse.”
“What’s not a man?” asks Linda, looking up from her books.
“Nothing,” the four of us reply, in unison.
“Can I see too?” she insists.
“Um, it’s getting late!” I exclaim. “Linda, it’s time for bed.”
“But it’s only nine o’clock,” she objects.
“Yeah, but somewhere in the world it’s late,” I say.
But she doesn’t give up. “I’m on summer break.”
“You have to get used to your new school schedule.” I approach her and give her a kiss on the head. “I’ll be up in a little while to say good night, okay, Little Cub?”
“Such a drag, Mom,” she mutters. “And don’t call me Little Cub! It’s a child’s nickname!”
Yes, I’m “Mom.” Little Cub is what I’ve always called her because of a tattered stuffed bear she’s had since she was little.
Linda grumbles, collects her books, and heads toward the annex. I can tell our conversation is about to get spicy, and even though she’s thirteen, I’d like to protect her innocence for as long as I can.
“Come on, Elisa, you could have let her stay,” Giada scolds me. “She’s going to see one sooner or later.”
“I hope nothing that big, or she’ll be damaged for life. And in any case, not until she’s eighteen.”
“So you’re imposing compulsory chastity until she’s an adult?” Mamma snaps.
“Of course, Mamma!” I reply. “Look at me! If you’d done the same, I wouldn’t have had Linda at seventeen.”
Donatella shrugs. “She’s so shy she’d run away at the sight of one.”
“One can only hope,” I say. “So . . . how did you reply to Fury the Stallion?” I ask Giada, changing the subject.
“I asked where and when we’ll meet,” she says, typing.
“But you don’t have a photo of his face!” objects Donatella.
“This time I decided to trust him.”
“Trust? Is that what it’s called now?” I tease her.
“I hope this one’s closer than Viareggio. You’re always chasing after these far-flung men,” observes Mamma.
“Where do you suggest I look for them? Here?” Giada sounds horrified. “The most eligible bachelors here are Colli’s son, the funeral director, and Ceccarelli’s son, the plumber.”
“Even in the darkest crises, people don’t stop dying or shitting,” Mamma reminds her.
“Belvedere is no place to be single,” I agree.
“You can say that again. I would never stay here forever. As soon as I have the money, I’m going to London. If I have to look for the love of my life, I’ll take my chances in a city of nine million people. Anyone in their right mind got out of here as soon as they could.”
“Ahem,” I say.
“You mean everyone who didn’t become teenage mothers, dear,” Donatella observes abrasively.
“And in any case, while I’m waiting to escape, I don’t see why I should lock myself in a convent.”
“Let’s see the photo again,” orders Donatella.
We all gather round Giada’s phone to gawk at the outsized work of Mother Nature.
“My God, it’s swollen!” exclaims Mamma. “Do you think he has enough blood to make it work at the same time as his brain, or does he faint?”
“Can he find underwear that fits?”
“Maybe he has them custom made . . .”
Knock, knock, knock.
We jump in surprise at a knock at the door.
“Who could it be at this time of night?” Mamma grumbles, opening the door.
“So, what’s the news?” asks Giliola, who, arm in arm with her daughter Regina, steps inside without even bothering to say good evening.
“My God,” Donatella scoffs. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have spiked my tea with a double shot.”
“What do you mean, news?” replies Mamma sharply. There’s bad blood between her and Giliola—their rivalry in the kitchen is legendary.
“Is he here?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who?” insists Giliola in her nasal voice. “Ricasoli’s nephew!”
“No sign of him yet,” Mamma snaps, waving them away.
“What a shame!” exclaims Giliola, ignoring Mamma’s invitation to leave. She surveys the kitchen, while Regina lowers her eyes to the tart in her hand, disappointed.
“Did you make apricot jam?” asks Giliola inquisitively, nodding toward the row of steaming jars lined up on the shelf.
Mamma sighs nervously. “What does it look like to you?”
“You waited too long!” Giliola immediately criticizes her. “They were at their best last week.”
“We made some on Saturday, and I put it in the tart,” adds Regina.
“Did you remember to use sugar instead of salt this time?” Donatella asks pointedly. Last year, she’d made half the village sick.
“What were you all on about, anyway?” asks Giliola, evading the dig.
“Horses,” we hasten to say.