Chapter 5 Michael
Michael
I never thought I’d set foot in Chianti again, and yet here I am.
In the taxi to Belvedere, the golden hilltops undulate before my eyes and the cypresses stand thin and pointed under a rosy sunset. It all comes back to me.
To avoid an hour of small talk with the taxi driver about why I’m here, if I like Italy, the usual chitchat, I pretend not to understand a word of Italian and instead scroll through old emails.
I told Saxton I’d take a holiday, but in reality, I’ve secretly arranged to keep working through Penny, with whom I’ve set a very tight schedule of webcam meetings with all my clients. I bought her silence with a Chelsea lifetime season ticket.
When I see the sign that says “Welcome to Belvedere, Chianti,” I give the taxi driver the address of the estate, but he takes at least five wrong turns, given that there are no signposts along the main street.
As he reverses for the sixth time, I spot an unmarked private lane just off the provincial road. There, a familiar clue sparks my memory.
“Turn right,” I tell him, forgetting I shouldn’t speak Italian. I point to a little brick pillar supporting a small enclosure with a flickering candle inside. “I recognize that votive column to the Madonna.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“A long time ago,” I admit.
The driver turns, and we climb the hill up to an elaborate but ramshackle wrought iron gate that’s hanging open.
“Here we are,” he announces.
“The house is at the end of the drive,” I tell him.
“I know,” he replies. “But this path isn’t paved. It’s all rocky and full of potholes. This is a car, not a tractor.”
“How do you expect me to get there?”
“On foot, of course!” he replies, as if it were the most natural solution in the world.
“But it’s half a mile away!”
“Get moving! It’s good for your health,” he encourages me. “That’ll be seventy-two euros.”
During my hike along the dusty drive, as I lug my suitcase over the stones, I think Who got you into this mess? And immediately after: Damn you, Charles.
I mentally list all the alternatives to this drudgery that I could have chosen for my month off:
1. A holiday in the Caribbean, under a palm tree, a mojito in hand
2. A trip on the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok and back
3. Volunteering in India
4. A quantum physics class
5. Collecting tangerines on a kibbutz
After a thousand curses, I arrive at the villa. It looks exactly the same. I grab the aged brass ring hanging from the jaws of the lion and knock. Nothing.
I knock again, harder, but nothing. Tired, dusty, and impatient, I pick up the phone to call Charles but realize it’s still in Airplane Mode. As soon as I switch it off, I find a message from him.
We’re all in town for the Festival of the Assumption. Meet us there.
At this moment, my desire to take part in a village festival is zero. But since the alternative is to stay here, perched on the steps until my friend returns, I decide I might as well join them.