Chapter 9 Michael
Michael
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
I wake with a start, dazed from my interrupted REM cycle.
What the . . .
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Through the window, the piercing crow of the rooster is amplified as it reverberates off my bedroom walls.
I rub my eyes and grope around for my watch on the bedside table. Five a.m.?
No chance. I refuse to get up at five. I don’t wake up that early for work, let alone when I’m on holiday.
I flop back down again, but as soon as my head hits the pillow, the bird is back at it.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
I take two pillows from the mountain surrounding me and muffle my ears. Okay, now we’re talking.
I’m about to drift back to sleep when the cock-a-doodle-doo erupts more violently than before. What’s happening? I lift my head to find that perched on my windowsill is . . . a parrot?!
That’s right, a bright-green parrot with a red head singing cock-a-doodle-doo.
I start to question my grip on reality.
Undaunted, the parrot looks at me first with one eye, then with the other, and . . . Cock-a-doodle-doo . . .
Bam!
“Take that!” I exclaim, hurling my pillow at him as he flies away.
Okay, so I won’t be going back to sleep. Why not check the news. I open the app on my phone, but there’s no network.
I search for a Wi-Fi signal, but my brand-new phone detects nothing. No network, no Wi-Fi . . . maybe I need to update the operating system.
I turn on the old tube TV, which looks like some kind of antique prop, though the remote control on the bedside table suggests it might actually work.
The speaker crackles as flickering images appear on the faded screen. I flip through one channel after another. “Where on earth are the international channels?”
I have millions in investments to manage. I can’t not have access to the news in real time!
I’m not one to give up, but the only channel I can get is the local home-shopping network.
“Eat whatever you like, whenever you like, and watch the kilos melt away! Ladies and gentlemen, finally, straight from Brazil, a miraculous musk ointment found exclusively in the rainforests of Manaus. Just for today, two for one at the extraordinary reduced price of not three hundred, but two hundred euros! Just a slather before bed, and you’ll be half a kilo lighter by morning, guaranteeeeed! Do you understand?” shouts the seller.
I switch off the TV, unnerved.
I need a shower. I drag myself to the bathroom, which, I’m relieved to admit, is up to par. For all intents and purposes, it is a bathroom, with a big Carrara marble bathtub, a long vanity, a shower that might as well be a fairground, and a stupendous coffered ceiling with all its original details.
When we came here as kids, we slept in the more spartan rooms. Not that we cared much about luxury back then.
I open the tap and jump in, but after less than two minutes, it goes from lukewarm to cool, to melted snow directly from the Himalayas. “Fuck!” I exclaim with a jump. I turn the knobs but nothing happens. It’s still freezing, and my mood takes a definitive nosedive.
I dry off and go back to my room to get dressed, only I don’t see my suitcase anywhere. Where did I put it?
I replay everything I did yesterday, but I can’t remember putting it in my room. Maybe I left it downstairs. When did I last see it?
So . . . I had it in the taxi at the Florence airport, dragged it with me on foot to the villa, then dragged it back into the taxi when I reached the fair in Belvedere and . . . “I left it in the trunk!” I shout, punching the bathroom door.
All I need now is coffee.
I pull on my clothes from yesterday, except the jacket, and go downstairs, but on the way down, I notice something I hadn’t before: The house looks neglected.
For such a historic villa, I’d expect to see signs of age, but this place actually seems as if it’s been abandoned, with cracked walls darkened by dust, warped doors, and threadbare curtains, not quite as I remembered it.
In the kitchen I find Mariana, already busy at the stove, and a girl sitting at the table. She gets up, takes a banana from the fruit bowl, says goodbye and leaves, as Mariana says: “See you at lunch, Linda.”
“Good morning,” I say as I enter.
“Oh, hello, Michael. You’re up early!”
“Yes . . . a parrot with an identity crisis came to cock-a-doodle-doo on my windowsill at dawn.”
“So you’ve met Renato!” she gushes.
“Renato?”
“Count Umberto’s parrot. He always carried him on his shoulder, like a pirate, and taught him to speak.”
“And to act like a rooster.”
“Renato repeats everything he hears.”
“I hope he got the message not to wake me at five again. Oh, I think my shower is broken—last night everything was fine, but this morning the water was freezing.”
Mariana sighs. “The boiler broke; it doesn’t heat much water. We have to get a new one. In reality, we need a whole new system. It leaks everywhere, and that’s just for starters.”
Very good, this is good news, Charles will be happy about it. “Speaking of things to fix.” I turn practical. “Is there a cell phone repair shop in town? I can’t connect to the Wi-Fi; my phone must be broken.”
“We don’t get Wi-Fi here. They don’t service us. There’s a data signal, though, but it only works outside because the walls are too thick. Are you hungry?”
“What do you mean, no Wi-Fi?” I ask, horrified, hoping I’ve misunderstood. “And what do you mean I can only get data outside?”
“It can feel a bit isolated here, but you’ll adapt.”
“I can’t adapt. I have things to do. I have to work. How can I do anything without Wi-Fi?”
“You’ll rest,” she replies peacefully.
“What about TV? Where can I watch cable? BBC, CNN, Fox, Bloomberg . . .”
“At Mario’s bar. He has a satellite dish so they can watch the games. Would you like a fresh, hot raisin roll?”
“I have to make myself a coffee,” I say in an attempt to maintain control, which I feel is one short step from slipping away. “Where’s the Nespresso?”
“The what?”
“The Nespresso,” I repeat. “The coffee machine.”
“We only have a percolator here.”
“Everyone uses Nespresso,” I say, amazed that Mariana doesn’t even know what it is. “Compact machines, coffee on demand, special blends . . . Nespresso—What else? Even George Clooney says so in the ad!”
I’m starting to panic: no Wi-Fi, fickle data, no satellite dish, the boiler doesn’t heat enough water, and I can’t make a coffee. I have to get on the first flight back to London.
Mariana shrugs. “Donatella and I drink barley coffee, Giada doesn’t drink coffee, and Linda is still too young.”
“Was Linda the girl who was here before?”
“Yeah. She’s Donatella’s . . . great-niece, she’s in eighth grade, and she practically grew up here since her parents go abroad so much for work. She’s very quiet, very studious. You’ll barely notice she’s here.”
“I see.” I’m not very enthusiastic about the idea of sharing my living space with kids. I think I lack any paternal instinct whatsoever. In fact, I know I do, given my preference for child-free restaurants and hotels.
“She’s staying with us in the annex,” she specifies, handing me a steaming roll.
From her look, I know she’s picked up on my hesitation.
“Speaking of children, I heard you saw Elisa last night . . .” I can tell from her suggestive tone that she knows.
“More or less,” I waver.
“I heard it didn’t go so well.”
How can I blame her? “Is Elisa still mad?” I ask.
Her look says my question is futile. “Believe me, Michael. She’s changed a lot over the years, but her character is the same as ever. She’s a sensitive one.”
“She never moved away?” I ask. “I remember she wanted to study literature in Milan and get a master’s degree in publishing.”
“Let’s say life had other plans.”
“So what did she do?”
“She studied enology; now she manages the estate’s vineyards.”
“Ah, so she—”
“You’ll be seeing her often, yes,” Mariana finishes my sentence for me, since I’m speechless with embarrassment. “Maybe you should apologize.”
I’m about to retort that I have better things to do, which is a hard sell, given that I lack the technological means to do anything, when Caroline arrives in the kitchen doorway, already fully dressed and made up.
“What does someone have to do around here to get breakfast in bed?” she asks angrily. “I’ve been buzzing the intercom for thirty minutes.”
“The intercom, like so many other things around here, is broken. We need to fix it,” Mariana replies.
“We’re off to a great start,” she comments, rolling her eyes. “I’d just love a slice of wholegrain bread toasted for a minute and a half, a fat-free yogurt and an unsweetened mango, papaya, and pineapple juice. I’ll eat in the dining room. Michael, will you join me?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Let’s chat. I need to vent to someone who understands me. What a farce last night’s fair was! It was just missing a ring with a mechanical bull. Another planet to Grosvenor Square, don’t you think?”
God, save me. “Where can I find Elisa?” I ask with almost too much enthusiasm, jumping up.
Mariana looks amazed by my sudden change of heart. “She’s at the stables, but she’ll be leaving for the vineyard soon.”
“Maybe I’ll bring her a roll,” I say, wrapping a pastry in a white-and-blue checked napkin. “As a peace offering.”
“Oh, so you’re an optimist.”
“Wish me luck, Mariana.”
“Wait!” she stops me, pouring a dark, steaming liquid into a cup. “Coffee. You’re gonna need it.”
I take a sip and don’t know if it’s too hot or too bitter. “Is this substance even legal?” I gasp, my throat scalded and my eyes and nose watering.
“Not even the devil has a roast like mine. I grind the beans to dust. You’re welcome! Anyway, off you go to face the beast.”