Chapter 10 Elisa #2
“Michael, the money-making slot machine. I never would have thought you’d end up becoming a cold-hearted businessman.”
“And what did you imagine I’d become?”
“As a kid, you talked about adventures, discoveries, an exciting life . . . At ten you were obsessed with archaeology. We dug holes in Mamma’s garden pretending to look for treasures, and she chased us with the spade.
Then, at twelve, you wanted to become a skipper so you could travel the world on a sailboat, and we spent a month sanding and painting that old hull we found down by the springs. ”
“Splinter.”
“Do you still remember it?” I ask in amazement, seeing the old Michael emerge for the first time.
“We wore our fingers raw on that wood.”
“And at thirteen . . . at thirteen, you wanted to be a mechanic, and we spent the summer trying to fix that decrepit yellow Cinquecento in the shed.”
“Mauro the squire’s Cinquecento!” he exclaims nostalgically. “Whatever happened to him?”
“Mauro retired and moved to a little house in Follonica so he could spend winters by the sea. The Cinquecento, on the other hand . . . I think it’s still in pieces in the shed. Do you remember what you said? You promised to take me to Florence when you got your license.”
Something we always said we’d do, but then we didn’t because Michael stopped coming here, well before he could even get his learner’s permit. Silence falls between us again, both of us unsure about what terrain to explore next.
“Aside from work, do you have a girlfriend back in London?” I venture.
I don’t know why I’ve brought up matters of the heart, but part of me is curious.
In reality I want to know if Michael is dating Carletto’s twin sister.
Caroline, now as ever, is not too thrilled to be here and does her best to let it be known.
She’s always had a soft spot for Michael, and with her strong will, perhaps she’s managed to conquer him over all these years.
“Zero! Girlfriends require time and energy I don’t have. Plus, a serious relationship leads straight to the altar, and that’s not where I’m aiming.”
“Well, don’t say that too loudly around here.”
“Why?”
“You’re about to find out,” I reply cryptically.
“What about you? Fiancés? Husbands?”
“Let’s just say I’m married to the vineyard,” I sigh, stretching out my hand to caress the trellis with its lush leaves.
“Does it take up that much of your time?”
“I am the giver in the relationship, but the love is mutual,” I say. “We have twenty-five hectares of vines and olive groves . . . but I don’t want to bore you.”
“No, go on. I want to hear more.”
“Good to know. Le Giuggiole needs someone to take an interest in it, and Carletto is the perfect person to bring it back to its former glory. He told us you’d help him appraise the estate.”
“He has no experience in property matters and I do, so I’m lending him my skills. Talking about real property value, do you have a range in mind?”
“With regards to land, I can tell you that ours is zoned historic, appraised at around one hundred and fifty thousand euros per hectare—that alone would be around four million. If you add the seventeenth-century villa with twenty rooms, I think we’re closer to around five million.”
Michael’s grimace contorts into a look of admiration. “I didn’t imagine that a vineyard would be worth so much.”
“It’s not just any old vineyard in some random place,” I say. “Maybe in London you have other standards, but I can assure you that this is a very respectable property.”
“Yes, sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That happens to you often, it seems.”
“I’m more of a city guy.”
“You don’t say.” I roll my eyes. “Do you remember when I was nine and got my appendix out? You drove me around in the tractor bed all summer. You drove it for miles, back and forth across the estate. Have I jarred your memory or did they brainwash you?”
“It’s true, but you can’t deny that at least then, even though I was only twelve, I was a real gentleman.”
“It’s true. In fact, I think I prefer the twelve-year-old Michael. As an adult, you leave a lot to be desired.”
“And you don’t even try to hide your disdain.”
“Nor did you last night.”
“You haven’t forgiven me yet?”
“I’m thinking you should do some kind of penance,” I retort.
“I sense a certain sadism in your voice. Should I be worried?”
“Mmm . . . maybe.” I still don’t know what to make him do, but I’m thinking about it.
“Like that time you made me put nettles in my underwear?”
“You remember that?” I ask, amazed.
“How could I forget it! I couldn’t sit for a week. I had a big purple butt like a macaque.”
“You deserved it. You put salt in my goldfish’s bowl! Poor Pallino, he died such a horrible death.”
“I thought he’d be more comfortable in salt water.”
A crescendo of shouts from the villa interrupts our conversation. I can’t tell what’s happening from where we are, but I sense a strange commotion.
“What’s going on?” asks Michael.
“I have no idea. Let’s go see,” I suggest, turning my horse around.
“I hope it’s not the cousins from Pontassieve, back with an army of lawyers to claim the property.
” As we get closer, my suspicions are proven wrong.
“Oops . . . well, Michael, maybe the cousins from Pontassieve would have been better. You’re about to find out why firsthand. ”
“That doesn’t sound very reassuring,” he says, dismounting from his horse.
Gathered in front of the villa are all the flittering mothers and their dolled-up daughters. They erupt in a stadium cheer at Michael’s presence.
“Maybe you still have time to . . .” I say, but not even two seconds later, one of the wives intercepts us and points her finger at us.
“There he is! It’s him!” Her battle cry unleashes the horde in our direction.
“Who are they?” Michael asks me, somewhere between astonished and alarmed.
“The Belvedere welcoming committee.”
“The commit . . . Help!”
One woman grabs his right arm while another takes his left, both tugging in opposite directions.
“Gud mornin’, ar iu? Mai neim is Giliola!” one of the ladies of charity shouts in his ear, attempting to speak English.
“Hai, Maicolle. Du yu laic cantuccini?” Fiorella yells in his general direction, making the gesture of eating with her hand. “Dis is Paola,” she shouts, pointing to her daughter. “Biutiful gorl; sci is singol.”
They all pounce on him, offering him bruschetta, Prato biscuits, and chestnut cake in an orgy of food and screams that makes me giggle. I could put an end to this frenzy, but I won’t.
Revenge is so sweet.
“Oh, you idiots, why are you shouting?” yells Mamma, appearing on the staircase, rolling pin in hand. “Away, away! What’s all the fuss about! The Englishman is not deaf, and he happens to speak Italian very well. Let him go!”
Mamma makes space between the wives and delirious daughters so as to allow Michael to get up, his borrowed shirt all spattered with dirt.
“Sorry . . . but who are you people?!” he blurts out, annoyed.
At his question, all chaos breaks out again, so much so that he doesn’t even know which way to turn to shake hands.
The barrage of invitations continues: Some invite him to breakfast, some want him over for dinner, some are expecting him as a guest of honor after Sunday Mass. Every aspiring mother-in-law fights over the days on the calendar.
Michael turns to me, his eyes pleading, hoping I’ll tell him what to do.
And I get an idea.
I jump off my horse and stand next to him. “Please, ladies, don’t fight. Michael’s not going anywhere. He’ll be delighted to accept your invitations.”
He turns to me, stunned. “What? Are you nuts?”
“Do you know the little penance I said I’d make you do? I found it.”
An expression of terror takes over his face. “You don’t think . . .”
“Oh, yes. You will indulge in dates with three damsels. No need to thank me.”
“Don’t you think this is a little extreme?”
“Don’t tell me a man who can have the most beautiful women in London is scared off by some gastronomic tête-à-tête in Tuscany? Where is your confidence from last night? Could it possibly be that . . . you’re scared?”
“Are you scared?” has always been our way of throwing down the gauntlet, and neither of us can resist the challenge.
“I’ll show you.” Michael grabs the saddle pommel and gets back on his horse. “Ladies, it was a real pleasure.” He mimes a bow in their direction and then moves closer to my ear. “Did you enjoy that raisin roll? You know, Elisa, I think I see a few crumbs on your lip,” he says, pointing.
Fuck.