Chapter 11 Michael
Michael
It’s after nine when Bingley comes strutting back to the estate. Is he drunk or something?
Caroline and I are in the living room partaking in Mamma’s fruit tart.
I’m instantly relieved to see my friend arrive—I’ve spent the last half an hour listening to Caroline drone on about her day of shopping in Florence, where she was privately chauffeured to La Rinascente, the famous department store.
Sometimes I wonder how Charles and Caroline can be twins, different as they are.
“I hope you saved me some tart,” Bingley says, smiling from ear to ear.
“Here, take mine.” Caroline holds out her untouched plate. “Too much butter and sugar for my taste.”
“Seems perfect to me,” he replies, practically inhaling the slice in two bites.
“Where have you been all day?” I ask him. “I thought we were going to start appraising the property.”
“Giada and I took a trip to Volterra.”
I try to keep my eyebrows from arching incredulously. “And it took you this long?”
“You know how it is, one thing leads to another; we got a little lost in the city. Tomorrow afternoon, we want to go to Monteriggioni. Want to come?”
“Absolutely not,” Caroline replies. “I booked a week at a spa in Cortona with limited availability, and you can feel free to leave me there. Michael, I’m feeling generous, let me save you from all this provincial nonsense: Come with me.”
I could give her the same response she gave Bingley. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“What do you mean, disturb?”
“You’ve booked for one. They might not even have room for me.”
“I booked a double room.”
That’s one for Caroline. Now I’m forced to resort to the universal answer that begs no further replies. “I have to work.”
“Speaking of work,” my friend interjects, “have you seen the estate, Michael?”
“I have, and if you have ten minutes, I’d like to speak to you about it.”
Charles nods. “Gladly, but at least let’s go outside! It’s a splendid evening.”
“You already know what I think. I don’t want to bore myself with it. I’m going to bed,” announces Caroline, to my great relief. “These beds are not ergonomic; I’ll need physical therapy when we get home. Plus, the pillowcases aren’t even silk. I can already feel my skin shriveling!”
“Let’s go,” I exclaim, jumping from my seat, irritated by her blathering.
I follow Bingley into the kitchen, where he grabs two beers from the fridge, and we go out the back door that opens onto Mariana’s vegetable garden.
As we sit on the stone steps, the evening breeze tickles my nose, carrying with it the fragrance of rosemary and basil.
We are immersed in silence and darkness, except for the chirping of crickets and a swarm of fireflies dotting the box hedge. I could tell Bingley he’s right, it is a splendid evening, but I won’t.
“Remember when you said I should extend my trip to Italy and come here? Well, Michael, you were right; I needed this break,” he sighs, taking a sip of beer.
“Something tells me Giada has something to do with it,” I venture.
“Giadaaaaaa, Giadaaaaa,” croaks Renato, the parrot-rooster who glides between us repeating my words.
“More or less,” my friend says.
“You’ve got a crush on her again, huh? Assuming you ever got over the one you had as a kid.”
“It’s not a crush,” he replies, seriously. “When we saw each other again, something clicked. We go well together.”
“So, is that what this is? Are you together?” I ask, horrified.
“We are spending time together,” he corrects me. “We enjoy ourselves. We like each other.”
“You’re a fucking suicide mission,” I comment, shaking my head.
“Speaking of suicide missions: Have you apologized to Elisa?”
“Let’s just say I did my best.”
Bingley elbows me in the side. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“I did it in my own way,” I insist.
“You mean, badly.”
“Even you must admit Elisa was unrecognizable, and not just because she looked like a juvenile prison warden,” I defend myself.
“You’re right about that,” he agrees. “But she practically exudes femininity now.”
“Well, exudes is a big word. She wasn’t exactly a paradigm of beauty this morning in her overalls, but I’ll admit that she has remarkable eyes—large, bright . . . truly expressive. And a very sensual mouth, even if she mainly uses it to insult me.”
“You kind of deserve it, Michael.”
“Anyway, let’s get to the point.” I cut to the chase.
“She and I discussed the estate. I also spoke with Mariana and Donatella to get a sense of how they manage the property, and I have two rather negative concerns to share. For starters, the late count let the estate fall into disrepair; he was more interested in his idleness and eccentricities than in taking care of his property. Elisa, Mariana, and Donatella have done everything possible to keep it up, but its general neglect is apparent—inevitable when an owner doesn’t address maintenance.
Apart from the vineyard, everything here needs to be redone, and I don’t think that would work for you, given that you’ve repeatedly emphasized that you don’t want to live here full-time. ”
“Exactly,” my friend agrees. “What’s the second thing?”
“It’s worse: Everyone is convinced you will be the owner who brings Le Giuggiole back to life, that you’ll move here and transform into Sting, walking through the vineyards barefoot and doing tantric sunset yoga.”
“Oh.” This time he sounds more laconic. “Perhaps I should clarify my intentions to avoid misunderstandings.”
“I wouldn’t. You’d risk starting a conflict before we can start negotiating with a buyer.”
“Do you already have someone interested?”
I nod, satisfied. “Yeah. I told you to leave me to it and it’s done.”
“Who is it?”
“Sergei Bogdanovic, the billionaire owner of the Green Star international golf courses. He’s a Saxton she really does want to make me pay. “You know them well, then,” I comment.
“Everyone knows everyone here. Belvedere is tiny. The arrival of two handsome, rich bachelors under forty is a rare event in these parts. They won’t let you leave without marrying one of the brides-to-be, even if it means tying you to the village hall gate.
Even if it seems one of you is already taken. ”
“You certainly know what’s up around here, don’t you?” Bingley chuckles.
“I’m an attentive observer.”
“In addition to being an attentive observer, do you also have a name?” I ask her as we climb the steps of the winding spiral and she lights the way with the flashlight on her cell phone.
“Linda.”
“Donatella’s great-niece, right?” I ask.
“Y-yeah.”
“And what were you doing in the secret passage?” I insist. “Just out of curiosity.”
“I was studying in the library. Count Umberto always let me use it since he never did but only on the condition that I wasn’t seen or heard, so I use the secret passages.”
“What are you studying?” Bingley asks in a gentle tone generally reserved for children.
“Everything. There’s not much else to do around here. You can study or leave town, or you stay and wait to get married. And considering the current state of the male population, I imagine when I come of age, there will only be farm animals left.”
Okay, this little girl is strange. “So you want to leave?”
“I won’t stoop to the level of the Cozzi cousins, and if I want a way out, I won’t look for it in a husband.”
Strange, maybe, but I like her. “You’re right.”
“Mr. Bingley.” Linda blinds us with her flashlight. “Can I keep using the library?”
“Sure, until we se—ouch!” he interrupts himself when I thump him.
“Until when?” she asks.
“Until you find a better place to study,” I say.
“Right,” Bingley agrees.
“Thank you.”
“And don’t worry about disturbing us; you can use the main staircase,” my friend insists.
“No,” Linda replies. “I like secret passages. The adults behave differently when they don’t know they’re being watched.”
What a slippery little bugger. I like her, but I’ll have to keep an eye on her.
“Here we are!” she announces, releasing a latch that opens one of the cue panels in the billiard room. “Your rooms are on this floor, right?”
“Are you asking us or do you know?” I ask.
“I know.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Well then . . . good night. Thanks for your help,” Bingley says, setting off for his room. “Aren’t you coming to sleep, Michael?”
“I think I’ll take a couple of shots to help me sleep,” I reply. He’s already out the door as I start arranging the billiard balls on the table.
“Good night,” Linda says to me.
“’Night and thanks for the shortcut.”
She, however, instead of leaving, remains planted there in front of me with her palm outstretched.
“Ah, sorry,” I high-five her.
“What was that?” she asks, perplexed.
“I high-fived you,” I explain, bewildered.
“I didn’t want a high-five.”
Oh no? “So . . . what did you want?”
“Did I just save you from the clams or not? I think a tip is in order.”
Strange, slippery bugger, extortionist. I like her, but I have to keep an eye on her, and I refuse to give her a cent. “Look, young lady, you didn’t invent the secret passage. It’s always been there. We used it as kids.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t remember it was there.”
“We would have.”
“But I reminded you first. Do you prefer I inform the Cozzi cousins of your presence?”
The terror of the scene freezes the blood in my veins. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“Let’s say I’m trying to make you understand how much my help is worth.”
“Fine,” I grumble, taking out my wallet. “How much do you want? Is ten okay? Let’s make it twenty . . .”
“Fifty euros,” she shoots back decisively.
“Fifty?!”
She stares me down, unwavering. “The network connection doesn’t pay for itself.”
“Pfff, fine. Fifty.” I give up, handing her the bill that she tucks into the pocket of her jeans. “How old did you say you were?”
“I didn’t say. Anyway, I’m thirteen and a half.”
“If you manage to leave Belvedere in a few years, send your CV to Saxton & D’Arcy,” I tell her. “You have what it takes.”
“I’ll think about it. Assuming the company is up to my standards.”
Does she hear herself? “Get out of here, kiddo, before I take my money back.”
“You’re going to need me again.” Her parting sentence sounds like a veiled threat.
“Hey, wait a minute. You talked about connecting to the network . . . How can that be? My phone doesn’t get a signal anywhere around here.”
“Oh, there’s a signal. But only on the roof of the annex,” she replies, her voice fading in the darkness of the staircase.