Chapter 13 Michael
Michael
“Have some more tortelli,” Regina’s mother suggests, gunning to pile a third portion onto my plate.
When Elisa told me about dinner with Regina, she failed to mention it would be with her entire family. Her entire family.
Mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, younger siblings, and pets.
“I’m really quite full.” I stop her, but I can see she’s offended, so I give in. “But I’ll take two more because they are so good.”
Brief, sad story: These tortelli filled with potatoes are accompanied by a more than abundant ragù, and I must have eaten about a pound of them. The end.
“Regina made them this morning,” remarks Giliola, her mother. “By hand.”
“I made the stuffed peppers too,” replies the daughter, who has done nothing but bat her eyes at me all evening.
How do I tell them that peppers don’t agree with me?
We’re still on first courses, but before this, they stuffed me with appetizers like crostini with glazed onions, fig and pecorino jam, artichoke paté, Maremma-style pork rinds and tripe, goat cheese with a honey-and-egg sauce . . . now, after this tortelli ragù, I can vaguely see the Madonna.
As a kid, I ate cuisine from all over the world, but my digestive system seems to prefer English food.
Unfortunately, I’m also too English to offend my host at her table.
“We would have liked to host Carletto too, but we never see him around!” Giliola grumbles, sitting back down at the head of the table. It’s obvious who’s in charge here.
“I think he had plans,” I say vaguely.
“It seems he went to Monteriggioni,” she replies.
“With Giada,” Regina points out. Is it me or is there a not-so-subtle contempt in her voice?
I see that my attempt to keep him out of village gossip was futile. “She went to show him around,” I say, to dilute any resentment.
“Oh, I doubt that Giada would interest him. She’s so . . . how should I say it . . . flashy.” Giliola purses her lips in clear disapproval. “Of course I’d never allow my little queen to go around the way Giada does.”
“The peppers are excellent,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Regina is the type of girl who takes certain liberties from time to time,” she goes on.
“But Giada, on the other hand, is well known in the village for her . . . friendships. Let’s just say if she had to hold a banknote between her knees, she wouldn’t have a cent.
My daughter is a serious girl. No man would want to marry a woman who’s been around, don’t you think, Michael? ”
All I can do is nod. I don’t know Giada well enough to say more.
“Plus, it’s clear she’s looking to marry rich,” echoes Regina. “She wants to live the life of a city lady. She never left because she couldn’t afford it, but if the right lottery ticket appeared under her nose, she wouldn’t pass it up.”
“So you, Regina, you’re not looking for marriage, then . . .” I venture. Whyever would I be here if not?
“It’ll be a lucky man who marries my queen! She’s a good girl. Our family is one of the most prominent in the region, the Cozzi ancestors are among the founders of Belvedere. Glass of wine?” she asks me. “My brother-in-law makes this Vermentino on the Bolgheri vineyard.”
“I don’t . . .” The answer gets stuck in my throat because the respectable queen in question has reached a foot under the table toward the crotch of my trousers.
I try to move it with my knee, but Regina perseveres, whereupon I give her a look that I believe to be rather eloquent but which she, instead, takes as encouragement, and in three seconds her other foot is next to the first.
“You know what, Mrs. Giliola, I’ll happily have a glass of that Vermentino,” I say, hoping Regina’s mother approaching to pour the wine will embarrass her enough to move her foot, except Giliola passes the task on to her daughter.
“Regi, dear, would you pour Michael some wine?”
“Gladly,” she exclaims enthusiastically. All she’d have to do is pass me the bottle, but instead she gets up and comes to my side. She tops up the wine for the other guests, and when she reaches my side, she pours the wine onto my thigh instead of into the glass.
“Oh my, how careless of me! I’m so sorry, Michael. I’ll dry you off right away,” she exclaims, grabbing the napkin to dab me.
Since I wasn’t born yesterday and until a minute ago she seemed like a girl in full possession of her faculties (mental, I wouldn’t know, but physical for sure), I’m sure her move was anything but accidental, so I jump up to prevent her from enacting whatever fantasy she has in mind.
“Ugh, what a shame!” I say, unconvincingly. “I really must go home and change.”
“Come on, Michael. It’ll be dry in no time,” says Giliola.
“Yes but the stain will set. They’re new trousers; I got them today. I’d be sorry to see them ruined.”
“We’ll wash them, and in the meantime, you can wear a pair of my husband’s.”
“I can’t possibly take advantage of your hospitality any further,” I say, trying to ward off the attempts to stop me.
“But we still haven’t eaten the drunken pig or the tart,” protests Regina.
“You’ve all been very kind, really, but there will be another time,” I reply hastily.
The door, where the hell is the door? As soon as I spot it, I rush toward it as if my very life depends on it.
“Everything was excellent, really. Fantastic. Dishes worthy of the best restaurants . . .” I insist. Then I take off like Usain Bolt.
I take a taxi back to the estate, where, miraculously, I actually feel safe.
The heat has lifted, so I find myself lured by an old deck chair under the wooden gazebo surrounded by wisteria and the elderberry shrubs Mariana uses for her famous syrup. I could use a glass of something now.
I flop down, exhausted from the buffet, and for a good half an hour, I fall into a heavy sleep, from which I am awakened by laughter in the distance.
I crane my neck to see who it is and spot Bingley and Giada.
They’re practically waltzing up the path that leads to the garden at the back of the estate: He twirls her around, her skirt flaring, then he pulls her in for a kiss. Yes, that was irrefutably a kiss, and certainly not a shy one.
Well done him. Although . . .
I don’t like to give too much credence to gossip, but what Giliola and Regina said about Giada is ringing in my head, all this about Giada looking for a winning horse to bet on.
Bingley has already ended up in the crosshairs of a few social climbers, and he’s the perfect prey for that kind of huntress: generous by nature, a good Samaritan by vocation, always assuming people have the best intentions, and ready to trust anyone with a smile.
I got his ass back on track twice and don’t intend to stand by while some vampire sucks up his soul along with his bank account—first there was Brielle, from his company’s design department, and then Kelly, the physical therapist who helped him heal after his ski accident two years ago.
And they say trouble comes in threes . . .
Not that I’d enjoy shattering his fantasy, but I learned to recognize slimy opportunists from a young age—my brother, George, was a master social climber. And Charles, unfortunately, is a magnet for these types.
Within a few minutes, Charles and Giada disappear, probably to a more secluded corner of the sprawling garden.
I return to the villa, and right as I’m about to go upstairs, Donatella surprises me from behind, taking two years off my life.
I turn, and next to her there is a brunette girl with very straight hair and bangs that fall like a curtain over her eyes.
“Mr. D’Arcy, it pains me to interrupt your plans for the evening, but Miss Ballini has come to see you,” she announces with the funereal voice of someone who has fought and lost, and a look that says I’ve tried everything, and there was no way out.
I sigh and hold out my hand to the girl. “Pleased to—”
“My name is Chiaraluce. I’m Regina Cozzi’s neighbor,” she interrupts me, overwhelming me with her machine-gun speech.
“I heard you were at Regina’s for dinner with her family.
What a shame we didn’t meet there. I stopped in to bring you this black cherry cake, but they told me you’d already left, so I thought I’d come straight here so we could enjoy it together. ”
Eat more?! God, please no!
“I’m full,” I apologize.
“Come on. There’s always room for dessert. Plus we could get to know each other better.”
“Mr. D’Arcy.” I recognize the thin voice calling from the kitchen: Linda. “You’re finally back. I was waiting for you to help me with my English homework.”
“Your homework . . . ?” I ask, confused.
“English,” she repeats. “Remember? That extremely difficult translation you said you’d help with?”
Linda, what a little genius you are. “Of course! The translation!”
“Can’t that wait?” Chiaraluce objects, annoyed.
“I’m afraid not,” I insist. “Otherwise, Linda could get a bad mark. It’s full of idioms that can’t be translated into Italian. You have to be a native speaker.”
“And Mr. D’Arcy was so kind to offer his help.” Linda plays along.
“Forgive me, Chiaraluce. We’ll have to save it for another time,” I say.
Linda and I disappear into the kitchen, where, however, no translation awaits.
“I told you you’d need me again,” she starts.
“How much will it cost me this time?” I ask, my hand already on my wallet.
“I actually wouldn’t mind your help in English. This year I’ll be in eighth grade, and then I want to go to high school in London.”
“Ambitious.”
“An ambitious person knows how to live; everyone else is just existing,” she states confidently.
“Plato?” I guess.
“No, me.” Linda sits down at the long oak table and from under a white linen cloth takes out a biscuit in the shape of an S. “My . . . Mariana made them, for tomorrow’s breakfast. Want one?”
“For goodness’ sake. Isn’t there any Alka-Seltzer, baking soda, or, I don’t know, Liquid Plumbr here in the house?”
“Did you eat too much?”
“I had dinner at Regina Cozzi’s,” I explain. “With her entire family.”
“They stuffed you like a turkey, didn’t they?”
“I’ll be fasting for days.”
As we sit facing each other, she with her biscuits, me with a glass of lemon water, I decide to ask Linda a few questions. “Do you know Giada well?”
“Just a little. Not like I grew up under the same roof as her or anything.”
“Would you say she aspires to live the high life? I mean, with a financially well-off man?” I ask, echoing Giliola and Regina’s suspicions.
“Who wouldn’t? At least she can afford herself the option. There’s no one more beautiful than Giada around here.”
“Would you say she’s the faithful type?” I insist. It’s my sense of protection speaking; I feel more like a brother to Charles than I did to George. “Giada, I mean. I know these are questions you don’t normally ask a thirteen-year-old, but you seem like a smart girl.”
Linda shrugs. “She’s always had her flings, but she gets tired of people quickly. To be faithful I guess you have to be with someone for a while, so I’d say she has the potential to be faithful.”
“Are you sure you’re really only thirteen years old?”
“Do you want to check my ID?”
“And all you do is study? Don’t you have any friends? A boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?” I hasten to add. You never know.
“Yeah, I just study. I have friends, but I’m kind of boring, so no one’s really dying to hang out with me; as far as a boyfriend goes, I’m not pretty enough,” she replies with a disillusioned tone that almost makes me sad. “At least not for the guy I like.”
I focus. Something tells me that under this tough scholarly dispenser of maxims hides an insecure little girl who would trade an afternoon in the library for an outing with friends, perhaps with that boy she likes.
And the moment I see her dejected expression, I understand that I not only made a bad impression with Elisa, but that I was truly a giant shit.
Beauty aside—because that’s relative—it’s the “enough” that hurts. And I of all people should know about not being enough.
“Who is this boy you like?” I don’t know why I ask, but I want to know.
“Tommaso Ghirardi, son of Giampaolo Ghirardi, the lawyer.”
“Does he know you like him?”
“Are you kidding? All the girls in school drool over him. I hardly plan to join them.”
“Are you in class together?”
“No, Tommy is a year older. He just finished eighth grade. He’s a striker on the Siena youth soccer team and just got an offer to join the Tottenham Academy as soon as he turns fifteen.”
Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. “He’s going to England in a year, and you want to go to high school in London in a year. That’s not a coincidence, is it?”
“I’d been thinking about it for a while, actually; then when I heard about Tommaso’s offer, I took it as a sign, even if I don’t think he’d care much.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“I’m a realist. But thanks for the encouragement.”
I’m about to give her some valuable life advice, when the kitchen door swings open and Elisa appears, red in the face. “You!” she exclaims in a tone that is anything but friendly. “You lying, lazy, cowardly traitor.”
“You talking to me?” I ask, pointing to myself.
“Do you know anyone else who’s trying to convince Carletto to sell Le Giuggiole to a Russian billionaire so he can build a golf club?”
She delivers the information so bluntly that I just sit there, stunned, like the time at Eton when Harring hit me between the eyes with a ball during a tennis match. He never had a great sense of the court . . . “Wha . . . huh?”
She closes the ten feet that separate us in two steps, her face an inch from mine. I confirm: beautiful eyes. Angry as hell but dazzling.
“Did you or did you not come here to convince Carletto to sell the property to one of your clients?”