Chapter 16 Elisa
Elisa
I pace around the stable, distributing hay around one of the stalls with a pitchfork, and every time I furiously thrust the fork into the stack, I imagine I’m performing a voodoo ritual on Michael.
In my mind, he’s no longer my childhood friend but an enemy intent on depriving me of security, of everything I’ve built through years of sacrifice.
He’s become cold, cynical, ruthless . . .
“I’m here,” he says, surprising me from behind.
“Good evening to you too,” I reply without even turning to face him.
“I came to talk. I have some things I need to explain to you, and you have some things to explain to me as well.”
“Good intentions, bad timing,” I reply with a hurried glance.
“It’s never the right time for you, Elisa,” he replies. “Avoiding me won’t change things.”
“I’m not”—I huff—“avoiding you,” I lie.
“Maybe if you stopped for a second—what the hell are you doing?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
“Do you want the serious answer or the sarcastic one?” I reply, leaning on the pitchfork to catch my breath.
“As much as I’d love a dose of your sharp wit, I’ll take the serious answer.”
“I’m preparing Dolly’s stall,” I explain.
“That can’t wait?”
“No,” I shoot back. “Important as you think you are, Dolly is about to give birth, so I have to get her stall ready now. Unless you want to do it.”
“Perfect,” he says, surprising me to the point that the pitchfork handle slips from my grip and falls to the ground with a loud clang.
He rolls up the sleeves of his denim shirt, bends down to pick it up, scoops up a much more generous load of hay than I ever could, and looks at me defiantly. “Where should I put it?”
“In the box at the back.”
Michael nods, satisfied. “Sure thing.” He goes back and forth, giving me smug looks like: See? You think I couldn’t do it?
“It’s just hay, Michael, not lead,” I scoff.
“Can I ever do anything right in your eyes?” he asks, planting the pitchfork in the haystack.
“Not yet,” I reply dryly, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Shall I keep going, or is that enough?”
“It’s enough,” I reply through clenched teeth.
I bring Dolly to the foaling box where I untie her, with Michael still at my heels.
I retreat to the sidelines, out of the mare’s field of vision so as not to make her nervous, and sit on the ground, my back against the wall.
“Well, now all we have to do is wait. I have all the time you want to talk.”
“Is the vet here?”
“The vet doesn’t come for births. We only call him when there’s a complication, and let’s hope there aren’t any, given that the closest one is in Gaiole.”
“So you’re saying . . . ?”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say.
Michael looks at Dolly and then at me. “Very good. Since you’re not going anywhere, I guess now’s my chance,” he says, sitting next to me. “I’ll stay too.”
“To witness the birth?” I ask in disbelief.
“In case you need a hand. And since you can’t escape, we can talk like adults.”
“Fine, but we need to be quiet,” I say to silence him. “We can’t distract Dolly.”
“Are you sure she’s okay?” he asks, nodding toward the mare, who is stirring restlessly. “She collapsed.”
“Yeah, the contractions have started. She’ll alternate between calm and agitated for a couple of hours before entering the second phase.”
“Okay.”
“So? What do you have to say that I don’t already know?”
“I feel bad about how you found out about the sale of the estate.”
“Considering I’m the one who manages it and a parrot still found out before I did, I’d say I have every reason to feel offended.”
“It wasn’t my intention to leave you in the dark about everything and then have you evicted in two months. I was waiting for the right time to talk to you.”
God, I wish I had that pitchfork handy now. “How about the moment you arrived, for example?”
“Sure, perfect entrance,” he blurts. “‘Good evening, everyone. I’m here to sell the estate for Charles, and you’re all going to end up under a bridge. Can you show me to my room now?’”
“Brutal but honest.”
“What did you expect? That Charles would be jumping for joy at the idea of inheriting a decrepit old villa with crumbling facilities, holes in the gutters, mold in the attic, a broken TV antenna, peeling plaster, no Internet . . . ?”
“Why sell it if it’s so disgusting? Better to raze everything to the ground, right?”
“Let’s not exaggerate. The property has potential, but Charles and Caroline are not interested, so the fact that the estate needs so much maintenance is just an incentive to pass the ball to a new owner.”
“Pass the ball?” I repeat astonished. “Me, my mother, and Donatella are not balls to be passed.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Elisa!”
“It’s a figure of speech that sucks, as if we’ve been included in the negotiation like furniture. Out of curiosity, how did you plan to sell to us? By weight? By years of seniority? Or as a lump sum?” I provoke him.
“Elisa, my God, no one ever proposed anything of the kind. You’re free to go elsewhere whenever you want.”
“Sure. The world is full of vineyards waiting just for me! Not to mention Donatella and Mamma—one is sixty-five and the other sixty-three. Do you think there’s a line out the door waiting to hire them?”
“So stay. What do you want me to tell you?” he replies. “Listen, Elisa, I know you think it’s crazy that someone doesn’t love this place enough to move here right away, but Charles has a different life. I have a different life, and if I were him, I’d do the same without thinking twice.”
“Of course, you only care about money.”
“I’m a businessman. I do business, whether you like it or not. Which includes the sale of this property, since my best friend knows nothing about real estate. I won’t lie and tell him it’s a good investment just because you don’t want to lose your vineyard.”
“All right. I’ll try to speak in a language a businessman understands.” I change strategy. “When you make investments, what do you base your investments on?”
“Market prices, stock trends . . .”
“Numbers,” I summarize.
“They have meaning.”
“Let me give you some numbers. Let’s start with five hundred and four.”
“Five hundred and four, what?”
“The number of different types of vines grown in Italy; in France they have just two hundred and seventy-eight. We also have five hundred and thirty-three varieties of olives. Spain, which is the second largest producer in Europe, has seventy. We produce two hundred and eighty-two DOP and IGP specialties recognized at the EC level, and we hold the green record in Europe with almost fifty thousand organic farms, including Le Giuggiole. We’re small, yes, but here we are.
Owning an agri-food company in the most sought-after country in the world is an immense privilege.
‘Made in Italy’ is a brand whose value I’m sure you know well, businessman that you claim to be.
Le Giuggiole is not just a crumbling old villa.
It’s an investment.” I don’t know if I’m terribly convincing, but I will argue my position as long as I can breathe.
“It’s just not the kind of investment I know how to manage, you know?”
“At least now you have something to reflect on.”
“There’s another thing I’m reflecting on.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, curiously and with a hint of hope. Maybe it’s not a done deal after all.
“Why didn’t you tell me Linda’s your daughter?”
Oh shit!