Chapter 67 Michael
Michael
I’m physically present at the preliminary sale, but my mind is elsewhere.
I’ve just been through forty-eight hours of pure, self-inflicted psychological torture: on Saturday I stayed at the airport all morning, doing what I don’t know.
Hoping, nothing more.
Hoping to see Elisa leave the departures area as I stared at the departures board with my heart in my throat when the one for Florence started flashing Now Boarding at the top of the list.
Then it disappeared. I waited for her, but after an hour and an untouched cup of coffee gone cold, I gave up and went home.
Her scent still filled the apartment.
In the room, the unmade bed spoke to me of all the nights we spent together, and since then I haven’t been able to sleep in it.
On Sunday I nearly killed myself at the gym by exercising to my last breath.
Today I woke up on the sofa with a start.
I flew to work. I even spilled coffee on myself on the stairs and had to change into the freshly dry-cleaned suit I keep in the office.
Now I’m here, in the conference room, with the Bingleys and Bogdanovics, shattered in body and spirit.
My friend taps me on the arm.
“Huh?” I groan, shaking myself out of my stupor.
“I asked if you had a pen,” he repeats, waving the one already in his hand. “This one doesn’t work.”
“Ah, yes. One second.” I reach into my jacket pocket, but along with the ballpoint pen, I can feel something else. I pull out the Montblanc, and a leaf comes with it.
How did that end up there?
It’s a little stiff, its red color has faded, but it’s the vine leaf that Elisa had given me to use in place of a pocket square for our night out in Florence.
Back in London, I’d sent the suit to the dry cleaners, and it’s the one I’ve just changed into at the office.
I turn the leaf between my fingers, thinking back to what Elisa said about the vine: It’s strong, and resists even the most impervious conditions, representing life.
Life . . .
“Have you guys ever seen a foal being born?” I find myself asking out of nowhere.
Dismay spreads around the table.
“Michael, dear, do you need a coffee? You’re looking rather rough . . .” Caroline asks me.
“This tiny little creature comes out all slimy like a bar of soap. She knows how to stand right away and immediately recognizes her mother. The mare licks her clean and cuddles her, rubbing her face against her baby . . .”
“Very interesting,” she comments. “Shall we proceed?”
A strange thing happens. It’s as if I leave my body and see myself from the outside: me, standing by while Le Giuggiole is consigned to oblivion.
No more grape harvests, no more bottles in the cellars, no more homemade jams or vegetables from the garden, no more Renato singing good morning, and knowing that I was the death of it all slowly fills me with disgust.
The arrangements have been made: Next Tuesday Bogdanovic will sign the final contract and take possession of the estate in exchange for four million pounds—five million euros. One million less than the Bingleys could have gotten had they not been in such a rush to close.
Everyone gets up from the table, satisfied, but Charles stops me before leaving. “Michael, is something wrong?”
“Huh? No, everything’s fine,” I lie. “I might be coming down with the flu . . .” I don’t know if he believes me or if he’s just pretending, but he doesn’t say anything else.
The evenings have become very long, and what’s worse, I’m uncomfortable everywhere I turn.
I sit on the kitchen stool and stare at the empty picture frame—I removed the stock photo—wondering what to put in it.
I haven’t printed out photos since high school.
I scroll through the images on my phone, delete a series of screenshots that I needed for work, and look for something to frame.
There’s Linda, smiling with her high school acceptance letter, which she sent me a few days ago.
There’s the group photo we took at the close of harvest with all the workers.
There’s a crooked self-portrait of Max and me with the Cinquecento, filthy but satisfied, taken after we’d just finished polishing it.
There’s a photo of Cinta Senese ragù boiling on the fire and Mariana’s hand stirring it.
I scroll through the album full of Tuscan sunsets, sinuous hills, rows of cypresses, clear blue skies over the vineyard, baskets full of grapes . . .
There’s a shot of Elisa, which I quickly snapped when she wasn’t looking, to the extent that she’s barely captured in the frame. She’s riding her horse through the vineyard and smiling, one of her rare and wonderful smiles that I wanted to keep for myself.
Further back, I find the screensaver images that came with the phone.
Is it possible that I’ve never taken a single photo here in London? That I’ve had no moments worth remembering? Nothing important enough to share?
I look around for something to cling to, but all I see is George’s house. Now I’m in George’s kitchen, I sleep in George’s bed, I sit on George’s sofas, I work in George’s study . . .
“You’re a guest in your own home.” Elisa’s words echo in my head.
Then the fog clears, and it all comes into focus: I never built a life for myself.
I adapted myself to my brother’s with no plan of my own.
I try to imagine myself in ten years but can’t bear the thought of myself still here, surrounded by empty picture frames.
And what about twenty years from now? What will I do when I stop working?
I suddenly feel poor. My bank accounts couldn’t be more bloated, my rental properties are doing better than ever, I’m on the highest rung of wealth in the world, and yet I have nothing. And I do nothing with what I have.
Elisa, on the other hand, has everything I lack: passion, goals, a family, people who respect and love her. And I’m letting Bogdanovic take it all away.
The vine leaf is still here, in front of me, on the marble counter.
The idea is as stupid as it is insane—it’s probably even illegal—but if there’s any way to fix what I’ve done, I’ll do it.
I fly into the study, power on my PC and scanner, and start looking for the documents I got from the Belvedere town hall . . . I put them here somewhere . . . Urban and Territorial Governmental Acts . . . here they are!
I digitize the document with the scanner, but the photocopy is too faded, so the file is unreadable.
I’ll have to re-create it word by word . . .
“What do you mean the new zoning plan was approved?!” Bogdanovic’s lawyer asks me.
“See?” I hand him a file labeled Union of the Municipalities of Belvedere and Collalto.
“The municipalities decided to accelerate the approval of their union and needed to homogenize their policies for the newly created territory, which includes a new zoning ordinance for the land falling within the Chianti Classico historical production region,” I explain.
“And what does this new law say?” Caroline asks, annoyed.
“That any land with vineyards that are more than thirty years old cannot be subject to substantial modifications, meaning anything greater than twenty percent of the agricultural area, for the purpose of protecting the landscape and environment,” I read and translate the article I highlighted on the legislation.
“This means that of the twenty-five hectares of vineyard . . .” continues the lawyer.
“Only five can be transformed for other uses,” I conclude.
“We didn’t think the new law would be introduced until at least the middle of next year, but evidently they were eager to push it through.
” I try to sound heartbroken. “I wanted to check to be sure nothing had changed and instead I found this update.”
“This changes a lot,” observes Bogdanovic, in a heavy Russian accent that not even the most expensive English courses with the best Cambridge professors could correct.
“Indeed,” I continue, holding the paper in my hand.
“We’ve never spoken explicitly about the buyer’s intentions for the property, but since he’s an entrepreneur in the golf sector, we shouldn’t beat around the bush.
I thought it was appropriate to make him aware of the matter because it could affect his decision to buy or not. ”
Bogdanovic whispers something to his lawyer in Russian, in an agitated and not at all friendly tone.
“Given the facts, Mr. Bogdanovic no longer intends to invest in the property.”
“But he’s already signed the preliminary agreement,” exclaims Caroline furiously.
“I can’t build a golf course on so little land,” Bogdanovic blurts out. “I need a minimum of twenty hectares.”
“We tried to move as quickly as possible, but it wasn’t fast enough,” Charles replies in a conciliatory tone. “I understand your hesitations in the face of these new conditions.”
“I’m not buying it. I’m very sorry, because it’s a nice property, but it’s no longer useful to me.” Then Bogdanovic looks at me. “Thank you, Michael, for your precision. If you hadn’t checked, I would have been screwed.”
“I’ve been taking care of your investments for years, Sergei.” I say in a friendly manner. “It’s my job.”
The Bingleys are a little less happy, Caroline in particular, but we tear up the preliminary agreement, and I feel a bit more at peace with myself.
Later that evening, Bingley surprises me with a visit to my apartment.
“Am I bothering you?” he asks when I open the door.
“No, I wasn’t doing anything special.” I invite him in, gesturing for him to sit on the sofa.
“You skipped the gym today. That’s not like you,” he scolds me.
“I went on Sunday. I had a credit.”
“Royal & Lloyds,” says Charles, glancing at my laptop, which is open to a real estate page. “Are you looking for a new buyer?”
“I was actually thinking of selling this apartment and moving. Your idea of a cottage in Primrose isn’t so bad, now that I think about it.”
“I thought you hated family neighborhoods.”
“I think I need a change. Can I offer you something? Water? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Well . . .” he reaches into his briefcase and takes out a copy of the territorial plan that I brought to the meeting this morning. “About this.”
“Oh.”
“Crazy timing, huh? These guys from the municipality are real killjoys,” he observes with a strange smile.
“Totally.”
“I was rereading it this afternoon, and I noticed a few grammatical and spelling errors.” He shows me several passages that he’s underlined with a red ballpoint pen, like an elementary school teacher. “They were in such a hurry, they didn’t even correct it.”
“You know, Charles—”
“You know, Michael,” he interrupts me, “you speak Italian very well, even better than I do, even though I’m a native speaker. You have an exceptional command of accents and an impeccable ear for languages . . . That said, you’ve always sucked at writing.”
“I wrote it,” I admit.
“It’s obvious.”
“I’m sorry, Charles.”
“You know I could report you, right?” Charles’s tone is strangely ambiguous, and I struggle to discern whether or not he’s joking.
“The only way to blow up the sale was to make Bogdanovic lose interest,” I explain.
“I won’t even ask why you did it.”
“Elisa,” I say, simply. I know that’s enough to get the point across.
“In any case, you may have done me a favor too,” says Charles.
I look at him, perplexed. “Oh yeah?”
“I know I could have made a good amount from the sale, but I’ve never been convinced that Bogdanovic’s money is all that clean.
I’d prefer zero pounds to dirty millions in my account.
He may be a golf course developer now, but I don’t know what he did before that, and I have serious suspicions about people who become billionaires overnight from nothing. ”
“So you won’t report me?”
“No. And I won’t tell Caroline.”
Bingley looks at me, and I see nothing but affection in his eyes, like that of a blood brother—or more.
“You need to know something else,” I say. “I was wrong about Giada. It isn’t true that she isn’t interested in you—on the contrary, she was beside herself when you left. She just didn’t text you for fear of bothering you and seeming clingy.”
My friend blinks in disbelief. “Seriously?!”
“When Elisa was here for the wine fair, Giada came to give her a hand for the weekend rush. She was hoping to see you, but you were in Paris.” If this is going to be the night of amends, I want to make amends for all the mistakes I’ve made.
“She never forgot about you, and I think she’s still hoping you’ll go back to her. ”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you want to go back to her too and that if you’d known she was in London, you would have come back from Paris immediately.”
Charles reaches across the coffee table, grabs my laptop, and places it on his lap.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for the first flight to Florence,” he says, typing frantically. “There’s one! Tomorrow at ten, only a few seats left. I’ll book now.”
“Okay, hurry, but log out of my account first.”
“Oh no, my friend. I’m not reporting you, but the least you can do is buy me a plane ticket,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the screen. “So . . . shall I get two seats?”