54
Elisa
No one thought it would be easy, or this hard. The whole world is at this fair, and that’s not hyperbole. Getting noticed is an apocalyptic undertaking, especially for such a small winery like ours.
We get the gist by the end of our first day.
Buyers—that is, workers in the catering and sales sectors—arrive at our pavilion after drinking the bigger brands all day. Their tastebuds are already saturated with tastings—which in our field also means they’re vaguely tipsy—and drawing them in by offering up another sample is almost impossible.
Conversely, freeloaders abound—that is, everyone who came to snoop around, thanks to free passes from friends of friends—and their sole aim is to drink freely. This second type gravitates around us smaller wineries because they know we won’t deny anyone a drink. They pretend to be interested in our story just to get to the thing that matters to them: free swag.
We ordered corkscrews and leak-proof airtight caps with our logo on them.
After a second day that ends with nothing accomplished, I decide to change strategy.
“Listen, Foliero, we need to attract the buyers who matter, but they don’t come here, and if they do, they’re already too drunk or the ones nearest the entrance get to them first. I’m going to pass out some leaflets at the bigger pavilion.”
“It’s against the rules,” he points out to me.
“I know, but I’ll risk a fine. I didn’t sell my father’s Vespa for nothing.”
“Did you sell the Vespa Rally?!” he exclaims, shocked. “Your father would never have allowed it.”
“For the vineyard? That and more. Just let me try for an hour. If it doesn’t work, I’ll come back.”
I grab a handful of brochures and go on the hunt.
The bigger pavilion is another planet. There’s Dom Pérignon, Antinori, Romanée-Conti, Lafite ... The first impression is unsettling.
The stands are gob-smacking: One has a string quartet playing, one has a champagne fountain, some have a path through the senses, and some even have sets of towels embroidered with themaison’s label as merchandise, packaged in boxes that give off the scent of very expensive essences from three feet away.
My corkscrews, of which I was more than proud until recently, now seem like old junk.
I feel like the little match girl on Christmas Eve.
I fight to overcome a rising wave of self-pity as I try to approach the buyers who seem to matter most.
The problem is that everyone here seems important, and in less than fifteen minutes, I’ve run out of flyers, so I head back to our stand—whether it’s to get more brochures or to hide, I still don’t know.
On the way, I’m stopped by a girl dressed in a suit that alone would serve as collateral for my loan. “Here you are,” she says in English, handing me a glass of champagne.
“Actually, I’m not a guest. I have a stand,” I explain. “It’s small,” I hasten to add.
“No matter. Just seems like you could use a drink,” she replies with a kindness that almost moves me. She takes a shiny bag full of freebies and, before I can object, puts it in my hand with a wink. “Do you see all these brands? They were small once too.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling more reassured. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
I say goodbye the way someone leaves an old friend, and as soon as I turn the corner, I peer into the bag to find a further insult to my humble corkscrews: two beauty kits, his and hers, branded with the name of the winery. A detangling brush, face cream, eye contour cream, miniature perfume, and a mini eyeshadow palette in grape tones made in collaboration with a luxury cosmetics brand. Foliero will appreciate the men’s beard and hair kit.
I head down the aisle toward our stand, and when I’m about twenty feet away, I notice two people with their backs to me, both dressed in suits and sober, judging by their posture. I quicken my pace so as not to miss them. When I’m a few steps away, one of them turns in my direction, and I glimpse his profile.
I feel faint.
It’s Michael.
55
Michael
