He frowns as if he doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, so I point to the frame. “Ah, her! No one.”
His response is worrying and hints at a long and difficult history. “Don’t you want to talk about it?” I insist, trying not to sound invasive.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t put that photo there. It’s the stock image that was in the frame when they gave it to me.” And to demonstrate his absolute good faith, he takes the photo out of the frame and shows it to me, pointing out the writing on the back with the references to the site from which it was taken. “See?”
“Why didn’t you put a photo in there?”
“I always meant to, but I never found the time. Maybe if you send me one, I’ll put yours in there.”
“I’d rather you take it of me.”
“That’s a good idea,” he replies with a wink that makes me understand what kind of photo he has in mind. “Let’s go. The sooner I get you there, the sooner I can see you again this evening.”
“When did we plan to meet tonight?”
“We’re planning to now. How’s nine?”
When I arrive at our booth, Foliero is already rushing toward me, distraught. “Good thing you’re here! We’re in trouble!”
“Oh God, why? What happened?” I’m already alarmed.
“The wine! We ran out; we don’t have a single bottle left at the stand.”
Holy Christ! They warned me there might be people who try to sabotage competitors’ stands, but I didn’t think it would go this far. It’s one thing to steal merch, but bottles are a new low! It’s like taking away our oxygen. “Have you already reported it to the organizers? Did you ask them to start an investigation?”
“No, but . . .”
“Nobuts, I’ll go. You look outside in the bin area to see if they dumped them there.”
But before I take a step toward the organizer’s area, he grabs me by the shoulders and stops me. “Nobody took anything from us. We sold them.”
I’m stunned. “We sold them?”
“All of them.”
“Just a minute. Who the hell bought thirty cases at once?”
“It wasn’t all at once. There was one man from Harrods, then a very elegant lady from British Airways, a chef, and even a couple in uniform from the cruise line ... We have three bottles left at the stand.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Wonderful?! How are we going to last until Monday?!”
“Let me think ... The reserves! You remember those two cases we have at the hotel?”
“Yeah, but that’s just twelve bottles. And it’s not even our best wine.”
“For now, go and get them. Giada’s coming today, right? I’ll call and tell her to bring ten more cases. It will cost us with the airline, but there’s nothing else we can do. Now go—”
“Excuse me, are you Miss Elisa Benetti?” interrupts a woman of indeterminate age, wearing a suit that highlights every defect of my own makeshift jacket and trousers.
“Yes, that’s me,” I reply.
“I’m Mary Glenfield fromWine Spectator. Could I disturb you for a short interview?”
I pinch myself. A journalist from the most important magazine in the sector wants to interview me?!
“Ma mi garba abbestia!” I involuntarily spurt out a Florentine expression of enthusiasm as the journalist stares at me, confused. “I mean, for sure,” I say.
