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 forfour 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 ...
