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 labeledUnion of the Municipalities of Belvedere and Collalto. “The municipalities decided to accelerate the approval of their union and needed to homogenize their policies forthe 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.
