“So?” Foliero asks me with an inquisitive air.
“She confirmed it. The order is from His Highness The Prince of Wales.”
“Damn! Now that’s an order.”
“Yeah, too bad it’s probably our last.”
Normally, we would have celebrated something like this with fireworks, but with our imminent fate in mind, we accept it with the muted enthusiasm of a consolation prize.
“Everyone, stay calm! Just calm down!” shouts Mamma, who is anything but calm as she bursts into the kitchen.
“What happened? Did the school call? Is Linda sick?” I ask, already in a panic.
“Charles is back!” she announces.
“Mr. Bingley?” asks Foliero, as if we knew another Charles.
“He’s just arrived; he’s unpacking his luggage. Donatella asked me to go and make up a room for him.”
“Is he alone?” I ask with a tremor in my voice.
“Yeah. Luckily his stuck-up sister isn’t here.” I didn’t mean her, but I got the answer I needed anyway.
I sigh for two reasons: the first, from relief, because Michael isn’t here; the second, from disappointment, because Michael isn’t here. Donatella appears in the arch of the door. “Elisa, Mr. Bingley is waiting for you in the study.”
Here it is; this moment had to come sooner or later. My heart quivers, but I’ll face this too.
I walk down the hallway that goes around the internal courtyard to the study, a delightful room in all shades of blue that today will set the scene for my execution.
“Hi, Elisa,” Charles greets me, his perpetually disheveled red mop of hair contrasting with the furniture’s pastel tones. “How’s it going? You look well.”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Sit down.” He gestures toward the armchair next to the fireplace. “You’re making me uncomfortable just standing there.”
“I’m not very comfortable either, I confess.”
“Oh, why?”
I sit on the edge of the chair, knees stiff and arms folded.
“Well, I know you came to tell me that you’ve sold the estate to the Russian, and we’ll have to leave.” He starts to say something but I continue. “We’re trying to get organized. As soon as I got back from London, I found a place for us, but the apartment we wanted won’t be ready for another two weeks. I realize I’m asking a lot from you, and maybe the Russian won’t agree, but believe me, I’ve done everything possible to arrange to leave the estate as soon as possible. It’s just that we’ve had to work within the limits of our means. I have Linda at school—”
“Okay, slow down,” he interrupts me, raising his hand. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Bogdanovic, who bought the estate to build a golf club. Michael told me about it. And he also told me you were in a rush to sell and had planned to close this Monday. But, like I said, we’re ready to leave. We just need fifteen days.”
“Did you think I came here to hand you an eviction notice?” he asks, wide-eyed.
“What else would you be here for?”
Charles smiles and I find myself totally lost. “Bogdanovic withdrew from the deal. He’s not buying the estate.”
“Ah” is all I manage to say, my brain still busy processing the information.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
