Michael
When Bingley tells me he sold the estate to Elisa, I feel as if I’ve begun to atone for all my sins.
Now she’s happy, on the threshold of realizing her dream. I, on the other hand, have spent three weeks on the threshold of hell. Saxton asked me to meet with him this evening, and even though I’m not exactly brimming with enthusiasm, I plan to go. I’d be working late anyway. I might as well break up the rhythm for once.
“Michael, come in,” Saxton jovially invites me to take a seat on one of the two chesterfield sofas on either side of the burning hearth.
I unbutton my jacket and sit opposite him without saying a word.
“So, I see you continue to perform at the highest levels. How are you able to stay so persistent and full of energy?”
“I know how to manage my limits.”
“You’re not on any of those strange stimulants?”
“I don’t need them. And work keeps my mind busy.”
“I understand. Good for you,” he observes, stroking his short, white beard. “And what about that woman I met at Barry’s event? Elisa, if I’m not mistaken.”
“She’s back in Italy,” I reply distantly.
“Ah, I thought she’d stay; it seemed rather serious.”
“A serious relationship, me? You know I’m not the type, Sax.” The words coming out of my mouth don’t sound convincing in the slightest.
“You’ve never introduced me to anyone before. I thought it was important.”
“It just happened, that’s all.”
He nods and shrugs. “It’s probably for the best, after all.” He presses the intercom to summon his assistant. “Eve, bring in the cart, please.” And less than half a minute later, she appears with a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne and two flutes on a tray.
“What are we celebrating?” I ask him.
He gets up and uncorks the bottle. “You.”
“Me?”
“Let’s drink to Michael D’Arcy, sole owner of Saxton & D’Arcy,” he says, filling the glasses. “I’ve already started making arrangements to transfer my shares to you.”
I take the glass, still unsure of what I’ve just heard. “Are you retiring?”
“I think you’re more than ready to steer this company through the coming decades. Maybe in forty years, sitting here at my desk—unless you want to keep your current office—you’ll think back to this moment and remember me.”
“Forty years ...” I repeat, without being able to fathom such a long period of time.
“Or fifty! Who knows when you’ll finally wear yourself out,” he chuckles. “You know, you were unfocused for a time, but the imposed holiday did you good, you came back tougher and feistier than ever.”
“Yeah.” I’d like to express slightly more complex thoughts, but only monosyllables come out. And what’s worse is that if Saxton had given me this same speech four months ago, I would have jumped to the ceiling for joy. Now, however, I can’t feel the slightest bit of happiness.
“Anyway, I won’t disappear overnight. I’ll stay until January to settle all my affairs, at which point you’ll take the helm.” He raises his glass in the air and takes a sip of champagne.
I stare at the bubbles slowly rising along the sides of the crystal flute, which reflects the flames of the fireplace, while my mind travels elsewhere.
Forty years.
It’s as if the walls of the room are closing in on me, the floor and ceiling crushing me.
Suddenly I miss the warm Tuscan sun on my skin, the smell of the earth, the weight of grape bunches in my hands, the drum of horses’ hooves, the commotion of the Belvedere fairs, the crackling muffler of the Cinquecento, “Fiumi di Parole,” theribollitasimmering on the fire, the scent of freshly baked focaccia, the aroma of the wood barrels in the cellars, the fireflies in the hedge, the clothes that smell of aromatic herbs after a walk in the garden, my face sticky with watermelon juice, Elisa’s laughter, her light breath that caresses my skin as she sleeps on my chest, her fingers in my hair ... It all barrels toward me like a speeding truck.
