“Count Umberto’s parrot. He always carried him on his shoulder, like a pirate, and taught him to speak.”
“And to act like a rooster.”
“Renato repeats everything he hears.”
“I hope he got the message not to wake me at five again. Oh, I think my shower is broken—last night everything was fine, but this morning the water was freezing.”
Mariana sighs. “The boiler broke; it doesn’t heat much water. We have to get a new one. In reality, we need a whole new system. It leaks everywhere, and that’s just for starters.”
Very good, this is good news, Charles will be happy about it. “Speaking of things to fix.” I turn practical. “Is there a cell phone repair shop in town? I can’t connect to the Wi-Fi; my phone must be broken.”
“We don’t get Wi-Fi here. They don’t service us. There’s a data signal, though, but it only works outside because the walls are too thick. Are you hungry?”
“What do you mean, no Wi-Fi?” I ask, horrified, hoping I’ve misunderstood. “And what do you mean I can only get data outside?”
“It can feel a bit isolated here, but you’ll adapt.”
“I can’t adapt. I have things to do. I have to work. How can I do anything without Wi-Fi?”
“You’ll rest,” she replies peacefully.
“What about TV? Where can I watch cable? BBC, CNN, Fox, Bloomberg ...”
“At Mario’s bar. He has a satellite dish so they can watch the games. Would you like a fresh, hot raisin roll?”
“I have to make myself a coffee,” I say in an attempt to maintain control, which I feel is one short step from slipping away. “Where’s the Nespresso?”
“The what?”
“The Nespresso,” I repeat. “The coffee machine.”
“We only have a percolator here.”
“Everyone uses Nespresso,” I say, amazed that Mariana doesn’t even know what it is. “Compact machines, coffee on demand, special blends ... Nespresso—What else? Even George Clooney says so in the ad!”
I’m starting to panic: no Wi-Fi, fickle data, no satellite dish, the boiler doesn’t heat enough water, and I can’t make a coffee. I have to get on the first flight back to London.
Mariana shrugs. “Donatella and I drink barley coffee, Giada doesn’t drink coffee, and Linda is still too young.”
“Was Linda the girl who was here before?”
“Yeah. She’s Donatella’s ... great-niece, she’s in eighth grade, and she practically grew up here since her parents go abroad so much for work. She’s very quiet, very studious. You’ll barely notice she’s here.”
“I see.” I’m not very enthusiastic about the idea of sharing my living space with kids. I think I lack any paternal instinct whatsoever. In fact, I know I do, given my preference for child-free restaurants and hotels.
“She’s staying with us in the annex,” she specifies, handing me a steaming roll.
From her look, I know she’s picked up on my hesitation.
“Speaking of children, I heard you saw Elisa last night ...” I can tell from her suggestive tone that sheknows.
“More or less,” I waver.
“I heard it didn’t go so well.”
How can I blame her? “Is Elisa still mad?” I ask.
Her look says my question is futile. “Believe me, Michael. She’s changed a lot over the years, but her character is the same as ever. She’s a sensitive one.”
