“She never moved away?” I ask. “I remember she wanted to study literature in Milan and get a master’s degree in publishing.”
“Let’s say life had other plans.”
“So what did she do?”
“She studied enology; now she manages the estate’s vineyards.”
“Ah, so she—”
“You’ll be seeing her often, yes,” Mariana finishes my sentence for me, since I’m speechless with embarrassment. “Maybe you should apologize.”
I’m about to retort that I have better things to do, which is a hard sell, given that I lack the technological means to do anything, when Caroline arrives in the kitchen doorway, already fully dressed and made up.
“What does someone have to do around here to get breakfast in bed?” she asks angrily. “I’ve been buzzing the intercom for thirty minutes.”
“The intercom, like so many other things around here, is broken. We need to fix it,” Mariana replies.
“We’re off to a great start,” she comments, rolling her eyes. “I’d just love a slice of wholegrain bread toasted for a minute and a half, a fat-free yogurt and an unsweetened mango, papaya, and pineapple juice. I’ll eat in the dining room. Michael, will you join me?”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Let’s chat. I need to vent to someone who understands me. What a farce last night’s fair was! It was just missing a ring with a mechanical bull. Another planet to Grosvenor Square, don’t you think?”
God, save me. “Where can I find Elisa?” I ask with almost too much enthusiasm, jumping up.
Mariana looks amazed by my sudden change of heart. “She’s at the stables, but she’ll be leaving for the vineyard soon.”
“Maybe I’ll bring her a roll,” I say, wrapping a pastry in a white-and-blue checked napkin. “As a peace offering.”
“Oh, so you’re an optimist.”
“Wish me luck, Mariana.”
“Wait!” she stops me, pouring a dark, steaming liquid into a cup. “Coffee. You’re gonna need it.”
I take a sip and don’t know if it’s too hot or too bitter. “Is this substance even legal?” I gasp, my throat scalded and my eyes and nose watering.
“Not even the devil has a roast like mine. I grind the beans to dust. You’re welcome! Anyway, off you go to face the beast.”
10
Elisa
August is a month of joy and anxiety: joy, because the grape harvest is approaching and we get to see the fruits of a year’s work; anxiety, because of everything that could go wrong.
Parasites, viruses, fungi, hailstorms ... and every kind of plague in the Bible and beyond.
Four years ago we had a tough time—like so many other winemakers—withScaphoideus titanus, a sneaky little insect we soon referred to asSyphilis titanus, with the unfortunate superpower of attacking the vines with an incurable infectious disease.
This morning Foliero and I are studying some of the leaf samples he collected yesterday, which have jagged edges and brownish spots.
I’m examining them under a microscope so we can anticipate any issues like downy mildew; an increase in humidity can make it easier to attack the vine.
“So?” Foliero asks me, anxiously.
“I don’t see the typical mosaic marks, nor do they have the characteristic polygonal shape, delimited by the veins,” I say, observing the sample on the slide. “But let’s collect some leaves from the same row and neighboring ones every evening to see if they appear. We have to stave it off for a few more weeks to get us through the harvest.”
“May God give us a good one!” he exclaims, mounting his horse. “I’m going to tell Carlo and Angelo.”
