She can’t see me now, but my face is the picture of relief. “So, that massage gel you bought wasn’t for him?”
“Do you need a man to use massage gel?”
I force myself to erase the mental image generated by her sentence before the animal instinct I kept at bay a few moments ago takes over, because this time there is no Keynesian theory that can hold me back. “So, is the tour over?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Oh no. You still have to see the production facility and cellars, but it’s too late now. We can do it tomorrow if you don’t have any plans.”
“What else would I be doing here?” I reply, in an attempt to hide my enthusiasm, because the idea of spending another day with her makes me rejoice.
We arrive at the stables, and to my great disappointment, our ride together comes to an end.
“I hope you enjoyed today,” she says, as we dismount. “I know you probably have no interest in most of it, but I’m sure the more you know, the more you can understand that Le Giuggiole can’t be thrown away.”
“You’re right. It shouldn’t be thrown away. Call me crazy, but Belvedere shouldn’t be thrown away either: It’s the classic postcardvillage, but it needs to enter the twenty-first century. There isn’t even a sushi restaurant, and there’s sushi everywhere nowadays.”
“You miss sushi here?” she asks me with a skeptical look.
“It was just an example. A gym wouldn’t be bad either. Isn’t there anyone who wants to keep fit with a run on the treadmill?”
“Of course there’s a gym!” she exclaims.
“Really?” I ask, shocked.
“Follow me.” She motions for me to leave the stables with her and spans her arm across the landscape.
“Here are our treadmills. There’s no LED screen to watch the news, but you can enjoy this incomparable view of the hills. No heart rate monitor either, just the sound of your breathing.”
“Aren’t you being a little too poetic?” I challenge her.
“And aren’t you a little too blind?” she replies. “Race me to the villa?”
I didn’t expect this. “Do you seriously want to compete?”
“Why, you don’t?”
“It wouldn’t be a fair competition,” I protest.
“Do you mean for me or for you?” She doesn’t stand aside. In fact, she gathers her hair into a high, tight ponytail, like a runner.
“Do you really want me to tear you to shreds, Elisa?”
“And do you want to run or stand here and chat?”
“I think you’re teasing me.”
“And I think you’re scared.”
Here it is, the magic phrase. Like when we were kids, whenever she wanted to push me to do something, all she had to do was utter those words to awaken my pride.
“Me, scared? I’ll even be chivalrous. After you.”
“Okay. Take your marks,” she says, tracing a starting line on the dirt road with her heel. “When I say ‘three.’ One ... Two ... Go!”
Elisa rushes forward without even saying “three.” Just like I used to do—I’m stupid for forgetting.
I catch up with her, and we run down the path side by side, shooting each other competitive glances.
I have to admit she’s in better shape than I thought.
