“You’ve thought this all through.”
“A million times.”
Ross ran his hand across the barrel’s smooth surface. “If he’s never around, why does he care if you go?”
“It’s just different here. Here, breaking up a family, whatever the reason, is seen as worse than having an affair. Besides, why would Maurizio want to? The status quo works for him. He gets a wife and mother at home and the freedom and excitement of the road.”
“And the fact that he cheats doesn’t bother him?”
“To him cheating is irrelevant. Have you heard the word scappatella?”
“No.”
“It means a little love affair. Some believe that an occasional scappatella is good for a marriage. That it keeps it fresh.”
“So fidelity in marriage isn’t important to Maurizio.”
“No, it doesn’t matter if he cheats. If I were to cheat, that would be something very different.”
“A double standard.”
“Big double standard.” Then she added, “Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I believe there are some things a man and a woman should only share with each other.”
“So how do you get by?”
She finished her wine then set down the glass. “I raise a little boy. And I paint.”
“And you do both of them very well.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. She checked her watch. “We better go. I’m sure Manuela has a feast prepared.” As they walked toward the stair, Ross slipped his arm around her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She said, “If you’re not busy this afternoon, we could get further on the painting.”
“I’m all yours.”
She smiled at the thought of that possibility.
“So how many sessions do we have left anyway?” Ross asked.
“I don’t know, five or six.” She looked over at him. “Are you getting tired of them?”
“No.”
“Good. But no more serious talk tonight. Or we’ll never get done.”
Then the two of them walked together back to the villa.
CHAPTER 19
“Il rumore d’un bacio non e cosi forte come quello del cannone, ma la sua eco dura molti piu lungo.”
The sound of a kiss is not as strong as that of a cannon, but its echo endures much longer.
—Italian Proverb
“I suppose I had my first real Italian lessons today.”
—Ross Story’s diary
Manuela was gone for the day and Alessio was asleep in his bedroom. The windows of the studio were open, though not as much as they would have been just a week earlier. The air was now laced with a coolness—a harbinger of fall’s approach. Ross was in his chair. She had been painting for more than an hour and their conversation had been light. Ross was feeling more like a bowl of fruit than usual.
Suddenly he said, “Dorian Gray.”
She looked over from around the easel.
“What?”
“The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Did you ever read it?”
“A long time ago. When I was in high school. Why?”
“I just suddenly remembered it, sitting here having my portrait painted.”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. After a prolonged moment she said, “Doesn’t he end up killing the artist who painted his portrait?”
“I think you’re right.”
Pause.
“We can talk about something else.”
“Are you tired from this morning?”
“I’m a little sore.”
“I’m surprised, the way you’re always exercising.”
“Grape harvesting takes different muscles, I guess. Trying to keep up with those old men just about did me in.”
“I told you. And you should have used gloves. Now your hands are purple.”
“Sorry.” He stretched then apologized for moving. “Would you tell me the truth if I asked you something?”
She groaned. “I don’t know how much more honesty I can stand today.”
“This won’t hurt you. Only me.”
“If it’s only you,” she said facetiously.
“How is my Italian? Really.”
She was relieved at the question. “Bene. It’s good. You have a remarkable vocabulary.”
“I can remember words. It’s the pronunciation I don’t think is very good. I still have a little trouble rolling my Rs the way Italians do.”
“Most English speakers do. I couldn’t roll my Rs at all my first year here. Then I met an American woman with flawless Italian. I told her that I couldn’t roll my Rs and she said, Honey, speaking Italian is like kissing. It’s not so much what you do with your tongue as how you hold your mouth. Then she taught me this trick. Before I knew it I could say, arrrrrrrrrrrrrivederci.”
“Now you’re showing off.”
“Want to learn how?”
“Certo.”
She put down her brush and came out from behind her easel to sit down next to Ross. “Okay, repeat after me. Bitter. Batter. Butter.”
“Bitter. Batter. Butter.”
“Now smile when you say it and hold the first vowel, like this,” she said, sticking her lips out in exaggeration. “Beeeter, baaater, booooter.”
“Do I have to look dumb like that when I say it?”
“Yep, just like that. Now you try it.”
“Beeeter, baaater, booooter.”
“Good. Now your mouth is in the right position to roll the R. In fact it’s almost automatic.”
“Beeeterrr, baaaterrr, booooterrr.”
“Stick your lips out more on the R.”
“Beeeterrrr, baaaterrrr, booooterrrr.”
“No, you need to stick them out more. Like you’re kissing.”
“Beeeterrrr, baaaterrrr, booooterrrr.”
“Like this.” She put her hand on Ross’s face and squeezed his cheeks together until his lips were pursed. “Now try it.”
“Beeeter, baaater, booooter.”
She released her hand. “Come on, Ross, don’t you know how to kiss?”
“Let me try.” At this Ross leaned forward and kissed her. She froze and closed her eyes as the warmth of his mouth melted into hers. He slowly drew back from her and her eyes were locked on his, in surprise and awe. She felt a little breathless.
His voice was low. “I’m a little rusty. Was that all right?”
She swallowed. “Not bad.”
There was a light rap on the open door.
They both looked over. Luca, the winery manager, stood in the doorway. He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Excuse me, Signora Ferrini, I saw your light on. I didn’t want to wake Alessio.”
Eliana was suddenly pale. “What do you need, Luca?”
“I brought the menu for the vendemmia feast for your approval.”
“Of course. Just set it right there. I’ll look over it in the morning.”
“Very good.” He set the paper on a shelf and looked at Ross again. “Sorry to disturb you. Good night.” He walked off.
When the door shut, Eliana groaned, briefly covering her eyes with her hand. “I didn’t see him standing there. Do you think he saw that?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
She looked down for a moment. “It’s okay. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It didn’t?”
She looked at him in silence. She didn’t know what else to say.
Ross stood. “I better go.”
Eliana followed him down to the foyer. At the doorway she put her arms around him and pressed herself into him. He held her. Their partings had lost their awkwardness, but now they seemed more difficult each time.
“Same time tomorrow?” Ross asked.
She looked down. “I’m sorry. I’m so flustered. What day is tomorrow?”
“Thursday.”
“No, I need to get ready for the vendemmia feast. You’re still coming, aren’t you?”
“I was planning on it
.”
“Good.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Sleep well.”
“Good night. I’ll see you Sunday.”
She shut the door behind him and leaned against it, thinking about a life with just him.
CHAPTER 20
“D’amor non s’intende che prudenza ad amore.” One who tries to unite prudence and love knows nothing about love.
—Italian Proverb
“I had never supposed a woman could be so lovely.”
—Ross Story’s diary
The caterers from the restaurant Osteria di Rendola arrived Sunday at one o’clock. They pulled their three-wheeled Ape truck up to the side of the building, threw open its doors and began carrying large platters of food to the kitchen on the top floor of the winery. The vendemmia feast was a thing of beauty. The antipasta included mushroom-and-mint focaccia bread, pheasant salad with grape reduction sauce, fig and walnut bread with Tuscan ham, chicken liver-Vin santo pâté crostini and wild bitter greens omelette. There were two kinds of soups: tomato and bread, and corn meal and chestnut. For the first plate there was cannelini bean and ricotta lasagna, flavored with rosemary, and from the grill porcini mushroom caps with grape leaves, roasted pork ribs with wild garlic and black pepper and Sangiovese wine-marinated Chianina steak. There were three kinds of dessert: grape focaccia, chestnut flour crepes with chocolate mousse, and chilled Sangiovese grape-and-peach soup.
The guests, the vineyard and winery workers, began arriving three hours after the caterers. They came by automobile, bicycle and scooter but mostly by foot, dressed in their Sunday best; the older men wearing hats with the musty dark wool suit coats that they had worn for decades, their women plodding silently beside them. Once at the winery, they tediously climbed the steps to the top floor, where the salone was prepared for the feast. There they divorced themselves from each other’s company, the old men gathering in a pack at one end of the hall while the women gathered in the kitchen, where they found ways to busy themselves, helping the caterer stir sauces or spread pâté across crostini.
The young men came dressed in leather jackets or sports coats and collared shirts unbuttoned to their abdomens, with young ladies on their arms and imperious smiles and cigarettes on their lips. The young people congregated in their own section of the hall.
There were five long banquet tables brimming with food and large demijohns of wine, Merlot and Sangiovese, from the previous harvest.
Ross had taken a small group through the Uffizi that morning and arrived at the winery a full hour after the festivities had gotten under way. He climbed the stairs and walked into the room alone, wearing slacks and a sports coat with a black T-shirt underneath. There was music playing in the hall, a band of elderly men with an accordion, a recorder and a guitar, playing cheerful Tuscan folk songs. Laughter and conversation filled the room.
Anna was the first to notice Ross’s entrance, and she walked to the doorway, escorted by a portly gentleman, moon-faced with a curt tuft of hair on his chin. Anna greeted Ross affectionately, kissing both of his cheeks.
“Good evening, Mr. Story. How are you today? So glad you could come.” They were the only three lines of English that she remembered verbatim from Eliana’s lessons, and she had recited the lines so formally that Ross had to fight the impulse to laugh.
“Ciao, Anna. You said that very well. You have very good English.”
She flushed. “No, my English is poor.”
“Looks like the festivities are in full swing.”
She looked at him blankly, not understanding what he said. Ross switched to Italian. “Thank you for inviting me. Is this your friend?”
The man reached out his hand. “I’m Andrea.”
“Piacere, Andrea. I’m Ross.”
“Piacere mio.” My pleasure. “And I don’t speak a word of English.”
Just then Maurizio walked up to Ross, wearing a loose-fitting beige Armani suit. Eliana was at his side, holding his hand, her eyes softly following him. She was made up for the occasion. Her cheeks were lightly rouged, accenting the deep crimson of her lips. She wore a sheer dress, orchid in color, that fell to her knees, with an open top that was slit down the middle to her waist. The two halves of the blouse were brought together with string, laced up, yet still open, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her breasts. He guessed Maurizio had bought the dress for her, dressing her up for show. If so, he had done a good job of it. She had never looked more beautiful, and it made Ross ache inside.
Maurizio raised both his hands to shoulder height, as if in surprise. “Mr. Story, you made it after all.”
“Yes. I had to work this morning. Thank you for the invitation.”
“This is your first Vendemmia?”
“Yes. Well, I don’t recall going to any in Minneapolis.” He looked over at Eliana, who was silently gazing at him. He tipped his head. “Mrs. Ferrini.”
“Hello, Signore Story. I’m glad you could come.”
“Thank you.” There was a momentary pause—a tension between them that Eliana hoped Maurizio would not notice.
“Where’s Alessio?” Ross asked.
Maurizio spoke. “He’s out playing with the other children.”
Ross rubbed his hands. “Well then, I’m new at this; where shall I sit?”
“Wherever you like. We’re at the table up near the front, but I’m afraid it’s full already.”
“There are plenty of other tables.”
Eliana looked away from him, and the tension was growing unbearable for Ross. “You have a lot of people to greet. Thanks again for the invitation.”
“You’re welcome,” Maurizio said. “Enjoy yourself. Drink lots of wine. There is much wine.”
Maurizio stepped away, pulling Eliana with him. She glanced back at Ross, her face revealing nothing but her eyes shining with longing.
Ross went to the buffet table. He loaded up a platter, took a glass of wine, then sat down at a table with an older couple and two young, caramel-skinned girls in their midteens who were already eating. The girls were awkward around him at first, as he was both handsome and foreign; their dark eyes darted from each other to him.
One of the girls said to the other, “He’s carino. Was he one of the workers?”
“My brother said he came for the first day. He’s Eliana Ferrini’s friend.”
“Where is he from? England?”
“No, he looks American. Don’t you think he looks a little like Mel Gibson?”
“Mel Gibson isn’t American.”
“What if he spoke Italian? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”
“Certo, certo.” They both giggled at this.
Ross let them talk about him for several more minutes before he greeted them in near-perfect Italian. The girls both blushed, but Ross only laughed and they soon overcame their embarrassment. They began asking him questions about American music, American girls and whether or not he had ever met Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson.
Though he resisted looking at Eliana, it was difficult and he failed occasionally, glancing at her as she played the proper role of the capo’s wife. She shared her table with Maurizio, Alessio, Manuela and her husband, Vittorio, Anna and Andrea, Luca and his wife, Concetta, who was busy talking with Alessio. Alessio was also dressed up for the occasion, wearing a clip-on tie and a little sports coat. As he looked at them, Ross felt like an exile.
Eliana suddenly looked over at him as if she knew his thoughts; their eyes met briefly and she smiled then turned away.
Before Ross finished his plate, some of the men began moving the buffet tables to an adjoining room, and the musical trio moved among the tables, enticing the guests to dance. The older couples pirouetted to the liscio, an Italian waltz, while the younger generation mimicked them with their own, more physical version.
After every few songs the band would take a break and turn on a CD of Latino music. Then the older generation would retire or try to follow the younger dancers. During a Latino song one of the
young women at his table took Ross’s hand. “Vorrebbe ballare?”
He answered, “I don’t really know how to dance.”
“See Giacomo?” She pointed to an elderly man not five feet tall, with a face as wrinkled as olive bark. He was joyfully dancing by himself, his arms out as if around a phantom partner, oblivious to the cessation of the music. Ross smiled at the sight of him.
“He’s eighty-nine,” she said. “If Giacomo can dance, so can you.”
“Ci provo.” I’ll try.
Ross danced four times, twice with each of the young women, as they were now trying to outdo each other. After the dances he sat back down to catch his breath as the accordion music started up again and the older couples retook the dance floor. Suddenly Eliana was standing next to his table. “Is everyone having a good time?”
Everyone at the table responded enthusiastically. One man raised a glass of wine to her.
She looked at Ross. “Are you having fun, Mr. Story?”
“Sì. Molto.” Much.
She leaned into Ross and whispered to him, “Meet me at the bottom of the vineyard road behind the cantina in ten minutes. I want to show you something.”
She walked back to her table. Ross watched her, and then, after a few minutes, Eliana said something to Manuela and casually walked toward the ladies’ room. After a short while Ross excused himself from the table and walked toward the opposite door. Across the room Luca watched him leave.
Ross walked down the stairs to the outside, then followed the back gravel road to a small dirt patch the workers used to park their cars, surrounded by a cluster of olive trees and bouquets of yellow broom. Eliana was there, leaning against the vertical post of a log fence, watching him descend toward her. A twilight breeze caused a few errant strands of her hair to dance around her face. When he was within a few feet of her, she motioned to him. “This way.”
The Last Promise Page 17