"You're in the wrong arena. Focus on the 'natural'."
"Come on, Oleg. Stop being a prick-tease. That's my speciality. Tell me."
Oleg suppressed his disappointment. He'd hoped to string Andrei along for a good few minutes but he recognised imminent waves of unsympathetic impatience about to emanate from Andrei. This wasn't the time to irritate his potential partner.
"Olives."
"Olives? Are you crazy? What do olives have to do with liquid gold?"
"More accurately, olive trees and olives. These were and are the source of liquid gold. Olive oil, no less."
"Wait a minute." Andrei's brow furrowed. "Are you suggesting people exist who'll pay the equivalent of several hundred dollars for a litre of olive oil? No one's that mad. It only costs five to seven euros for an imported litre in a supermarket in Tallinn, which is not renowned for its olive groves. Around the Mediterranean it's even less. I've seen it selling for two to three euros a litre in Spain and Greece."
"Americans will pay stupendous amounts for what they think is the best Extra Virgin Olive Oil. They buy it labelled as coming from Italy even though the best Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil may contain up to 49 per cent originating elsewhere, from Spain or Crete or even Tunisia."
"You're joking? ... Aren't you?"
"No. What's more, this liquid gold offers you and me the potential to establish our fortunes, literally and figuratively. But I'll warn you from the start, we'll need patience. My plan is not one that'll deliver in a month or even a couple of years. If we channel our impatience we'll pull off an invisible insurance coup, corner a valuable market for a short period and transfer to ourselves tens, if not many tens, of millions of clean, laundered euros. All this for an investment of perhaps two to four million between us over a three-year period. I might even be underestimating what we might make."
"You intrigue. But you'll need to convince me. I do still have the odd dirty million that requires cleansing. Do I assume you have the same?"
"Exactly. Assuming all works, we'll convert those dirty millions and multiply them by ten, twenty, or more into clean ones."
"It sounds too good to be true."
"I agree. It was my own first reaction. Then I started to dig."
Andrei raised an eyebrow. Oleg continued, describing how he'd found an industry corrupt for centuries, one going back to the Romans and before. He explained how the olive tree is possibly the most productive plant imaginable – tough, able to survive treacherous conditions from snow to high heat, and with minimal water. Once mature an olive tree produces for centuries. From the pressings of its olives come different grades of eating oil, beauty products as diverse as soap, salves and perfumes as well as remnant oil for lighting. Oleg finished by explaining that even when an olive tree dies it has value either as firewood burning hot and slow or in the form of artisan products.
"To add to its attractions the modern olive industry attracts subsidies. It has done so for generations. In Spain, Franco poured money into planting trees. Later the European Union followed his example, in Italy, Spain, Greece and other countries, executed in the name of employment creation in impoverished rural areas. But the sweetest spot is Extra Virgin Olive Oil, which, as a defined concept, is as slippery as its composition."
"I don't understand."
"You may not believe it, Andrei, but Extra Virgin Olive Oil possesses a fantastically vague, almost negative definition. Summarised, Virgin Olive Oil has to be produced by mechanical means with no chemical treatments. Extra Virgin Olive Oil goes further and must contain no more than 0.8 per cent free acidity, have an average defect level of less than 3.5 on a scale of 10 with a fruit value of greater than 0, be judged to have a superior taste and no defined sensory defects."
"Are you having me on? That sounds ridiculous. Surely something more explicit must exist, like for champagne or other wines?"
"No. That's our opportunity. We're going to make our millions from Extra Virgin Olive Oil, if you agree to participate. But we're not going to be mere olive oil salesmen like the Mafia. We will be far more sophisticated in order to reap, in one staggering move, far greater and hidden rewards."
"Do Americans really pay up to hundreds of dollars per litre?"
"Yes, though without realising it. Some buy quarter-litre bottles costing seventy-five dollars or more."
"So what do I contribute?"
Chapter Two
Winter
Friday: Madrid
Lili felt shattered. The flight from San Francisco to London had consumed its usual ten-plus long hours. Marooned in an economy aisle seat, because business class was full, she'd slept off and on, not aided by the nice little boy in the middle seat between her and his mother. Both of them had needed the bathroom during the flight, interrupting whatever sleep Lili had earned.
Heathrow was its usual crowded mess. Although tempted by a shower she had foregone that pleasure in favour of a decent meal. Her imperative was to re-establish her body clock onto European time. All too soon she had re-entered her next plane, for Madrid.
Three hours later she emerged from the Barajas terminal to take the mini-bus to long-term parking. Her car keys were at the bottom of her briefcase and, once found, she paid before driving off. It had rained while she'd been on the West Coast. Her car possessed a soggy dust coating and would need a good clean after she reached home, still three hours to the south.
Turning onto the A4 towards Aranjuez and Córdoba Lili wondered if she'd been stupid. Should she have gone into Madrid to see Enrique's cousin, had lunch and rested over a decent siesta? Or even stayed over Friday night? The first would have meant leaving Madrid on a Friday evening to compete with the regular weekend exodus. If she had opted for the Saturday morning departure there would have been minimal traffic but she wouldn't have been in her own bed on Friday night.
The lunch plus siesta option had been easily dismissed. Enrique's cousin would have welcomed her and talked without pause. Alone in Madrid, where she'd chosen to remain after her husband died, Lili would have had no siesta.
The Saturday option had been dispelled by making the mistake of checking the weather forecast while eating breakfast at Heathrow. It had predicted medium to heavy rain. Lili didn't like driving in rain. As a Canadian brought up in Ontario snow was easily handled. But rain filled her with fear. She could not forget her father's crash when their car aquaplaned off a rain-sodden curve into a tree. Although Lili was unharmed, protected in her child seat, the collision left her father with severe whiplash, permanently restricted movement in one leg and a newly brittle temper which shed the warmth he had provided before the accident. Whenever given a choice she avoided cars and rain.
So here she was, jet-lagged with too little sleep and a developing headache. Her priority was to stay awake. The next hours on the road would be tough. She must not cave in to her sense of malaise.
Her mobile phone rang. Lili pressed the hands-free answer button and was relieved to hear Enrique's voice.
"Where are you, cariño? Are you okay? Have you left Barajas yet?"
"Hola, Enrique. It's good to hear you."
Relief flowed through Lili. To chat would provide her with a bounce. The threatened headache receded.
"I'm about to pass Ocaña, so I make decent progress."
"When are you going to stop for a coffee? You know you'll need a break."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll stop, but only to fill the car. I've had enough coffee in the last day to float a hippopotamus and make all of it tingle. What I need is some good bread, fresh vegetables and some of our own olive oil. After a week in the States I want things simple, plus a warm comfy bed with you in it."
She frowned. Did she mean it about the bed?
"Sounds good to me. All will be ready for when you arrive. I guess, given the time now, you'll be here about six thirty, maybe seven?"
"Yes. I just wish Úbeda was closer to a decent airport. Yeah, I'm always bitching about its remoteness, and I know we can't have it both ways. But it wou
ld be so much easier."
"Ya, ya. Stop complaining. Think of what you are coming home to, not what you've been doing. By the way, was the trip successful? How did the Thursday meetings go?"
"It's too soon to assess the 'how successful' part. But I did need to make the trip and obtained one introduction with potential from Thursday alone. No, I'm not going to tell you now. I'm still thinking over what was suggested. You'll have to wait."
"Mandonísima. Always refusing to tell me what you've achieved before you're ready."
"Sorry. But remember, I don't like talking shop and driving at the same time."
"Okay, okay. Just stop soon for a break. ¿Por favor?"
"I promise. By the way, I did manage to sell the rest of last season's olive oil to an Italian buyer, a new one. That clears out last year's stocks. Anyhow, you'll call me in an hour or so to make sure I'm awake?"
"Yes. Drive safely, cariño mio. Besos."
Enrique hung up before she responded. Nevertheless, Lili was comforted. The pleasure in hearing his voice almost always calmed her. Yet almost immediately other more ominous thoughts crowded in.
She hadn't explained to Enrique that a side-reason for heading to California was to visit one of her old bosses. Their meeting had become a formal job interview and an outline offer followed. She didn't know how to, or even if she could, tell Enrique. To do so would crystallise a host of issues she had been refusing to face. By proceeding with the interview, had she started down a road to ruining everything? Had she, who was always so meticulous in her organisation and preparation, screwed up? Her eyes watered. Lili wanted to weep. At least driving meant this was unthinkable.
The same day: Úbeda (Southern Spain)
Enrique laid down his mobile phone. While happy that Lili was well on her way back, he wasn't content. She wasn't telling him something. Furthermore, she knew he didn't like selling their good oil to Italians who would combine it with their own to resell the result as best Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil, even though it had little more than 50 per cent Italian content.
This latest trip to the West Coast had arisen too fast. It contrasted with her normal approach where she planned weeks if not months ahead to make the most of the time and expense associated with transatlantic travel. This one she'd arranged with under ten days' notice.
Despite his concerns, Enrique knew he shouldn't complain. Lili's enthusiasm kept him motivated even as she worked the marketing and sales. They both well knew the payment for the remainder of last season's crop would be more than handy.
Enrique had first met Lili when she'd been a successful investment banker working from London for a major US firm. They had both booked a Tuscan walking and cooking holiday. In her words she was there to 'chill out', to take a break after she'd closed a major deal that would add a million to her bonus that year. When she told Enrique he hadn't been able to accept anybody less than a senior executive could earn so much, not when she wasn't anywhere near the topmost tiers of management.
Lili had also revealed that she'd chosen the holiday more for its walking component than the cooking. Ironically it was the food dimension that engaged her. By her own admission she wasn't a natural cook. Nevertheless, she had revelled in the details of how small ingredient changes produced dramatically different tastes when eaten. Olive oil had been the trigger.
By their third day they had gravitated to walk and cook together, for almost everything was done in pairs. The walks were pleasant enough and they'd exchanged more about each other. Cooking as a duo was a natural follow-on, given that most of their fellow attendees were either married or pairs of ladies who had decided to learn together. That he and Lili were at least two decades younger than the average tightened their bond. The only other single man had tried to interest her. Enrique still congratulated himself on his modest triumph.
Sitting in front of their prized log fire, a relative rarity now that most renovated houses had eliminated fireplaces or kept them solely for decoration, he thought back to that first encounter with Lili and what happened next. Which was nothing at all.
Their cooking-and walking course was to finish at midday so that attendees could reach airports and catch flights home. The previous evening, during the last communal dinner, he'd lightly suggested they go to Rome or Venice for a couple of days. As lightly she'd brushed him off. It was as if the past ten or so days and evenings amounted to zero, whether their walking or talking or cooking. He remembered all too well her lack of farewell the next morning when she stepped into a limo that had materialised before breakfast. He'd even overheard her instructions: "To Rome, as fast as possible. I want the earliest possible plane to Paris."
Suddenly she was gone. All he had was the memory of a vanishingly slender ball of energy. He did not possess a photo, or an email address, or a business card. He had given her his card; she had promised to reciprocate. But it hadn't happened. He didn't even know what bank she worked for. She had been too discreet.
He'd left, bewildered. He passed through Florence to dilute his disappointment by revisiting the paintings in the Uffizi he loved most – Simone Martini's Annunziazione, Bronzino's Lucrezia Panciatichi and Piero della Francesco's Federico de Montefeltro, the last one painted in profile from Federico's left side to hide his missing right eye. They provided some soul balm until he reached his favourite, Botticelli's tiny Judith and the Head of Holofernes.
On past visits he had absorbed the curves and lines, admiring its glory albeit executed in now fading blues. That day she did not soothe as he desired. His trouble was he could see Lili in the elfin figure of Judith. He gazed for as long as usual but the more he drank in the tiny painting, the more Judith reminded him of the now disappeared, diminutive Lili.
Shocked by the similarity he headed straight to Pisa to catch a flight back to Spain. He had been due to visit distant family connections in Lucca. He'd begged off and heard the regret in their voices over the phone. Quite simply he did not want anyone to observe his hurt or have the opportunity to explore his disappointments. That last day hadn't been a good one and nor were the ensuing weeks.
On landing in Malaga he'd been greeted by a text message summoning him to Córdoba. His father, ill for some years, had unexpectedly gone downhill. Enrique had reached Córdoba in time. His father lasted another three days. Although never close they were able to make their peace.
Now Enrique was alone. Apart from one faraway aged cousin he was the last living member of a once large family hollowed out first by the Spanish Civil War itself and subsequently by the years of famine that followed Franco's seizure of power.
Three months later Enrique knew his inheritance. Reduced to basics it comprised a few properties and several thousand dusty trees spread over many hectares of poor quality land, located mostly in southern Spain but with some in Italy and, for some unknown reason, Tunisia. Subtracted from these baleful assets was a mountain range of debts accumulated over the decades. Inevitably these were accompanied by an army of creditors competing at his lawyer's door to demand repayment now his father was dead. He'd known from childhood that life was tough. He'd not realised how his father had borrowed to survive.
Now in his late twenties Enrique was broke through no fault of his own. Hiding it was impossible. Worse, his lawyer lacked any sensible suggestions. With no one to consult he'd turned inwards. Still occupying his father's gloomy Córdoba house he strove to comprehend. Numb, useless, lethargic and without incentive, he had wallowed.
Enrique remembered the phone ringing. He had imagined it was his pathetic lawyer bleating yet again about the need to satisfy his insistent creditors. The temptation to ignore the call was enormous. He was too good-mannered.
"Enrique? Is that you? What are you doing this weekend? Can I come to visit?"
The same day: Úbeda
Enrique remembered straightening, possibly for the first time in a week. He'd been unable to keep the astonishment from his voice.
"Lili?"
"Who else? Do you have raf
ts of Canadian women calling you? I don't believe it. You told me you'd never met one before. Forgotten me already? Or were you expecting somebody else?"
"Not you, not after you escaped on the last day, without even a goodbye. You know how to evaporate and make a man feel good."
Enrique knew this was all wrong. But he was unable to keep bitterness from his tone after that brush off compounded by seeing Lili in Botticelli's Judith. His misery of the last months welled up, threatening to overwhelm.
"Did you hear?"
Lili didn't apologise. It wasn't what successful investment bankers did. She ploughed on.
"How's your father?"
"Dead."
This had its impact. Lili stopped gushing. She hesitated.
"I'm so sorry. When did he pass away? Recently? Am I interrupting your mourning?"
"It happened over three months ago, just after Italy."
His answers were wooden. He wasn't sure how to respond. He wanted to see no one, and no one to see him. He was bankrupt, financially and mentally. On the other hand, if he had to make an exception for one person, would it be Lily?
Lili relented further.
"Have you the time or inclination to see me? I'd like to see you. I could fly into Madrid or anywhere else if it'd suit you better."
Enrique hesitated. A Judith-cum-Lili image floated before his eyes. He couldn't resist. Besides, he rationalised, it might be good to talk to someone.
"I'm in Córdoba, at my father's house."
"How would I get there?"
"Fly to Madrid and take the high speed AVE train south or to Málaga and get the AVE north."
"Hang on."
Lili opened her browser, which listed several possible options.
"There's a flight from Gatwick arriving in Málaga on Friday at a few minutes after midday. How do I get this AVE? How do I find you in Córdoba?"
Sense had penetrated Enrique's head. His father's home was a mess. It was an old man's home. Where would Lili stay? Ah, he could book a hotel for her. Or would she expect to stay here? Whichever, she would want to visit. The house needed reorganisation. Thank goodness one task he'd managed was to dispose of all his father's clothes. Perhaps he could arrange for María, the daughter of his father's long-term housekeeper, to help. Enrique's mind had shifted from neutral to overdrive. He had even forgotten he was still connected to Lili.
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