I sigh, and pull my pants up again.
I open the bedroom door. Everything is quiet outside, and I wonder if Marco and Stefano are already in bed.
I creep up the hallway. There is a light in the kitchen, and I hear a murmur of voices.
“She’s something else, that’s for sure.” Stefano’s deep voice reaches my ears first, and I pause. “So strong. Whoever would have thought it?”
Marco laugh is soft. “Women always surprise you Stefano. You watch too many American movies, portraying women as soft and meek. You forget the strength of Italian women; of the women you’ve been around your whole life.”
Stefano laughs, too. “That is true, brother. Still it makes me catch my breath, and sends blood to my groin.”
I wonder who the woman is who makes Stefano catch his breath, and find myself thinking how I wish it could be me. But I push that thought away.
I take the last few steps to the kitchen, both brothers glancing at me in surprise.
From the looks on their faces I’d almost think they’d actually been talking about me.
“You are up again, Savannah?” Marco asks.
I nod. “I know it’s late, but I need to use your washing machine.”
“Ah! I wondered when you would ask.” Stefano grins, and I feel my face flushing.
Marco stands. “Let me show you.”
I follow him down the hall to the laundry, where he shows he where the washing powder is kept, and how to use the machine.
“If you put a load on tonight, you can hang it out first thing in the morning,” he says, leading me out the door to show me where there is a clothes line fixed to the side of the building.
“You don’t have a dryer?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
Marco laughs. “No dryer. Why bother with a dryer when the sun is hot and does the work for free?”
I nod, suddenly feeling glum at the thought of the extra work I wasn’t expecting.
“I’m off to bed,” Marco says to me. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I glance up, and his gaze holds mine for a moment.
“Goodnight Savannah,” he says. “Sleep well.”
I nod again. “I will. You too, Marco.”
He leaves me to it, and I head back to my room to gather up the week’s worth of clothes from off my floor.
I’ve a pair of clean underpants left, and nothing else, so I save today’s clothes to wear again tomorrow, even though the thought makes me cringe.
One thing is certain, I’ll be sure not to forget this task again.
The next morning I’m up early, with enough time to hang out my clothes before breakfast.
The day passes much the same as the previous one, with me working through my trees a little faster than I did the day before.
At lunch I work up the courage to ask to take Marco and Stefano’s photo, to send back to my friends.
Stefano seems amused.
“Any particular reason?” he asks.
I shake my head, though I’m certain my cheeks are burning. “They just want to see what you look like.”
“Ah huh.” Stefano nods, knowingly, and I can’t help but feel he’s aware of my attraction, and thinks I’ve told my friends about it.
I ignore his comment. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound defensive, anyway.
Though I try to focus on my work, my friends still send the odd text message through, my phone pinging, and dinging as the afternoon progresses.
“Your friends miss you, eh?” Stefano says.
I laugh. “I guess so.”
“Your boyfriend, too?”
My breath catches and I glance at him. “No boyfriend.”
“No? Surely a beautiful woman like you has a boyfriend waiting for her in America?”
I laugh. “I don’t think anyone waits for anyone these days. Long distance relationships are too hard to make work, anyway.”
“Not when there truly is love, and passion for one another,” Stefano says. “Then you can make anything work.”
He’s watching me strangely, and I feel the creep of warmth up my cheeks, so I turn back to my task. I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m not going to let my mind run away with all the possibilities that are mostly just my own wishful thinking.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of raindrops crashing against my window. The weather forecast here is certainly accurate.
Outside everything looks so grey, all I want to do is stay in bed.
Instead I drag myself out from under the warm blankets, and race to the warmth of the shower. Outside the rain gets heavier, so I can hear it even over the sound of the water washing over me.
There’s a bang of thunder, which makes me jump, until I realize it’s Marco knocking on the door.
I twist of the taps and wrap a towel around me, sticking my head out to call out an apology.
“Almost ready,” I lie, pulling on the clean clothes Marco thankfully reminded me to get off the line the night before.
The rest of the family is already in the mill when we arrive, except for the girls, who have been given a day to play. Rosa and Giovanni are emptying the crates on a long conveyor belt that jiggles them up to a huge grinding machine.
There are leaves and olives all pouring onto the conveyor, different shades of red and green.
I feel a movement at my side and turn to see Anna standing next to me.
“See how the olives are different colors?” she says, raising her voice above the noise of the machine.
I nod.
“The green ones are not yet ripe. The reddish purple olives are starting to ripe. When they turn black they have already ripened, and we don’t want that for our olive oil.”
As I watch I see that as the olives and leaves travel along, many of the leaves are knocked to the side, and fall away. Even so, there are still plenty falling into the grinder.
“Aren’t the leaves a problem?” I ask Anna, having to almost shout to make myself heard.
She shakes her head. “No. There’s always a small percentage of leaves ground up with the olives. It doesn’t hurt anything.”
Stefano gives me a rundown, his voice raised to carry over the noise of the machines. “We are more traditional in our operations here than many are these days. The flavor of the oil changes, not only from region to region, or between varieties, but also from the way it is produced. We want to keep our flavor the one that our customers know, and love, and that is through this method of cold pressing that you’ll see today.”
He points out the grinder, two massive granite stones, crushing the olives and leaves into a thick dark paste. It has a scraper built in at the sides to constantly pull the mixture back to the center to be crushed.
Once it reaches a certain consistency it goes into what Stefano tells me is a kneading machine, to help separate the oil and water, and then it is pumped onto large fibre discs.
“This is where you will help,” Stefano says. He shows me a pile of the disks, explaining that once the mixture reaches this point it is my job to layer the fibre disks one on top of the other, after each disk has been coated with a thick layer of the olive sludge.
It doesn’t take long for it to get to that point.
“Let me show you first,” Stefano says. I watch as the machine spins the disk in a circle, covering it with a thick even layer, it pauses for a moment, just enough time for Stefano to put the next disk on.
“You have to be fast!” I comment, after he’s done a pile of about half a dozen, which the machine whisks away in preparation for the next batch.
Stefano grins.
“You’ll be fine. I know you will. Now, let’s see you try.”
I feel a flash back to those first days harvesting olives, when Stefano was cranky with me for not meeting his expectations.
Stefano must sense my hesitation.
“I won’t growl this time, I promise.” He gives me a smile, and I take a deep breath.
“Are you ready?
”
I realize he’s got his hand on a switch, and I pick up the first disk, ready to set it on top. He turns the switch, and I watch as the machine covers the bottom disk, and then I place mine on top. Easy. But it is quick, there’s no time to feel proud of myself or even grin at Stefano before I pick up the next disk and set it on.
I work steadily for about half an hour before Anna comes to take over.
“Go see what happens next,” she says, nodding to the other end of the mill, where all the covered disks are being taken.
I see Marco down there, and head over to him.
“Looks like you aced that job,” he says with a grin.
“Yeah, it’s not too hard,” I reply. “Just have to be fast.”
He laughs. “That’s for sure.”
“So what’s all this?”
I point to the several tall piles of the disks I’ve just been coating, all in similarly tall machines.
“Watch.” Marco grins. He pulls a lever, and the machine compresses a huge weight down on the disks. Instantly I see the oil oozing out the sides, dripping down to be caught in the tray at the bottom.
“There’s both water and oil in the liquid you can see oozing,” he says to me, leading me over to another machine.
“This is where the oil and water separates, and these vats are where the oil is stored. It’ll be cloudy when it first comes out, because it’s unfiltered. Some people prefer the cloudy look, some prefer the clear look. Either way, you’ll never taste anything like it.” He licks his lips in anticipation and I can’t help but laugh.
“You’re looking forward to it, then.”
He grins. “Of course. This only happens for a few months of the year, during harvesting season. Once all the olives are processed, there’s no more pure fresh olive oil anymore.”
“So how long does this take?” I ask, pointing to the presses.
“A couple of hours, at least.” He points back to the massive stacks of crates, against the far wall. “But we have to get all of that done over the next couple of days. Weather is supposed to clear by Monday, so we’ll need to have this processed by then, to make space for the rest of the harvest. Stefano estimates there’s three hundred kilograms there. So we’ll take in turns emptying the crates, stacking the crushed olives, and keeping an eye on these machines, to make sure everything is running smoothly. Speaking of which, it’s probably your and my turn to get emptying.”
We walk together over to where Rosa and Giovanni are tipping up the crates into the huge catcher bowl of the conveyor belt.
“Have a break Mamma,” Marco says to Rosa, who nods, and gives him one of her warm smiles.
I pick up a crate and when Giovanni moves away after emptying his crate I move in, and heave it up. The catcher part is about my shoulder height, and though I remember how heavy the crates where, hefting them up that little bit higher is harder than I thought it would be.
I clench my jaw, and heave the olives into the machine. It’s noisier down this end of the mill than it is at the other end, so Marco and I don’t speak as we work, backwards and forwards from the wall to the machine.
After two or three crates my arms and shoulders are aching, but I push myself to maintain my pace. Marco is still faster than I am, managing three crates for my two, but he gives me reassuring smiles and encouraging pats on the back as he passes by, and I know I can get through this.
Soon Alessandro and Anna arrive to take our places, and I move back to the first machine I was on, spreading the olive mush over the disks.
The day continues on in much the same way. Any monotony is broken up by regular switching of positions, which also allows us to stop for breaks in small groups, allowing the processing to continue while we eat.
By lunch time I’ve had two sessions emptying crates, and I head outside to see that the rain has eased off, though the clouds are still low and dark.
I hear the door shut behind me and see Stefano coming out too.
“Thought I’d get some fresh air between showers of rain,” he says, pointing to the clouds.
“Good idea,” I say, rubbing my shoulders. This work requires different muscles to harvesting the olives, and my back and shoulders aren’t used to it yet.
“Here,” Stefano notices. “Let me help.” He covers my shoulders with his warm hands, and I drop my head forward, letting my neck stretch as he begins to rub and knead my sore back.
“That feels so good,” I say, rolling my shoulders a little so he can really get into the sore spots.
“I’m glad. Can’t have your muscles seizing up on you this early in the day.”
I laugh. “Always thinking of the work to be done.”
“Well, not always.” There’s a touch of hurt to his tone, and I turn, surprised.
“You’re not thinking about the work to be done?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It is important we get this processed before the next harvest starts coming in. And we do really have only a short window of opportunity to get the harvest in, Autumn may seem to stretch, but those three months don’t last very long at all, especially as the weather gets wetter the later it is.”
I grin. “See, you were worrying about the work.”
He catches my eye, and laughs. “It’s hard not to, sometimes.” But then his face turns serious. “But I wasn’t just thinking of the work. I was thinking about you too. You’ve proven yourself to be a capable worker, I want to make sure we look after you, send you back to your father a fit and strong farmer.” He grins at me, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Not interrupting anything, I hope?”
Marco’s voice carries across the hedge and I find myself blushing, and turn.
“Not at all,” Stefano says as Marco comes through the gate to join us. “I was just telling Savannah how strong she’s going to be by the time she has to go home.”
Marco glances at me. “If she still wants to go home,” he says to Stefano. “You might decide you like it here so much you want to stay.”
I laugh. I certainly am enjoying my time here, but stay? I’m not sure about that.
Even so, I can’t ignore the warmth spreading through my groin, standing here talking to these men, and all I want to do is cover both of them in kisses, but I’m pretty certain that would not be a good idea.
Soon it’s time to go back in the mill, and the day continues on as it was, though now Anna takes me to show me the pressed oil, and the machine that separates the water from the oil.
“Not long now,” she says, licking her lips. “I can’t wait for you to try it.”
As the afternoon wears on the crates by the wall diminish.
By sunset I can see that we’ve at least halved the pile, and Giovanni finally announces that we’re done for the day.
The men all set to work, clearing a space at the ‘press’ end of the mill, and pulling out a large trestle table to set up in the center of the space.
As usual, Rosa had left us earlier in the day to prepare the meal, but this time Anna joined her, and now the two women return, carrying large pots of pasta and sauce, with the girls, Stella and Sophia, following behind carrying trays of cheese and dips and biscuits, and bruschetta and little bowls of marinated olives. Alessandro has ducked to the kitchen too, and returned with plates and bowls for us to eat from.
“The marinated olives are from last year’s harvest,” Marco says to me when he sees my questioning glance. “As I’m sure I mentioned before, you can’t eat the olives fresh from the tree.”
“No,” Anna interjects. “But you do want to try the oil fresh from the press.” She turns to me. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply.
She grabs my hands, as the whole family moves towards the vats.
Giovanni takes the lead, passing out small glasses to each person.
He twists the nozzle, and soon a cloudy, pale green liquid comes streaming out, filling a large pot he’s placed underneath it.
&nb
sp; “Come,” he says, “Come, fill your glasses. Have the reward for all your hard work.”
Marco pushes me from behind. “You first, Savannah.”
I’m a little nervous. What if I don’t actually like the first taste of olive oil? I mean, it’s fine to cook with, delicious mixed with different vinegars for a salad dressing, but at home I’d never drink it straight.
I take a step forward, and hold out my glass.
Giovanni takes it from me, and holds it under the stream of oil.
“Don’t hold back,” he says. “Tonight is about the celebration, the job well done.” He turns off the nozzle, and everyone turns to watch me expectantly.
I take a deep breath to squash down my nerves, and take a sip.
My eyes widen as the flavor slides across my tongue, distinctly olive oil, and yet fresher, almost sharper. It’s still not something I’d drink straight by choice, but I can see why they do in celebration.
“Wow.” I say, looking at the family. “That’s incredible. So fresh!”
Everyone is beaming.
“Told you so,” Anna says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“This is the moment we work for, every year. That burst of freshness that only other olive growers get to experience.”
She steps forward, and Giovanni turns the nozzle again, so Ann can fill her glass. The family follow behind. When everyone’s glasses are full, and mine is filled a second time, we lift our glasses and clink them together.
“Saluti!” Giovanni calls.
“Saluti!” We all call in reply, drinking back the oil.
It’s not alcoholic, and I know it’s not, and yet I still feel that heady sense I often feel after I’ve had a few drinks. This time, I realize, it’s from that sense of achievement, of satisfaction and pride in a job well done.
“And now, eat!” Giovanni calls, spreading his arm out to encompass the table laden with foods.
Rosa fills a jug with the fresh oil, and drizzles it over the bruschetta, and last year’s olives, and even the pasta.
It’s delicious, adding that tang to everything, and I find myself going back for seconds and thirds, devouring the fruits of my labor.
“You enjoy?” Marco asks.
I nod. “Very much so.”
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