Joanne’s interest peaked. About to ask if this had entailed taking land used for grazing, she bit back her words. Instead she turned her attention to the passing scenery.
Many of the tiny hamlets were deserted; their cube shaped stone houses collapsed into a mound of rubble that sprouted weeds.
‘No one wants to live here anymore,’ the guide explained. ‘Once they’ve left school, young people desert the Island for mainland Italy and lucrative work. Only the old folk are left to scratch a meagre subsistence.’
A few people murmured sympathetically and the guide agreed somewhat reluctantly,
‘Yes, hard toil for the old.’ She beamed a bright smile around the coach. ‘Wealthy people buy holiday apartments and tourists expect fine hotels but this is essential for Ischia’s economy!’
No one voiced questions and Joanne was filled with sympathy for the remaining Islanders. She recalled Renzo’s words when he’d mentioned without any show of regret that these changes were necessary and must come to Ischia.
An hour later, the coach arrived at the Winery. It was certainly impressive, for it sat like a beacon of affluence after the journey through the deserted hamlets. The approach the architect designed the buildings led them through manicured gardens displaying exotic plants. Tables and chairs under huge sun umbrellas were set out for visitors in the forecourt.
Joanne saw a smart guide awaited them, clutching a clipboard and ready to assist people descending. Soon they were all gathered into a group and ushered into a vast reception hall where refreshments were provided. Other tour groups already crowded about the buffet.
Joanne eased her satchel on her shoulder while taking in the stylish air conditioned interior and quickly concluded that the Balzarin Winery was very much a thriving concern. Small wonder then that Renzo could afford his large yacht.
It appeared no expense had been spared to create a welcoming venue. She stood by a long polished counter with other visitors and selected a brioche, a glass of orange juice and a peach before retreating to one of the plush sofas. With a dart of pleasure she recognised Fabio’s large oil paintings of the island displayed on the softly lit stone walls. Instantly thoughts of him set her pulse racing with a longing for another chance to visit his studio.
Tiers of wine bottles were artfully arranged at strategic spots to attract the eye. Joanne picked up a leaflet, put one in her satchel for reference and looked up as a different guide who called for attention. He wore a large badge of office and stood stiffly, his mouth pursed in a look of importance. Joanne mused if officious men like this weren’t always the boss in their own homes and so took the opportunity to display control.
Satisfied he had their attention the guide began his ‘pep’ talk, rapping out the order in which they would follow the process of wine production with him. Joanne got the gist of his directive as he added,
‘Please adhere to this regulation. He pointed a finger at a large sign. ‘No fotografia consentito. No photographs.’ His mouth set in a tighter line. ‘We have competitors and must be vigilant.’
Joanne’s thoughts drifted off as she pondered her own motives for coming, certain it wasn’t an avid interest in the production – give her a bottle of plonk and she’d be happy! So what did she expect to find? What possible secrets regarding Renzo would reveal themselves amidst vast containers of fermenting wine?
Nevertheless, the visit made a pleasant diversion.
In fact the tour proved fascinating. Joanne found herself intrigued by the stages of wine production which started with the pressing of the grapes and followed a process right through to the finished product. Even the guide’s explanations were interesting, she was pleased she’d brought a jacket. The chilly temperature in the vast area where the enormous, aluminium vats were housed was in contrast to the fierce heat outside.
At the end of the hour’s tour they were led into a small room and seated on wooden benches to view a short video of harvesting the grapes. Again, Joanne felt a prick of concern for the grape pickers who stooped between rows of vines, working at speed under the blazing sun. It looked back breaking. What relentless hard toil, she brooded. She watched as their full baskets were transferred to a wagon and tried not to think how many of these went to fulfil the worker’s daily quota.
The final scene showed happy looking workers sitting at trestle tables enjoying a lavish feast with lots of wine. Since they were sitting and wearing shapeless tunics and headscarves it was impossible to determine their ages but they were women. Odd, because she was certain there’d been lots of men bending amongst the rows of vines; not that she’d seen their faces under straw hats but their height and shoulders were different. A tentative smile reached Joanne’s mouth, pleased to see they appeared happy and well treated.
The party of visitors trouped after the guide and Joanne looked about for any clue to explain Renzo’s reluctance to bring her here. It now seemed a daft idea. Whatever had she expected to find? Back in the reception hall, they were presented with taster glasses of various wines. Some of the wine buffs amongst them made knowledgeable comments and then placed orders to have them crated home. Joanne sampled several wines but with her limited funds had no intention of making a purchase.
At the conclusion of the tour the guide asked, ‘Do any of you have questions? I am here to explain anything.’
Perhaps the wine had gone to her head but scarcely aware that she’d opened her mouth, Joanne’s query popped out. ‘I wonder if it’s easy to find workers to pick the grapes. We were told on the coach that lots of young people here have gone to the mainland. It looks such hard work for the elderly...’ her words fell into a wall of silence. Whatever made her ask such a silly question? Joanne sensed the guide’s suspicious eyes turned towards her and to justify her remark said quickly, ‘Is there a future for young people at this Winery?’ Although she’d asked a question, not made a statement she knew she hadn’t imagined the guide’s face lengthen with alarm. His lips pressed together he flushed before declaring,
‘Some young people may be leaving to chase after material things,’ his tone was dismissive as he straightened his tie, but many are content to stay here on our Island to work. Besides,’ he puffed up his chest. ‘older generations are keen to carry on their traditions. For them work with the vines comes naturally. So,’ he smiled all around benignly, ‘no problems at all, Signorina.’ And he busied himself with other people’s queries relating to the various vintages.
Joanne rummaged in her satchel to hide her embarrassment. What a fool she must have looked. It crossed her mind that Renzo would be annoyed if he knew she’d been here without him, especially if he got wind of her questioning. So what, she told herself; Renzo has no command over my behaviour.
Relieved to be out in the fresh air again as the group were ushered towards the coach, Joanne became aware of a young man looking in her direction. He detached himself from the others and approached her. With a start Joanne suddenly saw who he was; the young man who’d spoken to her on the ferry to Ischia. No wonder she hadn’t recognised him for his skin was now bronzed and he sported a short ginger beard. Joanne decided the beard did not make him look any older than she’d previously guessed and tried to recall his name.
He hefted his large backpack onto a shoulder and reached her side. ‘Hello, remember me on the ferry? Tom Saunders. I hope you’re enjoying your holiday?’ He raised his eyebrows and offered a cheerful grin.
Joanne smiled, ‘Yes, of course I remember you. I’m Joanne Holt.’ she said.
He lowered his voice. ‘I agree with that observation you made by the way. When I attached myself to your group in there, I heard what you said. That’s what I too had been thinking about the Winery – there’s strange things going on.’ He went on quickly. ‘I was on an earlier tour and went off on my own when no one was watching. By chance I overheard a supervisor shouting at one of the grape pickers. Made me cringe,’ he added with a grimace. ‘They must pay minimal wages to support all this; not enough to pr
ovide young people with any of the 21st century goodies they all want in our part of the world.’
Joanne warmed to him, reassured by someone else who agreed with her views.
While they waited to board the coach, Tom turned to indicate the beautiful buildings and vineyards which stretched in all directions but remained silent.
Joanne leaned close as he murmured,
‘I happen to learn that the very old folk still living here would once have laboured on the same land – with their livestock.’ He checked to see if anyone was listening before asking, ‘Did you spot the older people in that film? Odd isn’t it. I’ve been asking around. Young ones have gone and middle aged folk who’ve stayed on Ischia are connected with the tourist trade; started their own cafes or small businesses. Can’t see any of them slaving long hours in the heat to earn a pittance picking grapes, so...’
He was cut short as they shuffled forward in the queue.
They’d reached the coach and he pressed a card into her hand. ‘Please take my business card. Would you contact me if you discover any interesting facts? I’ve travelled all over Europe, researching environmental...’
The rest of the sentence was lost. They were the last two on board and had to take the only seats left so were separated. The driver started the engine and soon the bus was speeding back towards the town. Unsettled by this young man’s revelations, Joanne slipped his card into her satchel. What he’d voiced somehow seemed relevant, but in what circumstances she just couldn’t fathom.
The bus had stopped to drop off people and she watched Tom alight at his hotel. He turned back and waved. She gave him a friendly wave and then as the coach picked up speed, her thoughts turned to their conversation. Was it any of her business who was employed and what they were paid? In retrospect she decided that Tom Saunders might be just a self- opinionated young man out to sound important to impress.
It was later when she was back to her room that she thought to study his card. Environmental Researcher. Whatever did that mean? And why had he asked, “Let me know if you hear anything interesting.” She had no knowledge in the field neither of environmental research nor of wine making. It flashed through her mind that maybe he’d discovered she was sailing with a wealthy person and that his job description could be a cover for one of those nosey paparazzi who worked for the gutter press.
Joanne shoved the card back in her satchel and began to wish she hadn’t spoken to Tom Saunders.
Something else now rooted her mind to the present. Renzo and his infuriating way of asking how she’d been occupied, and the clever way he had to extract her answer. If she failed to come up with something he’d be sure to think she had something to hide. He would persist until she was forced to make up a tale. So, there must be a balance between sounding plausible and not giving anything away. A wry smile played about her lips for in the same way sugar coats a bitter pill, Renzo’s queries were always couched in pleasantries. In the past anyone who got under her skin would be told to f....off. But that was then; those had been bullies; these were different circumstances entirely. A shadow slipped over her mind.
Feeling restless, Joanne began to pace her room and felt privileged that she was learning to be a proficient sailor. Nevertheless her fertile brain brooded about the riddles which clung to Renzo. She shook her head, telling herself enjoyment of sailing outweighed quibbles about Renzo’s inquisitions.
A sense of purpose stalled her pacing, as her thoughts changed direction. It would be a wrench saying goodbye to Angelina’s children when her holiday came to an end, and she would like to buy them gifts.
Filled with a need for action, Joanne picked up her phone. Fabio had implied she was free to call him and he was sure to know suitable shops to buy gifts for the children. Her mobile in her hand, she hesitated. It was not in her nature to chase a man and surely this might appear that way? Then, casting feeble scruples aside, she sent Fabio a text to ask if he’d be free to assist her the following day.
His response came quickly. “I’ll be more than pleased to do so – just let me know what time. Ciao, Fabio”.
Anticipation zipped through Joanne as she threw off her clothes, stepped into the shower and jetted streams of cold water over her body until the chill became unbearable. Her flesh tingled as she towelled herself dry and the action helped rub away concern about Renzo.
Dressed in a cotton shirt and skirt Joanne looked in the mirror and saw her dark hair had grown longer and now fanned glowing cheeks. She applied a touch of lipstick before leaving her room to go for a walk, hoping Renzo had recovered and returned to his yacht so she could dine alone.
First she would see how he was. Joanne hurried along the hotel corridor and gave a quick knock on Renzo’s door. There was no reply. All was silent. Joanne waited a few moments and tapped again. When that remained unanswered she decided to take the lift down to the bar.
The waiter who’d assisted Renzo the previous night approached.
‘Buongiorno Tonio, have you seen Signor Balzarin?’
‘Si is good. The gentleman came for lunch. He says he sick O.K.’ Tonio smiled. Not food he eats here.’
‘I see,’ she replied and hid her surprise, ‘that is good to hear.’ So, Renzo was up and about. Why hadn’t he got in touch? He’d normally have sent a text. Joanne willed the time to go faster to lengthen the chance he might not turn up. ‘Shall I fetch you a drink, Signorina?’
Joanne decided a drink would be lovely before going for an evening walk. ‘Yes please, I’d like a glass of prosecco.’ She indicated the terrace. ’I’ll carry it, thank you.’
Joanne had only been sitting in the warm evening sun for minute or two with her drink when with a start of annoyance she watched Renzo appear. She straightened her back and observed him approach, his dark business suit exchanged for pale grey slacks and a long sleeved blue shirt; yet even in casual clothes there felt an air of menace about him as he swooped hawk like and towered above her.
‘Please forgive me for not being in touch, Joanne; problems to deal with in the Rome office.’ His features hardened. ‘My laptop battery ran out and I’ve had the devil of a job to find replacements. Have you been all right? How have you been able to occupy yourself?’
Joanne felt his hand touch her shoulder and steeled herself not to flinch. He adjusted his cuffs and spoke rapidly. ‘I meant to leave a message but time was short.’
‘Oh I’ve been fine, thank you Renzo. It’s good to see you’ve recovered. Do let me order you a drink.’ Joanne got to her feet, desperate for a few moments grace.
‘No, I’ve ordered one thank you, Joanne. Our drinks will be here shortly.’
To Joanne his smile looked as if sprayed on to his face but at least it promised a relaxed mood. ‘Have you found interesting things to do?’ he repeated.
Joanne sat down and felt the full weight of his charm thrust upon her. Yet his demeanour failed to match his narrowed eyes. Or were they just blinded by the slanting sunlight? It seemed this was the case for Renzo moved his chair into the shade beside her, tweaked his trousers, crossed his elegantly shod feet and slouched back lazily.
Think, Joanne urged. He sat too close which fettered her thoughts and then she decided why worry about his reaction? ‘Well,’ she gave a little laugh. ‘I joined one of those tours to the Balzarin Winery and found it extremely interesting to see how wine is produced. I’ll never take a bottle for granted again!’ Did she imagine Renzo’s brief scowl? ‘Later I wandered about the harbour taking snaps; sat and had a coffee and took the opportunity to make notes to remind of everything. Don’t want to get back without a record of all those interesting places we’ve sailed.’
There, she’d given him a complete run down of her supposed activities – now what could he say?’
Almost absentmindedly Renzo nodded. He stared away into the gardens so Joanne’s heart jolted when he suddenly sat up straight. His eyes seemed to roam her face as though to check her tale.
Not to be outdone she looked h
im straight back and suggested, ‘Shall we fix another date for dinner with Angelina and Fabio?’
The waiter interrupted them with a tray of drinks and a dish of olives. Renzo patted the fellow on the back and engaged him in light-hearted banter for a few minutes.
Joanne gritted her teeth and waited. Having already finished one glass of wine she must be careful to keep her wits about her. She took several long sips of the drink Renzo had ordered.
After the waiter left, Renzo turned to her his eyebrows raised. ‘I do apologise for the interruption. You were asking Joanne? Oh yes, I spoke to Angelina.’
He smiled and unable to avoid Joanne’s scrutiny, he said. ‘Francesca has developed a rash – Angelina fears it could be measles so it’s not possible to make another date.’
‘Oh,’ Joanne uttered a cry. ‘Poor child - Angelina must be worried – I’ll go to see her.’
Renzo looked at her steadily. ‘Have you had measles, Joanne?’
‘I don’t think I have...’
‘I understand it can be serious for adults. Better to be safe then.’
‘I’ll phone her.’
‘A note would be best. Her telephone will be busy with calls to the doctor and she’ll be occupied with the other children. Yes,’ he confirmed and lifted his chin as if to deliver an edict. ‘I think a note would be appreciated. I’ll get someone to deliver it right away.’
A rapid drumming filled Joanne’s head. What right had he to set the rules? She took a breath and clamped down her fury, afraid to let loose her feelings. ‘Will you excuse me? I’d better go and see to the note then.’
It came to her suddenly that Renzo had said, ‘Angelina thinks Francesca has measles.’ Well, she brooded; I’ll go and phone Angelina myself. She finished her drink and spoke calmly. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Beyond The Island Page 11