by Dick Rosano
But after the harvest when the grapes were gone and the leaves were turning yellow and brown on the vine, Dito relied more on his eyes, and that day he stood at the head of one vineyard row and surveyed the leaves rustling in the breeze. He stared off into the distance as the row climbed a rise, then disappeared over the hill. Paolo noticed the change in his father at this time of year, and it seemed that Dito was looking beyond the vines, beyond even his own life, peering into the future and the past at the same time, using his imagination to meld the two into the seamless totality that was life for Italians.
Then, he stooped and lifted a handful of dried earth, and smiled. Someone unfamiliar with vineyard work would have thought the dusty handful to be proof of a barren plot of land. But grapevines produced the best wine when their roots had to dig deep to find water. “Like our people,” Dito sometimes said, “the best ones come from struggling to survive.”
He didn't have to repeat those words to Paolo that day; he just looked at his son. And Paolo realized that his father's glance was his first response to the son's plea to go to America.
After only a short time in the vineyard, they climbed into the truck and drove back to their home in Sinalunga. Italians cherish the extended family and live among relatives throughout their lives. This concept of communal living even extends to the neighbors and villagers around whom many Italians shape their lives. So, unlike American farmers who build a home in the middle of a vast farm, miles from the nearest neighbor, Italians live in villages that are, themselves, surrounded by farmland. Many of those who own and tend the fields live in these villages and walk or ride their trucks out to the farmland and vineyards in the day, returning to their neighbors, friends, and family in the village at night.
Arriving home, Dito put the tools away and Paolo dutifully spent his afternoon cleaning the large garage that doubled as a farmer's shed. Each man was left to think about what each knew was uppermost in his mind.
That evening, the three sat at the table for dinner. From her small but functional kitchen, Catrina produced meals that would headline restaurants in other countries. But even in rural Italy, such exalted flavors were the hallmark of local cuisine. Fresh ingredients and local produce were the key, as well as simple cooking techniques that neither baked the flavors out nor blanketed them with sauces. Catrina had grown up in the kitchen and learned her many skills from the woman who bore nine children, all hungry, and all expecting to feast on the memorable foods of their homeland.
Evening repasts, called cena in Italy, were eaten earlier in the countryside than in the cities. Farmers began their work early in the day and tired early in the evening so, unlike their urban cousins, they would have their final meal of the day around seven o'clock then drift into a well-deserved sleep by nine.
After the vegetables were eaten, platters of meat would arrive. Tuscan kitchens were renowned for the luscious meats and fowl that emerged from them, broiled, boiled, roasted, grilled, and sometimes simply salted and dried. That night, Catrina brought out a steaming roast of pork, surrounded by links of cinghiale sausage, a regional favorite made from the meat of the local wild boar. The aromas of rosemary, sage, and garlic rose from the platter and Dito poured another glass of wine as if to toast the feast.
Dito, Catrina, and Paolo ate in an unusual silence, unusual because Italians consider mealtime to be the happiest and most convivial of social interludes. But tonight all three knew they were thinking about growing things, both grapes and children, and about America.
“Why do you want to…” Dito began, but before he could finish the sentence Catrina knew was coming, she interrupted him.
“Paolo,” she said softly, and Dito immediately deferred to her. “When was the last time you saw Zia Rita?”
“Rita? Your sister?”
“Of course,” Catrina said, loading more meat onto Dito's plate to keep him out of the conversation for another minute. “How many aunt Ritas do you have?”
“It's been a couple of years, I guess,” Paolo replied. “Why?”
“Well, the grapes are in, and you're developing a bit of wanderlust, and I just thought that a trip to Genoa to visit your aunt might be just the right thing.”
It wasn't that Paolo was that close to his aunt Rita, but he hadn't been the Genoa, “the City of Ships,” since he was a young boy. He had learned more about it in recent years, and the city's reputation for ship-building and exploration, so maybe a few days – or more? – on Italy's Mediterranean coast might be exciting.
Dito continued chewing his dinner, but looked silently at his son, waiting for an answer, or at least some sign that Paolo was considering the idea. Dito didn't necessarily agree with Catrina's suggestion, he didn't even know it was coming, but he immediately understood its purpose, as a way to delay Paolo's broader ambition to travel.
“You could work in her restaurant,” Catrina said, to fill in the silence and keep them on topic. “What do you think?”
“Si,” Paolo conceded finally, “that would be a good idea. Papa, it's true the grapes are in. Do you need me here? I would only be gone a week, maybe two.”
Dito had already decided to agree, but hid that fact under a guise of nonchalance. Waiting just a few seconds for effect, and to establish that his approval was the only one that really mattered, Dito raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, without stopping the mastication of the morsel of cinghiale sausage and without speaking any words. But with that gesture, he gave his consent.
Chapter 5
Il Bar Spiriti
The clink of glasses and conversation filled the air with sound at the wine bar at Il Bar Spiriti in the central piazza of Sinalunga. The smell of fresh flowers mingled with the aromas of juniper and lavender leaves that stood tall in vases around the room, entwined with the unmistakable aroma of wine in all its forms. Paolo came here often to visit his friend, Dante, who worked the counter at Il Bar and served wine and small snacks to a clientele that was mostly local, with only a few tourists discovering this neat little hideaway in the outskirts of the town.
Everything about the wine bar was different from Paolo's environment at home. Instead of the quiet sounds of a rural farmhouse, Paolo could enjoy the vibrant nightlife at this popular watering hole. And tonight, he had exciting news to give his friend.
“I'm leaving for Genoa next week,” he began, thinking that this was less than a trip to America, but still better than working in the dusty expanse of a vineyard. “My aunt, Zia Rita, owns Ristorante Girasole and I thought I'd spend some time there, working in the restaurant and maybe spending my days on the beach.”
“Sounds good,” Dante said while drying and polishing some wine glasses behind the bar. He was tall and handsome, with a full head of wavy black hair, an athletic build, blue eyes, and a sculpted chin – a ladies' man – and he did little to cover for his enjoyment of this fact. Where Paolo was sensible and straightforward, Dante was flamboyant and imaginative. He saw the world as an opportunity to meet girls and have fun; Paolo imagined such a life but his rural upbringing kept him more grounded than his flashy friend.
“Maybe you'll need some help on the beach,” said Dante, setting one glass down and raising another. “Maybe the girls there will be too much for you,” he smiled and arched his eyebrows in the imagined pleasure.
“No, I'll be alright,” Paolo said. He didn't want to let on that the trip was arranged by his mother and that it wasn't really a vacation.
“I'll be there a week or two, just now before the weather cools off. Should be a nice break from this place.”
“What, you don't like Bar Spiriti?”
“Yes, I definitely like it here, and I like Sinalunga,” Paolo said with a slight hint of regret. “I meant home.” Paolo referred to his home with a flick of his head in the general direction of the dell'Uco farm that his family owned. “Genoa will be just what I need,” he added, musing silently that a trip to Genoa was more important for his experiment in severing ties than it was for transie
nt pleasure.
Paolo swirled the wine in his glass, took a thoughtful sip, then peered at the glass again.
“Si, it's Chianti,” nodded Dante. “But can you guess from what estate?”
Paolo didn't like it when Dante played this game. He couldn't guess the provenance of the wine, his tastes were too simple for that. And he was sure that his friend couldn't either, but he played along.
“No. Where's it from?”
“An old estate named Castello di Gabbiano. They make a simple Chianti, a Chianti Classico, and a Chianti Classico Riserva. You have the Classico in your glass. Really something, huh?”
Paolo looked at him and said, “Yeah, but you wouldn't have known that if you weren't the one to pour the wine, right?”
Dante gave a sideways glance. He always tried to play the wine expert for the girls and the tourists, but there was no reason to try to fool his friend. He ended his brief glance with a playful smile, but otherwise didn't answer Paolo's question.
Instead, Dante's attention was drawn to two young women seated at the table right in front of his bar. They were trading stories in sotto voce, a muted voice, and looking his way. Dante didn't miss a chance to use his role as wine server in this establishment, and plied it often as an excuse to approach a table. He grabbed an open bottle of the Prosecco the ladies were drinking and swung into action.
“Un po di piu?” he asked.
“No, grazie, this glass was enough” said the one with auburn hair and green eyes. “Do you own this place?”
“Well, of course,” Dante stalled, while he tried to come up with the best way to describe his role at the establishment. “I am responsible for everything that goes on here. I choose the wines and set the prices, and I've come to be a fixture in this beautiful tasting room. People come from…”
“…everywhere to see you, right Dante?” The voice was that of the owner, Alessandra, who walked up behind him and had long ago become familiar with Dante's boasts and his way of usurping her true ownership of Il Bar Spiriti.
“Si, signora, of course they do. But it is because you have made Bar Spiriti the best place in Sinalunga for a thirsty person to visit.”
Both owner and employee exchanged slight smiles and Dante returned to his station while Alessandra poured more Prosecco into the ladies' flutes.
“Nicely done, Romeo,” chuckled Paolo.
“Why didn't you warn me she was there,” said Dante, only a little hurt but more perturbed that his romantic efforts had been thwarted.
“How? By throwing a cork at you? Or maybe this bottle,” Paolo said, hefting the half-emptied bottle of Chianti. He used the gesture for his own benefit, tipping the bottle to the side and pouring a glass of the wine while Alessandra's attention was elsewhere.
Dante pouted and leaned on the bar to await another opportunity. He picked up the drying towel, spun it from hand to hand, and watched Alessandra tend to “his” customers. He liked his boss and got along well enough, and she let him have a bit of freedom in her dining room. But only a bit.
Alessandra left the table and wagged a finger at him, but her smile revealed that she expected this behavior from Dante, and with his good looks and charm she probably assumed he added something to the atmosphere of the room anyway.
“So,” Dante said to Paolo, “you're going to Genoa in two days?”
“Si, on Friday. Why?”
“You've never worked anywhere but in your father's vineyard. Surely, sitting here drinking our wine hasn't taught you anything about working in a restaurant, and you can't expect Zia Rita to waste time teaching you.”
“What do you have in mind,” Paolo asked.
Dante threw the towel in Paolo's face and grinned.
“I have in mind that you learn something about waiting tables and pouring wine, right here, before you leave. You can help me tonight and tomorrow, and 'learn the ropes,' as they say in America.”
The reference stung a bit, because Paolo knew that he had once before described his true travel wishes to Dante, but he shrugged it off, swung the towel over his shoulder, and stepped off the stool. He turned immediately in the direction of the table with the two young women, but Dante cut him off.
“Sorry, amico, they've already been served,” and pointed his friend in the direction of the table with middle-aged parents and three school-aged children.
Chapter 6
Modane, France
He paced the room distractedly, pulling his cell phone out of the jacket pocket to check for messages, then jammed it back in place, irritated that she hadn't called yet.
His face was stern and unwrinkled, his black hair combed straight back from his forehead, and he carried himself with the confident air of someone both experienced and street-smart. He reached up to scratch his cheek with his left hand, a hand with smooth unblemished skin, mismatched against his mottled right hand scarred from the fire that exploded in his fist on his last mission.
A plan to smuggle truffles was too far-fetched to believe. Which is exactly why he liked the idea so much, and why he believed the plot couldn't fail.
“It would work,” he concluded, “smuggling precious cargo.” He smiled at the mere thought of it.
It would take more than one person, but best not to involve more than himself and one other. He knew a most devious woman, one so treacherous that he had trouble trusting her himself. In fact, he didn't trust her. Criminals had a different notion of trust that wouldn't equate to what civilized society considered for the word.
“You rely on someone,” he thought to himself, “and reliance only lasts as long as the job does. Never trust.”
But he had to admit that his accomplice was scary by any measure.
They talked about the plan for weeks, considered every possible angle, listed every possible weakness. Soon, they were both convinced that it would work, even with all the fakes and counter-fakes that would be required.
“Don't worry,” she said, in a sonorous voice that seemed a pitch too low for a woman. “They'll never figure out what we're after until it's over.”
No killing, she said, as if to reassure him about a question he had never asked. In his past experience of working with her, he had heard lots of nasty stories but never got any hint that people had died at her command. Still, the cold, black look in her eyes unsettled him, and he had to wonder how much he didn't know.
“We're in it for the money,” he kept repeating, “that was clear. There's lots of money to be had from smuggling. And this – well, this will make us rich.”
There were a few complications, but he was sure they could iron them out. “We're in it for the money,” he said again. If she was willing, he would be too.
So they met in Modane one last time before going their separate ways. They ate and drank, he subconsciously raising the wine glass with his left hand to keep his blotchy right hand from view. They repeated every step of the process, until they had memorized their roles. Then she kissed him good night – it felt a bit perfunctory this time – and they parted.
She insisted on staying in separate hotels during this time in Modane. “We don't want anyone to be able to develop suspicions,” she said in her resonant voice. She could be very firm and, in this case, he knew she wouldn't reconsider.
Besides, he had things to do too. He had to arrange the truck, set up rendezvous points, talk to the people along the way they would need to work with, and find a truffle hunter who would not be smart enough to be suspicious.
“What about the police at the border? Should I bribe them?” he asked.
“No, you idiot. If you bribe them now, they'll have time to reconsider. We'll deal with them when the time comes.”
Her flare-ups were not that common, especially before a job began; she seemed to understand the importance of maintaining a respectful working relationship. But she would occasionally snap, as she had this time, and he accepted it. The steely glint in her eyes made him worry.
Chapter 7
Time t
o Go
He woke up early the next morning. He could tell it was a combination of excitement and fear. Not fear in the usual sense. He had accepted difficult assignments before and survived, but every new exploit carried its own risks.
While he sat with his coffee in the hotel lobby that morning, it occurred to him that he was more afraid of her than of failing.
“We've worked together before,” he thought, “and I should feel at ease by now.” But there was something in her eye, in the way she looked over her shoulder at him that gave him the creeps.
“She said we couldn't meet.” It made sense, but he called her on the cell phone anyway to make sure they were ready to go.
“I am,” she said, “Are you?” An octave lower, full of questioning suspicion.
“Yes,” he assured her, taking slight umbrage at her undisguised doubt. And they hung up.
He was taking the car to the drop off location, then hitching a ride the rest of the way. She drove ahead in her own car. But that was fine with him. He didn't want to trust her with the details of the drop-off. As he thought that, he had to wonder whether he liked this task more because it would give him the slightest bit of power over her.
“Stupid,” he called myself after the thought. She would not have agreed to something that didn't keep her in command.
So they both started off, at different times and along different roads, both ending up in Alba later in the day.
They set up in the little town as the streets buzzed with the seasonal influx of tourists. He knew she had been going to Alba for a few days at a time for the last couple months. He knew she had a boyfriend there; she had to. That was part of the plan.
“He has to trust me,” she told her collaborator at the time. He almost laughed; after all this time together, he had trouble trusting her; but she was adept at using guile to draw an unwary man into her plot.