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Kitabı oku: «The Secrets of Villa Rosso», sayfa 3
Chapter 6
I dress with care, knowing that first impressions are everything when it comes to appearing confident and professional. Slipping into my favourite little black dress, teamed with a lightweight white linen cropped-sleeve jacket, I’m not unhappy with the image staring back at me. A little makeup, a quick brush of my shoulder-length dark-blonde hair and I’m done. Oh, I nearly forgot about earrings. I dive into my bag to rescue my jewellery pouch and settle on the single pearls. They were an anniversary present from Josh and as I slip them on it adds a little sparkle to my eyes. He says I’m beautiful; it’s not true, of course, and what I see is a face that looks rather plain, with dark-blue eyes that aren’t of the piercing variety. Just, well, ordinary.
One last check that I have everything I need, before I slip on my flat leather pumps and my work persona is ready to go. It allows me to push those nagging little domestic worries to one side and remember that there’s a big wide world out there. I can rise to any challenge and I know that. But this is a first for me and everything has happened so quickly. I haven’t had time to transition between the two worlds; that leap from the domestic to the business world is a big one. And yet the moment I stepped out of the car last night it was almost like a home-coming. Perhaps one of my internal wires isn’t working and is giving me a false reading. That thought is a worrying one, as everyone I meet will be expecting an experienced business woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
I grab the large, gate-keeper-style key and lock the door, then walk across to the ornate metal balustrade and peer down over the reception area. The white-washed walls and dark wooden beams throughout add a sense of space and height to the vaulted ceiling. The central light is an art form, with a cascade of cleverly intertwined metal leaves highlighted with enamelling in shades of white, silver and grey. As I slowly descend the elegant staircase I reflect that it’s the sort of piece Livvie would love to get her hands on at almost any price.
There’s no one around and the clock on the wall confirms it’s only just after nine-thirty. It’s quite cool inside. I’m longing to feel the morning sunshine on my skin, so I head straight for the door.
Stepping over the threshold all of my senses start reacting at the same time. But it’s the commanding view that forces my feet forward, traversing the aged sandstone paving of the exterior terrace. The closer I get to the edge of the flat expanse, the more the vista in front of me seems to open up. As I glimpse beyond the small islands of tall trees that flank the edge of the paved area, there is nothing to restrict the eye. Only the mountains, way in the distance, stand as a backdrop, like a curtain. Camera in hand I snap away, knowing how hard it will be to get a perspective on this seemingly never-ending scene. Directly ahead the land slopes away to infinity, ending in a mere shimmer before it slips over the distant horizon. The fertile plain is studded with vast swathes of olive trees. Further away the dotted landscape is interspersed with neat rows of planting that are tiny by comparison, but could well be fruit trees rather than bushes.
It isn’t just the sunshine and the electric-blue sky, but the musical calls of the countryside that reach out to me. A chorus of low-level sounds play like a soft melody in the background. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and I feel like I’m watching a re-run of a favourite film. I could stand here for a long time simply taking in the detail and with each sweep of my eyes noticing something new.
Spinning around I look back at the villa, taking in the rustic beauty of the stonework and the pale orange-red hue of the sun-bleached roof tiles. This is, quite simply, unreal. It’s a little piece of heaven and so far removed from my daily life that it’s hard to believe this is on the same planet. The sheer scale of the landscape literally steals your breath away. I’m a mere speck, small and insignificant in the grand scheme nature is presenting to me. But rather bizarrely, it doesn’t feel alien in anyway at all. The vastness isn’t overwhelming, but strangely comforting.
I walk back to a cluster of wooden tables surrounding a small fountain and take a seat. As I dive into my bag to extract some sunglasses, I hear a polite cough and look up at the face staring down at me.
‘Mrs Maddison? I’m Max, Max Johnson. Welcome to Villa Rosso.’
I stand, automatically plastering a pleasant smile on my surprised face as recognition kicks in. I know this man. I mean, I’ve met him before. At least I think I have, but there’s nothing similar reflected back at me, only a warm smile. The sort of smile that radiates from mysteriously deep, hazel eyes. We shake hands. He’s younger than I expected, probably in his early forties and tall. Six-foot something, that’s for sure, because I feel he’s towering over me.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted you to know that I’m here at your disposal whenever you are ready to begin. Would you like me to fetch you a coffee so you can sit for a while and enjoy the view?’
Although I knew he was British, his tan and elegant demeanour lend an air of cosmopolitan sophistication. I would not have been at all surprised if he had been Italian. He’s hovering politely and I still haven’t answered him.
‘No, really, I was just killing time and trying to absorb the stunning scenery. It’s heady stuff.’
Those serious eyes search my face and he nods, approvingly. Is it approval of my appreciation or, as his eyes settle on me, is he—
‘What is that constant sound, like a chirping?’
‘Tree crickets, la cicada. You’ll gradually get used to it until it becomes almost unnoticeable. I trust that the last-minute change of plans hasn’t inconvenienced you too much? It was quite a surprise when Olivia Bradley called to say something had cropped up and you would be taking her place. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Maddison.’
‘It’s Ellie, you can call me Ellie.’ Why did I just repeat my own name? That wasn’t cool, and you shouldn’t have shortened it. You should have taken a lead from Olivia.
‘Which is short for—?’
‘Elouise. My mother was the only person who ever called me that, but she died a few years ago.’ Too much information, Ellie. Concentrate. I swallow hard, mentally berating myself, and take a deep breath to clear my head as I stand. ‘Let’s make a start, then.’
Max holds open the car door as I settle myself into the passenger seat of what looks like an almost brand-new Alfa Romeo in a tasteful charcoal metallic finish. He insists on taking my small satchel and places it in the back, then clicks the door shut. While he’s walking around to the driver’s side my brain is working overtime, trying to establish why I’m so convinced I’ve met him before. Is this business famous enough for him to have been featured on TV, or maybe I’ve seen his face in a cookery magazine talking about the benefits of olive oil. Or maybe he just has one of those handsome, beguiling faces that sort of looks like someone famous and inspires a sense of instant recognition.
As Max slips into the driver’s seat a waft of something with a hint of bergamot tickles my nose. It’s fresh and citrusy, immediately masking that slightly overpowering smell of new leather. Instinctively, I reach out to touch his arm and make a comment, when I abruptly pull myself back, rather sharply. How totally embarrassing! I hope I succeeded in making the gesture look as if I was simply putting my hand up to smoothe down my hair.
What is going on with me? Why does this man whom, it seems, really is just a stranger to me, feel so familiar?
‘Our first stop is a small family business whose land abuts our own. Olivia said she was very interested in ceramics and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the quality and designs on offer.’
His eyes check out my seat belt before he starts the engine and, with a warm smile, he turns his gaze back towards the road ahead.
We are both content to travel in silence. As my eyes scan the open countryside, the car purrs along, heading towards the sloping planes of that wonderful vista. Up close some of that unidentifiable greenery turns out to be swathes of grape vines and citrus trees, divided into neat little plots. Every now and again I catch a glimpse of farm workers, mostly elderly men and women, with skin the colour of tanned leather. We pass a group of younger workers with baskets full of lemons, the women wearing colourful scarves and shouting back and forth to each other. Most wave to Max as we pass by.
‘Villa Rosso’s land extends to the east. The processing plant is on the other side of trees that you can see at the foot of the mountains. Castrovillari is situated at the base of the Monte Pollino, the Parco Nazionale. From here almost as far as you can see it’s mostly small parcels of land owned by families who have worked the soil for generations.’
‘Do they manage to make a living? It must be hard to sustain a family if this is their only income.’
Max nods, his face quite sombre.
‘It’s never been easy for them. But everyone is still suffering from what we call the black year, the harvest of 2014. Unusual weather patterns, lack of water and a proliferation of insects and bacterial blight saw the average yield cut by half. We’ve also been battling with unusually large flocks of starlings destroying the fruits, although mercifully that hasn’t affected everyone.’
‘But doesn’t that simply mean that the cost of olive oil rises?’
‘I wish it worked like that, but not all countries were affected in the same way, so some gained while we suffered. And as for any price increases, very little filters down to the poor farmers. That’s why we’re trying so hard to grow this artisan crafts cooperative. The local market is small, as the vast majority of the workers here lead very simple lives. You can see for yourself how rustic their farm dwellings are. When they’re not working the old women are found gossiping in doorways, complaining about the menfolk. It falls on deaf ears and the old men relax nearby in the shade, playing cards.’ He turns to look at me, giving a wry smile. ‘But the daily fight against poverty and the need to feed their families is a worry that never goes away. The wealthier families, like the Ormannis, employ as many local people as they can but they, too, are affected by a bad harvest and the vagaries of nature. That’s why diversification is essential at every level, although olive production will always be at the heart and soul of the business. But the real problem is the exodus of the younger generation to the cities, where they can usually earn a lot more money and enjoy all the benefits of modern living. As any farmer will tell you, working the land is, at times, heart-breaking.’
Max looks resigned, but the deep lines between his eyebrows are furrowed. The tension he feels for a situation that must seem like an endless battle against a nameless enemy, is etched on his face. His profile shows a firm jaw line, rigidly set. I wonder what is going through his mind at this precise moment.
‘And here we are.’
The track we’re on is bumpy and for the last hundred yards, or so, the car has been literally crawling along.
Max parks up in front of a series of large sheds, similar to outbuildings seen on farms in the UK. But whereas we’d use them for cattle feed and machinery, I realise that for the owner this is a huge investment in a business venture that’s a considerable gamble. It isn’t just the locals who carry a heaven burden on their shoulders. Max, as their representative, knows exactly what these proud people stand to lose.
There’s no ceremony – in fact Max escorts me inside the first shed as if it were in the grounds of Villa Rosso. He waves to two men wheeling large wooden trolleys with a collection of clay pots ready for the kiln. This appears to be a holding area and along the far wall five women of varying ages are busy packing boxes. From a young girl of indeterminate age, to a grandmother who must be in her nineties, they chatter as they work. The elderly woman looks up and smiles at Max, her toothless grin a happy one and the other women giggle, shyly.
Max steers me through a doorway into another shed, where seven or eight people are hand-painting designs onto a wide range of different pots.
We’re attracting some curious glances, but no one approaches and I simply follow in Max’s footsteps until he opens another door and ushers me inside. I suppose this is more like an office, although it’s still only a wooden structure with a tin roof. But the floor-to-ceiling shelves hold an array of colourful and well-crafted ceramics that would grace any European showroom.
‘I wasn’t expecting such a departure from the old traditional styles,’ I admit. ‘Max, these wall tiles are amazing and the table lamps are exactly what we’re looking for!’
For the first time since we set off, Max’s forehead relaxes a little and he nods in appreciation.
‘It’s a big step for us to depart from the traditional designs people have come to associate with Italian majolica. We are focusing on a different clientele and market, hoping to give interior designers the quality and statement pieces they are looking for, at a very competitive price.’
‘Can I take some photos to send to Olivia?’
‘Of course. Take your time. I’ll go and do the rounds as they’re all holding their breath, wondering what the English lady will think.’
The pressure isn’t just one-sided, but I suspect they have nothing to worry about. This is exactly what Livvie was hoping to find. I snap away quite happily until Max returns, stealing a glance at his watch.
‘We should go shortly, as I want to show you around our next stop before we head back for lunch.’
‘Can I purchase a few things to take back as presents?’
‘Of course.’ I follow Max through to the packing area and select a couple of items for the girls and something for Dawn. At first the elderly Italian woman refuses to take the notes I offer, but I insist and she nods her head in gratitude.
I make an effort to smile at everyone I pass who looks our way, as we retrace our steps.
‘The tension is palpable. Can one order make that much of a difference?’
‘More than you probably realise. This is a fairly new venture still and we have a long way to go to get a full order book. A deal with your company could kick-start this initiative and give us the cash injection we need to expand. A lot is riding on your visit and there’s no point in pretending otherwise.’
‘Can’t you use a middleman? Someone with contacts already in place?’
Max shakes his head.
‘Not all of the operations are as large, or advanced, as this one. In order to offer people like Olivia the deal they are looking for we need to keep non-production costs to the minimum. It’s one less link in the chain taking a cut out of the profits and this is diversity for survival of the whole. Besides, I seriously doubt we’d consistently be able to meet the sort of production levels required to fill global orders, because of the investment levels required. So we are going for the niche, interior design market. If you want two hundred table lamps, that’s not a problem. But if you wanted five thousand—’
‘Ah, now I understand. Where are we going next?’
I try to sound upbeat, despite feeling the pressure beginning to mount.
‘Our biggest producer of textiles. I think you’ll be impressed by the set-up. It’s actually attached to one of the local churches.’
Max opens the car door as I slide into the seat. A young woman calls out to him, holding something up and Max strides across, placing his hand on her shoulder and taking the item with his other hand.
When he returns he hands me a chilled bottle. ‘Here, this is for you.’
‘What is Gassossa Neri, exactly?’ I ask, wondering if it’s some sort of locally distilled alcohol that will take off the top of my head.
‘It’s good to drink, just carbonated sugar water, really. It’s old school, hard to find these days, so treasured amongst the older people as it was the soft drink of their childhood. Notice that I wasn’t offered one.’ He drops the corners of his mouth in an exaggerated fashion.
‘What a nice gesture.’
Max holds out his hand, pulling a bottle opener from the side pocket of the door.
‘Enjoy. It seems you are making quite an impression.’ Flipping the lid, he hands it back to me and I can’t resist taking a long sip and letting out an appreciative sigh of satisfaction.
As he kicks the engine into life he starts laughing and it’s a heart-warming sound.
Chapter 7
‘You sound different.’ Josh’s words are tinged with sadness, or maybe it’s simply loneliness. Suddenly finding ourselves apart, and in different countries, is something neither of us would ever have expected.
‘It’s the distance and I’m, you know, wearing my business head.’
He yawns.
‘Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night. Rosie woke up in the early hours and had a little cry when she remembered you weren’t here.’
Guilt washes over me as, suddenly, what I need more than anything is a hug from my girls.
‘Did she settle back down?’
‘She jumped into our bed and was soon snoring her head off. I really didn’t mean to tell you about that. Everything is good this end, honestly. Dawn is being a star and brought over a homemade chicken pie.’ I can feel he’s annoyed with himself for mentioning Rosie and now he’s trying to make light of it. But it’s unlike Josh to sound so … insecure and I wonder if something has happened that he feels he can’t tell me. Or maybe it’s just my imagination working overtime. He’s tired and the girls can be a handful at times, especially if they aren’t in the best of moods.
I’m lazing on a bed in an Italian villa. The breeze wafting in through the window carries the scent of oleander blossom and a hint of thyme from the tubs on the terrace. A conversation doesn’t get any more surreal and I’m sure I’m worrying for the sake of it. The resulting smile on my face lifts my voice, even though my heart aches to think of the distance between us all.
‘I know you are in safe hands. And tomorrow will fly by, then I’ll be up early the next morning and on a plane home before you know it. It will be as if this never happened.’
‘Funny you should say that, because it doesn’t feel real. I keep expecting you to walk through the door, fling your coat on the chair and moan about the drizzly rain making your hair frizzy.’
He’s joking with me and I appreciate the effort he’s making.
‘Did the girls do their homework?’
‘Yes, all done. Rosie has a geography test tomorrow. Hettie had to write about a new skill she has acquired, recently. We spent the best part of an hour throwing suggestions around, including some quite inspiring ones, and then she ended up writing half a page about the time she helped you paint her bedroom walls.’
Aww, a sudden flashback makes my chest constrict.
‘That’s nice, but if my memory serves me right it was at least two years ago and she spent most of the time painting shapes and graffiti, while I followed behind her with the roller. Kids, eh?’
‘I know. It’s not the same when you aren’t here and knowing that you’re so far away is a little unsettling. You are the glue that holds us together, Ellie, and this has reminded us not to take you for granted. Anyway, enough about life in the Maddison household, how’s Italy?’
‘I can’t even begin to describe it, Josh. It’s so beautiful; and yet there’s also a feeling of sadness, when you see how hard life is for the people who depend on the land to earn their living. Today I toured a ceramics workshop and then a textile business which was set up in a sprawling church annex. Everyone was nervous about my visit because they need buyers, or the money they’ve invested will be wasted. I think the owner of the villa has probably extended loans to some of the farmers who wanted to branch out and get involved with the cooperative. When you walk among the workers it’s not just about appreciation of their skilled craftsmanship, but you get caught up in the emotional investment; their hopes and dreams.’
‘Ellie, you are Livvie’s eyes and ears out there but the ultimate business decision will be hers. It’s out of your hands and you can’t shoulder that responsibility. It’s beginning to worry you already, isn’t it? You need to develop a thicker skin, darling, or you’ll never survive in the business world.’
Josh knows me better than I know myself.
‘I hear what you are saying. I love you for understanding and not simply criticising me for being unduly sensitive. Livvie emailed early this morning but hasn’t been in touch since. I’ve sent her about two dozen photos, but I guess it’s unfair of me to expect her to respond quickly. I suspect her mum is back in the ward by now recovering from her op, so maybe I’ll hear something after dinner. I would just feel much better being able to give Max an idea of Livvie’s reaction, in case I’m getting it all wrong.’
‘Well, you’ve done all you can for today and I’m proud of you. It’s quite a thing to step into Livvie’s expert shoes at such short notice. You are bound to feel a little intimidated. I know you will also be feeling a little out of your comfort zone. So try to relax, enjoy your meal and get a good night’s sleep, honey. And don’t stress about things. Love you and miss you. See you later, alligator.’
I smile at his parting words. That’s our code – a pact we made after Josh’s grandmother died. When the day arrives and we find ourselves facing the inevitable; we want to know for sure that love survives even death. We use that old, childhood saying, so we will never forget the only words that will leave us in no doubt whatsoever. ‘In a while, crocodile.’
I’m left listening to static and a feeling of emptiness makes my stomach drop to the floor. The world has never felt quite as enormous as it does to me right now and I really wish Josh was here to wrap his arms around me. I know it’s only tiredness so I lie back, throwing the phone onto the bed cover beside me. It’s time for a nap before I shower and dress for dinner.
~
When I make my way into the dining room I’m surprised to see virtually all of the tables are full. Max immediately gives me a little wave and hurries over to escort me to a table. The dress code seems to be quite casual and I’m glad I kept it simple, as all of the tables are occupied by families.
‘We’re busy tonight,’ Max explains. ‘Once a month we have a dinner that honours the matriarch of the family. It’s a tradition now, and our chef puts together a very special menu. But if it’s not quite to your liking, then I can bring over the à la carte menu.’
A waiter hovers, pulling out a chair for me. I sit, feeling rather self-conscious as heads turn in our direction. Max is fussing with the table, moving a bowl of fresh flowers and giving one of the tall wine glasses a light polish, as if I’m someone of importance.
‘I’m sure the special menu will be fine.’ I glance at the list of dishes, not sure whether they are separate courses, or a selection from which you choose. Of course, everything is in Italian. ‘I’m in your hands, Max.’ I pass the printed menu back to him, smiling gratefully.
‘It won’t disappoint, I promise.’ And with a broad smile he disappears in what I assume is the direction of the kitchen.
There are half a dozen staff members, including Bella, ferrying meals and taking away empty plates. Thankfully, there is quite a buzz in the room and now that I’m seated I’m no longer a source of distraction. Or perhaps the interest was more about Max than an Englishwoman travelling alone.
I can smell rich, sweet tomatoes and something tantalisingly spicy. A young waiter approaches the table bearing a bottle of wine. He holds up the label for me to inspect it and I nod my head, no idea at all if it’s the finest wine I’m ever likely to drink, or a celebrated local vintage. Either way, when I’m invited to taste the rich, dark-red liquid it slips down easily. Dry and intensely fruity, my mouth is left with a zing of flavours and an aftertaste of cherries.
Each course is beautifully presented in small and appealing portion sizes. Every dish is a first for me, bearing little or no resemblance at all to food I’ve eaten over the years in Italian restaurants back home. From the aperitivo, with Aperol Spritz, olives and crackers, to a mushroom dish with peppers and then, what Bella informs me is black pig fillet with strawberries. Each course is truly delicious.
Towards the end of the meal Max reappears as a willowy, older woman in a simple, yet elegant, silver-grey dress is clearing away the plate in front of me. He speaks to her in rapid Italian and she smiles, then nods, placing the plate back down on the table and extending her hand towards me.
‘Trista Ormanni. You enjoy your visit ’ere, yes?’
The words are stilted and her cheeks colour slightly as she speaks.
‘Yes, it’s truly wonderful. And dinner was heavenly.’
I’m not sure she can understand what I’m saying, but my broad smile reflects the sentiments. She hurries away quickly, leaving us to chat.
‘Trista is my fiancée’s mother. All of the staff here are family members except Bella, whose mother was born just a few kilometres away. Now things have calmed down a little I wondered if you would like to join me for coffee out on the terrace? Unless you are tired and prefer to retire for the night.’
‘No, that would be lovely, thank you.’
Max extends his hand to help me out of my seat. For a brief moment, as our hands touch, everything seems to stand still. I falter slightly and his grasp tightens.
‘The wine seems to have gone to my head.’ A laugh that ends up sounding more like a giggle doesn’t really cover a moment of embarrassment. As he withdraws his hand and extends his arm in the direction of the door, he walks alongside me. His other arm is curled behind me at waist height, but without actually touching me. For some inexplicable reason I feel this is a walk I’ve done before. How ludicrous is that?
Outside, the balmy evening air is sweet, but there is an undercurrent of a rich woodland scent and a slightly musty, earthy smell. It’s comforting, in a familiar way; like a smell from one’s childhood. Except that I’ve never been to Italy before, or anywhere quite like this.
Max notices my reaction. ‘Tonight the breeze carries with it the scent of the forests from the mountain slopes. Here, let me get your chair.’
One of the small tables on the terrace has been covered with a white linen table cloth and in the centre the glow from a large candle lantern sheds a soft flickering light.
‘To the north we have the Pollino mountain range and to the south, La Sila. It’s a difficult mix of terrain, but we are well served by the Calabrian ports of Reggio and Gioia Tauro.’
‘How long has this been your home?’
Max shifts in his chair, his body language signalling hesitation. We aren’t friends, just business acquaintances and I realise with dismay that I might have overstepped the mark when he was simply making polite conversation. Thankfully, the silence is interrupted by the arrival of coffee and a jovial-looking man who greets Max with a babble of Italian. Max replies and to my ear his mastery of the language makes him sound like a native inhabitant, a true son of Italy.
‘Grazie, Gianni. Sono il tuo stato introdotto per la signora Maddison?’
A moth is attracted by the light from the candle and Max absentmindedly brushes it away, before it’s drawn too close to the flame.
‘No, ho passato la giornata sopra presso la raffineria. Ci sono stati alcuni problemi, ma ora è fisso.’
‘Bene, grazie. My apologies, Ellie, this is Gianni, my fiancée’s uncle. Gianni, this is Mrs Maddison. Gianni has been at the plant today, sorting out a problem that occurred during my absence.’
We shake hands and exchange polite smiles, before Gianni disappears back into the shadows of the villa. The light from the windows flood out onto the terrace, but everything beyond that is simply a series of dark shapes, lit only by a crescent moon and a heaven full of stars.
‘Four years. I’m not even sure I could slot back into my old life if ever the opportunity arises.’
His reply to my previous question catches me by surprise. Clearly, his work is important to him. While I’m sure he misses his own family, it’s plain that he’s now a key member in the Ormanni family’s business. Everyone seems to look towards him for direction, as if he’s in sole charge.
He adds a little sugar to the coffee cup in front of him and then sinks back onto his chair. There’s a sense of resignation in the movement.
‘It’s a complicated story and I don’t want to bore you. I also don’t want to spoil your relaxation time and I should be doing a much better job of being a host. I think you can tell that I don’t often get the chance to sit down and have a conversation in my own language. It has become a novelty, as most of our guests at the villa are Italians enjoying a weekend retreat away from city life.’
Is he asking my permission to continue, or warning me off? There is a deep sadness in him, which I’d assumed was to do with his love for the people here and their plight. My instincts tell me not to pull back.
‘I’m a good listener. And it’s always easier talking to a stranger, isn’t it? Is your fiancée bi-lingual?’
‘Yes, Aletta speaks perfect English.’ He pauses, and then glances across at me rather nervously. ‘She went missing two years, three months ago.’
