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He steered me past sweaty workers, through the never-ending lines of well-cared-for trees, to a massive square of probably a hundred beehives. I glanced back at Donvino to see that he was having a discussion with one of the workers, a man about our age with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Now these are another of your father’s marvelous additions,” Signor Piravino said, the air filled with merry little bees flying to and fro from the white hives. I nodded at the portly man in the white dress shirt and terribly knotted tie. His shirt was soaked through under his armpits and he was sweating profusely. He began talking bees while I watched Donvino and the young man. Did they know each other? The discussion seemed to be erstwhile. I smiled feebly when Donvino glanced at me. The younger man shook his head. Donvino replied, then strode toward me, the worker falling behind, working the brim of his wide-brimmed hat with nervous fingers.
“Signor Arlo,” Donvino called as he neared. Several other workers were milling about, looking busy but keeping an eye on the big man giving the even bigger man a tour. “If we could have a moment, please?”
“Sure,” I replied, moving from the farm manager to face Donvino. He’d been incredibly quiet since we’d arrived two hours ago. Not as outwardly cold as he had been. Whatever his cousin had said seemed to have thawed him a bit, but nowhere near as chummy as we had been. Still, some warmth was better than none. Obviously, he had something big weighing him down.
“Grazie,” Donvino said as a tiny bee heavy with pollen flew by. The air here was rich with the smell of honey and sheep dung. One had to watch where one stepped in their penny loafers. “This is Arturo, and he is the head of the workers’ union here on twenty.”
I heard Signor Piravino bluster over and speak to Arturo in Italian. The discussion was rather clipped.
“Can you please translate?” I asked Donvino, who seemed quite happy to relay all that was being said. As soon as he started to translate, Signor Piravino clammed up, nodding and grinning, waving at the union rep to speak. And he did, with haste. Donvino bobbed his head as the man word purged all over me. “What is he saying?”
Sweat ran down the back of my neck. I rather disliked sweat unless it was earned in bed.
“He says that while he and his fellow workers are most grateful for the good rapport with the Bonetti family over the years, the new contract coming up needs many things that he wishes to discuss before voting starts.”
“Signor Bonetti is not here to take complaints from the union.” I glanced at Signor Piravino, then folded my arms over my chest.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to speak for myself?”
My tour guide blabbered all over himself to apologize. “Thank you. Arturo, Donvino, can we find a shady place to hear what the workers would like to say to the company?”
“Yes, of course,” Donvino replied after a fast nod from Arturo. We strolled down to a river that flowed through the orchard. A lazy river for sure, as the rainfall had been minimal for months. We found some shade under a few scraggly trees, circled up, and began talking.
Donvino began relaying concerns from the workers. Signor Piravino stood at my side, lips pressed flat, as I heard about several needs that the people who worked here felt were not being met. I studied the faces that were slowly gathering, many were Black, proud but wary.
“They ask for better pay,” Donvino explained. I nodded, pulling out my phone to make notes. I had not one clue how to negotiate for these people but if Daddy wanted me to get into the biz, then backing the workers seemed like a great way to do what was needed to get my money while twisting management’s—aka Dad’s and Aunt Ginerva’s—titties. “They also wish for someone to help them get papers.” I looked up from typing at Donvino. “Many are from Africa.”
“Ah, okay, uhm…” I tapped that all out as my brain scrambled for what to say. “Uhm, we’ll look into it.”
Donvino passed that along. The men and women around us smiled brightly. Another spat of Italian from Arturo to Donvino took place. I really needed to ramp up my Italian lessons.
“Also, many have to walk from the nearest village so they ask if maybe a bus for the workers could be made available?”
I glanced at the manager. “How far is the nearest village?”
“About five miles.”
“Christ. Okay, yeah, we’ll get a bus for them even if I have to buy it myself.” Big talk for a guy with ten euros to his name. “What else?”
The workers listed a few other small things but wages and transportation were the biggest. I promised them all that I’d make sure that Signora and Signor Bonetti were made aware of the requests. Then I spent fifteen minutes shaking calloused hands as people from Senegal, The Gambia, Tunisia, and Italy thanked me in their native tongues or English that rang with the music of their language.
“That was nice,” I said to Donvino.
“You were good as a boss,” he replied with a shy sort of sideways glance that made me slightly giddy. Signor Piravino seemed rather chilly during the rest of the tour, doing his best to be considerate, but you could tell he was unhappy.
When our time was over, I turned to face the manager as we were escorted to our dusty Suzuki parked in front of a small but newish office building.
“Thank you for the tour,” I said and offered my hand. Signor Piravino shook it quickly, his mouth a tight pucker as he expressed his joy at meeting Signora Bonetti’s American nephew. “I’ll be sure to pass along the worker’s request to my great-aunt so there is time to implement the things that the workers wish so we can avoid any strife in the form of a strike.” He nodded as if it hurt him to do so. “I’ll also tell her how kind you were and how well number twenty is being run.”
That made him a little less tight. “Grazie, signor.”
We parted with smiles. Donvino waited beside his bike, his eyes on the manager as the man made his way back into his office. Probably to send an email to whoever was above him that some punk American kid was making waves at farm 20. I kind of hoped that was the case. I’d enjoy talking to my father and great-aunt about things. Like making people walk five miles to get to work.
“He is not liking a man your age being over him,” Donvino stated as he handed me my helmet.
“I know. Tough shit. They wanted me to be more involved in the business, so I’m getting more involved.” I slapped my backpack into the saddlebag and pulled on my helmet.
