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“You know,” I felt that I had to say before I removed myself to my room to change for the trip to Uncle Dario’s, “this whole class thing that you and your friends cling to is archaic, to say the least. And yes, I grew up with it firmly in place, but no more. From now on I’m going to take my meals with everyone in the household or not at all.”
She glared at me, the dragon lady of Florence in full draconic form. I braced for the fireball headed my way. I knew I should have packed a shield, but it would have been a bitch to get it through customs.
“Then you shall go a long time hungry,” she informed me.
I patted my ass. “Fine. I could use a little leaning up on the fanny.”
With that, I sashayed off, making sure to shake my skinny ass back and forth as I left. Sashay shante as Mama RuPaul would say. Mama Ru also said a person better work. After that immolation, I’d best haul my backside to the olive farms on the daily now and work it big time if I wanted to feed myself. In all honesty, I truly did not think she would starve me. I was the sole heir, after all. Still, I let her have her threat. And all the cash.
Man, this needing money from a job thing really sucked. I liked being a rich, lazy brat better, just saying.
***
Donvino was gracious enough to haul my backside to his uncle’s farm down the lane. Lane is actually the perfect name for the road that crawled alongside the Arno. I snuggled tight to Donvino as we slowed to enter the driveway of the cluttered home.
“Oh Lordy,” I whispered when the geese appeared from behind a Panda—car not bear—sitting up on cinderblocks. The yard was an obstacle course of cars, most seemingly in fair condition, many on their last legs. Wheels, I suppose. “Do you carry goose repellent?”
“Just stand up to him,” Donvino told me over his shoulder. I doubted that would work, but when I slipped off the back of the Suzuki, I threw back my shoulders as the gander lowered his head. When he took a step forward, I took ten in reverse. The gander charged, bloodlust in his beady blue eyes, and I bolted around the motorbike as Donvino waved his helmet at the bird and called him a bastard.
“Yeah, bastardo!” I shouted with the bike as a barrier. The gander moved off, shooting looks back at me, honking loudly to his ladies as if he had won that battle. In reality, he had won half of it. Donvino turned to look at me with humor. “That was me standing up to him.”
“Good standing up,” he teased just as the front door to the old house opened with a crash. Bianca jogged out, her hair pulled up into a sloppy knot, baggy overalls covering her slim frame. Her nose was smeared with grease.
“Hello!” she called out, shouting at the gaggle in Italian. Several chickens trotted past, a red rooster leading a colorful flock of hens. The geese wandered off after the chickens but kept a certain distance. “Papà has something for you to see around back.”
I hung my helmet on the handlebars as I hurried to keep up with Donvino. Just in case the gander came back for another taste.
“When you call to say about a bus, we did not know what size,” she started as we rounded the back of the farmhouse. Several pigs were in a pen, nosing about in the dry dirt. Next to them stood Uncle Dario, the same man that I’d met so many years ago. He was older, of course, chunkier, but still had a cigar in his mouth. Not the same one, obviously, but it smelled like it could have been that old.
He shook my hand vigorously. I smiled, thanked him in Italian, and then looked to Donvino or Bianca to translate.
“Papà has had this here for a few years. Someone sold it to him for church maybe to buy, but none do,” Bianca explained as we skirted the pig pen to find a gray and rust-red Fiat minibus. “Today he says for special deal he will sell to you for three thousand euros.”
Donvino instantly started arguing with his uncle, the rapid-fire discussion going too fast for me to grasp. Not that I grasped more than numbers and letters. After a lively discussion, Dario clapped me on the back, gave me an orange candy, and announced to the barnyard something that must have been a good thing.
“He says that he is selling it to you for only one thousand euros because signora has been so good to him, and he remembers that you are scared of chickens,” Donvino explained. “For truth, I chew on him to go lower, as it is older than any of us.”
“Also, it is a 1983 model with so many miles the odometer rolls backward. But she will run. I will get her going for you today!” Bianca gave me a slap on the shoulder, hoisted up her overalls, and opened the rear door of the minibus, exposing the engine. Several mice leapt out. She glanced sheepishly at us. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Whenever is fine! Thank you. Grazie!” I clasped Dario’s meaty hand.
He chuckled, began talking, and then threw an arm around my shoulder. Cigar smoke wafted under my nose, which might have been an improvement over the smell of the pigs. Dario gave me an orange candy as we walked around a hay shelter, the small outbuilding packed full of square bales. Tiny brown wrens flew off as we slipped around the lefthand side. I looked back to see that Donvino was right behind us, smiling as his uncle prattled on and on.
We stopped. Dario patted my chest, moved to a sheet-covered shape, and then whipped off the dusty covering. A cloud of dirt and bird poop went flying. I coughed and stared at the little green and white car parked beside the shed.
I stared at the pretty little thing openly. It seemed to be in rather good condition. A two-seater with a fold-down roof of some sort. Adorable actually.
Donvino stepped up beside me. “Uncle says that this Bianchina is you, so he will sell it for only two thousand euros. I would chew on him for lower. It is old, late 50s or early 60s, and needs some work. I suggest you offer him two thousand for both,” he whispered in my ear, his warm moist breath making me shiver even in this baking heat.
“Two thousand euros for both,” I stated with authority. Dario chuckled, puffed on his stogie, and then patted me on the back so hard I nearly flew into the hay.
“Sì. Venduto al figlio della signora per un buon prezzo!”
“He says it’s sold to signora’s boy for a good price,” Donvino said just as Bianca started shouting and peeling off her overalls. A mouse ran out of the sleeve. She blushed prettily, dragged her coveralls back on, and then got back to work on the engine.
After another round of handshakes, I had a cold beer, then rode into Florence to drain almost all the funds out of my bank account. Donvino waited on his Suzuki for me, his smile a lazy one when I emerged with the cash and a new debit card.
“Thank you for your help with the negotiations,” I said as traffic sped by, people rushing to and fro, cars and motorbikes weaving in and out in ways that made no sense to my American eyeballs. “I’m not sure I will ever be able to drive in this city.”
