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Ah, there it was. I sighed into my coffee, took another sip, and then asked the devil—I actually think her outfit was Prada so that fit—what her due was.
“What do you want me to do?”
She forked off another tiny corner of her tart before replying, “I would like you to attend the Modern Italy Organic Farming Congress coming up next weekend in my stead.”
“I’m not sure I can make it. Donvino has a rowing competition in Pisa and I wanted to attend that to cheer him on.” Her lips puckered slightly. “Those lemons are tart, huh?”
“Arlo, this is business. I’m sure Donvino will paddle his boat just as well or just as poorly without you.”
“Still, can I just opt out of this one trip and I’ll pick up the next?”
“Yes, of course. And I will opt out of registering your car in my name until you are ready to fulfill a different favor I ask of you.”
“That’s really shitty,” I snapped.
“No, that is the art of negotiation. Something that you will need to hone when you are in the CEO’s chair. If you want something badly, you do what you wish to achieve it. So, shall I ask you again if you would like to attend the congress at the end of the month or shall you continue to be a burden to your friend?”
I clenched my teeth to hold back a really nasty comment. “Fine, I’ll go to this stupid congress thing.”
“Very good, and I will have all the paperwork for your new car taken care of before the end of this day. Oh, Arlo, do not look so dour. Venice is a lovely city, very romantic. I’m sure you will find the trip to be most enjoyable. Now, please contact Uncle Dario and have them come to the villa. I shall call Signor Avelli at the Office of Motor Vehicles and have him come out with the proper forms.”
“Does everyone in Florence drop everything when you ask?” I fired off, still pissy about being blackmailed so smoothly by a woman in compression stockings. I really should be faster and more clever than an octogenarian.
“Arlo, you will find that having large amounts of money makes people happy to dance when you play a pipe.”
Yeah, sadly, there was a lot of truth in that.
***
A week later, Donvino and I had a rare afternoon with no responsibilities.
He made good on his promise to take me into the historical center of Florence.
I’d been to many beautiful places before, but I was enraptured with the glory of Firenze as we left the train behind.
Uncaring who might see, we held hands, Donvino looking far less tight than usual. Perhaps it was the sheer crush of people in such a small area, but he gripped my fingers tightly, possessively even, and I ate it up. We strolled along, both of us too poor to really do much shopping other than to grab something to drink to replenish the fluids the miserable heat drained out of us. It was ungodly hot and dry. The drought now starting to worry government officials and those who grew things such as olive farmers.
I’d been sent emails from my aunt and father from people who worked under them, bemoaning the lack of rain and how it was going to impact harvests. There was little to do other than pray, and my aunt did that every Sunday, to no avail. Seemed God would grant her his ear after all the money she donated to the church. Guess the guy in the sky didn’t dance to her pipe playing. He was the only one.
“Ah listen,” Donvino gasped, tugging me through throngs of people gathered in the street about a block from the Cathedral of Santa Maria Del Fiore, the glorious building just visible if one peeked around a man singing in the street. “How beautiful is he?”
We stopped along with a few dozen other people to enjoy a powerfully built man in a long-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, singing opera. I leaned into Donvino, just a little, and his fingers tightened on my hand.
“What is he saying?” I asked my date. Yes, we were calling this a date. Our first date. I hoped it ended in a kiss or two or twenty.
“He is singing “Nessun dorma” which many know from Pavarotti singing,” he said, the crowds pushing in closer as people tossed money into the singer’s upside-down top hat. “A Puccini song. Uhm…he sings nobody shall sleep even you, oh princess.”
“Who is the princess?” I asked, enjoying the moment and the song.
“I’m not sure. I’m not so big on opera. My music is more modern but perhaps signora would know? She is a benefactor to the arts.”
“Yeah, maybe.” We tossed a few coins into his hat and moved on, taking selfies by the hundreds, posing with each other, with horses pulling buggies, and with artists who would draw our likenesses for just a few euros.
Donvino led me down narrow streets, stopping outside a building with a long line of people stretching out into the street. I gave him a curious look, as we’d been going to a famous museum to see David and this place crammed into a narrow street did not look like it would house such famous sculptures.
“This is the Gallery of the Academy of Florence. Your David is inside,” he explained as he showed someone with a lanyard the two tickets he had bought online. After pocketing his phone, we moved slowly into the famed gallery. My mouth fell open at the splendor of the artwork on the walls. We moved along with the crowds, stopping to enjoy each religious painting, making note of the dates they had been painted or the oils themselves. I wasn’t much of an art person unless you counted making artisan trunks which I had yet to do other than dismantle one and then realize I had no clue how to make it into something splendid, but even to my untrained eye, these paintings were stunning.
“Come. David is this way,” Donvino softly said, tugging me into another room. I skidded to a halt upon seeing the famed statue basking in natural light from a skylight over the giant slayer’s head. “I should maybe be jealous of your eyes on him?”
