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“Yes, signora.” Giada filled the table with light fare. Some biscotti, a bowl of yogurt, some white figs, oranges, and prickly pears along with a jar of honey and some balls of mozzarella. Silverware, cloth napkins, and two cups of cappuccino were settled among the platters, and then the housekeeper left me to glower at my aunt as I stewed.
“Eat. My staff is not here for you to run ragged at all hours. If you wish to eat, you will be here when the meals are served. Breakfast is seven to eight, lunch one to two, and dinner is served at eight unless we are entertaining, then the meal will be served at nine. Make note. Do not be late or you will go hungry.”
“Noted,” I mumbled, uncrossed my arms, and began loading up on whatever I could get my hands on. Ginerva lifted her cup to sip at it delicately. Her lipstick left a dark red mark on the white cup. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not really happy to be treated like a toddler.”
She lowered her cup just an inch. “Then do not act as one.”
“I don’t,” I snarled while dumping honey into my bowl of yogurt. “I’m standing up for myself.”
“Indeed? Well, shouting at me or those whom I employ is not acceptable. Only street people shout at other people. Bonettis speak with confidence, yes, but we do not shriek like the gulls bickering over fish carcasses.” My mouthful of yogurt prohibited me from replying. “I find your lack of knowing your family’s language frightful.” Her slim brows knitted. “Did your father not hire suitable tutors for you?”
Oh dear lord save me from this nightmare. I bet if I made a run for it, I could throw myself into the Arno and float away. I could become a street performer who sings arias outside the Santa Maria Del Fiore.
No, you could not. You can’t carry a tune.
Fine, I’ll be an artist selling sketches of tourists.
Nope, no artistic talent.
Potter?
Sorry.
Fisherman.
You’re terrified of fish.
Yeah I am. They have those buggy fish eyes. Oh! A goat herder! No, they have funny eyes too.
“Arlo, not replying when someone who is your elder is speaking to you is rude.” I ricocheted back to the here and now, swallowed and shrugged. That, it seemed, was not a suitable reply to the signora, for her left eye twitched slightly, her rather thick lenses making the tic quite noticeable. I kept shoveling yogurt with peach honey into my face. Then, out of left field, she sighed and shook her head. Not a hair moved. Whatever kind of hairspray she used was slapping. “Piccolo puppy never did get over the loss of Lynette, and, I fear, his grief made him indulgent.”
Did she just call my father a puppy? That was…weird.
“Pfft, yeah, no, not indulgent. He’d have to care to indulge, right? Also, to be fair to Tommaso,” at the usage of his first name, her deep brown eyes rounded to twice their size, “he did bring in some guy when I was around twelve but I hated the lessons so that ended that.”
“You use your father’s first name instead of calling him father?”
“Sometimes. He doesn’t care.”
She sat back, her shoulders sagging just a bit, as the gray cat appeared from under a bush, sending the bathing doves to wing. The cat leapt to Ginerva’s lap and settled into a tight ball, her bright yellow eyes watching me, then slowly closing as my aunt ran her ringed fingers down the feline’s back.
“Yes, I see this to be the case.” Ginerva watched me eat in silence, with one hand on the cat and the other tapping on the side of her cappuccino cup. Finally, after I had demolished the bowl of yogurt and was now peeling an orange, she took a diminutive sip of her coffee and squared her shoulders back into fighting mode. “Well, we are here to right his wrongs. We will start with you learning Italian.” I made a face. She placed her cup back onto its saucer, the cat unmoving aside from its long, white whiskers. “That face did not work with your father and it shall not work for you. Knowing the language that your staff and employees speak is vital for when you take over the company.”
“Yeah, I’m not really feeling the whole olive oil magnate thing,” I said as I worked on freeing an orange wedge. When I glanced up, my great-aunt and the cat were staring at me as if a lesser demon had just spoken words of hellfire using my mouth. “No offense, but I don’t see myself in big business. I’m aspiring to be a social media trendsetter. A maestro of the interwebs if you will.” I flapped a hand in the air, sticky sweet orange juice flying off my fingers.
“I see. And does this internet trendsetting put food on the table?”
“Not now, no, it’s more of an artistic thing. A way to live one’s life. People love me. If I had access to the internet, I could show you how many followers I have and how adoring they are!”
“I’m aware of your internet presence. I repeat myself in asking how you plan to feed yourself. One can only survive on semen for so long.”
I choked on my orange wedge. Wow, okay, Auntie G had some chutzpah. “Well, I might create my own brand of steamer trunks.”
She smiled. It was the first time that her mouth had pulled upward. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
“Ah, yes, the steamer trunks. So many people today are using them. So, you plan to sell steamer trunks and frolic with other young men with too much money and too little supervision.”
I chewed on my orange as I tried to decipher if she was being sincere or sarcastic. I was leaning toward sarcasm when she reached over to lift another silver bell. She rang it once. Giada appeared from inside, her eyes searching the table.
