Margherita's Notebook (13 page)

Armando took her by the hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Wait, I have to put on the music . . .”

Reluctantly, he let go of her. Giulia turned on the stereo, and the notes of “La Cumparsita” filled the hall, captivating them with its magic.

Giulia approached him again, her moves sinuous and provocative, her face for an instant so close to his . . . Then she slipped away, without taking her eyes off his. Armando was about to say something, but she motioned for him to be quiet, whispering. “Don't forget the rule . . .”

He looked deep into her eyes. “Remind me of it.”

Giulia smiled. “Don't say anything, don't think.”

Armando smiled in return and, on the notes of the music, he pulled her toward him and led her confidently through the dance. She seemed to have forgotten that she was the instructor and allowed him to lead her, following each of his movements with her own.

In a corner of the room, half hidden in shadow, Salvatore watched the couple engaged in those difficult tango figures. The sensuality that exuded from their entwined bodies, those flowing movements, their reciprocal pursuit, coming together and pulling apart to then pursue each other again, that insistent touching to then let go—all this triggered pangs of jealousy.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He came out of the shadow and approached the pair, who continued to swivel around at the center of the hall, unaware of his presence. The music rose in a syncopated crescendo, and Giulia took the lead again, pulling Armando toward her, letting him slide his hands down her shoulders, her hips, her breasts . . . When it had finally reached its highest point, the music
began to slowly fall, its rhythm becoming more and more languid, until it ceased altogether. Giulia and Armando held each other tight for a moment, then they separated and looked at each other breathlessly, their eyes sparkling.

“The student will surpass his instructor,” Giulia remarked, smiling.

Armando was about to answer when Salvatore suddenly appeared next to them.

“It's my turn now!” he declared, clumsily grabbing Giulia's waist.

She looked at him with amusement. “And where were you hiding, Salvo?”

“If you can give
him
private lessons, why can't you do the same for me?” answered the little man without loosening his grip.

The look Armando gave him was a mixture of irony and annoyance. “You're right about needing lessons, you're stiffer than a broomstick!”

“Listen to our Zorro!”

Armando burst out laughing. “Miguel Ángel
Zotto
! You're the usual buffoon!”

Salvatore turned red with rage and took one menacing step toward Armando, but Giulia stepped in to calm them down.

“Come on now, gentlemen, don't argue! At least now I know you're listening to me when I talk to you about the best
tanguero
in the world . . .”

Armando looked at her, smiled, and gallantly replied, “I always treasure what you say.”

“Just listen to him, ‘I always treasure what you say,' ” Salvatore echoed mockingly.

Armando gave him a withering look. He was about to
answer back when the noisy entrance of the other students put an end to the argument.

“Let's go, it's time for the lesson!” said Giulia cheerfully, and taking each of them by the arm, she approached the group of newcomers.

Armando winked at Salvatore. “Armando one, Salvatore zero!”

His friend didn't answer but swallowed the bitter pill for now: that dandy Armando was going to have to take back all his little smirks. He'd show him that winning a battle didn't mean winning the war!

Vittorio Giovanale savored his last delicious bite of cheesecake. The dinner had been a triumph, a perfect combination of ancient and modern flavors, accompanied by a superlative choice of wines. He had to admit that Nicola Ravelli had impeccable taste and that perhaps he would be able to talk business with him.

“You still haven't told me why you want my land . . .”

Nicola smiled. It was a frank, candid sort of smile.

“Because I want to go back to my roots,” he answered, certain he'd impress his guest.

The older man's eyes sharpened.

“I grew up in the vineyards, my father produced a highly respectable Lagrein. He spent his whole life selecting vines, he taught me how to work in the vineyard and the importance of the wood.”

For a second, his mind wandered to those long walks among the rows of vines that as a child he'd taken with his father, who was so totally absorbed by his vineyards that he hardly took any notice of his son beside him.

“ ‘You have
to love the land, that's the only way you'll be able to make quality wine,' he always told me.”

“And now you want to prove to him that you can walk on your own two feet?” the other man asked, interrupting his train of thought.

Nicola looked at him seriously.

“No. Unfortunately, my father passed away and I was forced to sell everything,” he said with a serious air. “But wine stays in your blood, and now that I have the chance to make some, I want to put myself to the test.” He watched Giovanale closely, certain that those words would impress him.

“You could buy his land back . . .”

Nicola skillfully feigned an expression of embitterment and struck what he thought would be the winning blow: “I can't. The land is in the hands of a consortium that produces industrial wine.”

As a shadow crossed the face of the old winemaker, Nicola added, “Yours is the only wine with DOCG status in the area, and with my wine experts we can turn it into a product of excellence.”

Giovanale smiled and then stood up.

“I need time to think over your proposition.”

Nicola felt the usual quiver of excitement that came over him whenever he knew his prey was about to fall into the trap.

“Take all the time you need,” he answered, standing up, too.

“Before going, though,” the winemaker continued, “allow me to express my compliments to the chef. It isn't easy to combine tradition with creativity; it takes talent.”

This was something that Nicola hadn't been expecting,
and he was forced to accompany his guest to the kitchen.

Taken aback, the winemaker recognized Margherita.

“Well, that explains it all, like mother, like daughter,” he said to her, shaking her hand warmly. “You must miss Erica . . .”

Margherita could feel the empathy in Giovanale's words, and she squeezed his hand back. In the meantime, Nicola had stiffened, as if that personal touch had annoyed him.

“Thank you,” she answered. “You're right, I still can't get used to her not being here anymore.”

“But she has left you a great legacy.” Giovanale smiled at her. “So young and so talented, you have a great future ahead of you.”

Margherita thanked him, both embarrassed by the compliments and happy to have hit the mark.

Giovanale turned to Nicola and said, “Hold on to her or someone else will take her away from you.” Nicola, impassive, gave him a perfunctory smile.

Margherita struggled to fight the mild feeling of disappointment that was slowly rising inside her.

She would have expected to hear at least something from those lips that were so sensual, so . . .

Oh, damn! What could I be thinking?

She looked away and said good-bye to the elderly winemaker.

As Nicola accompanied him to the door, Margherita found herself thinking that maybe now that they were alone in the kitchen he might pay her a compliment, apologize for his arrogant behavior during the afternoon, tell her that from now on she would have carte blanche because he trusted her . . .

“Finished?” The question, uttered in a cold and impersonal
tone, brought her right back down to earth, while her dreams burst like soap bubbles.

Standing perfectly still at the kitchen door, Nicola watched her with the air of someone who can't wait to get rid of an intruder.

Forget the gratitude and the apologies! I must be some kind of idiot! What did I expect from someone like him?

Margherita placed all her kitchen utensils in her bag and looked at him, hoping that she appeared to be just as detached as he was.

“I'm done,” she answered.

“Good.” He took his wallet from the pocket of his perfectly tailored jacket and counted the bills. “Here's your fee.”

Margherita would have felt less hurt if he'd slapped her across the face. She took the money as if it stung her hand.

“Next time, as well,” he continued nonplussed, “I'll have my assistant contact you.”

Margherita gave him a sideways look. “If there is a next time,” she muttered through her teeth.

Nicola stared at her. “Perhaps I haven't paid you enough?” he asked ironically.

Margherita looked down at the money she was still holding in her hand.

“No use explaining,” she couldn't help answering. “A person like you wouldn't understand.”

“Wouldn't understand what?” Nicola was starting to grow angry. “You did a job, you were paid rather well, I would say, what else do you want?”

“There, exactly!” Margy snapped. “What I'd like is something that a person like you cannot even imagine, let alone understand!”

“Would you mind making an effort to explain it to me,” Nicola replied sarcastically, “seeing that I'm so obtuse?”

Standing face-to-face, they glared at each other.

“It's only human to also wish for some appreciation for the work done, for recognition of my skills, my creativity—”

“I think the money you got is the best possible recognition,” he interrupted her.

“Money! That's all it boils down to for you!” Margherita blurted out in exasperation. Then, looking him straight in the eye, her last words were, “And anyway, what else could I have expected from someone who eats frozen food? How could he be anything other than a block of ice?”

D
id you really say that?” Armando, sitting in the kitchen, laughed heartily.

But Margherita was in no mood for joking.

“Yes, I did, and then I left.”

Her father looked at her carefully.

“Why are you taking it so bad? What do you even care about that guy? The dinner was a success, and that's what counts.”

Armando was right.

Why should I care about him? Why did I want him to tell me how talented, creative, imaginative I am?

“Margy . . . is everything all right?”

She avoided Armando's gaze. He knew her well, and he recognized all the nuances of her moods. And for some reason that she couldn't quite pin down, she felt there was something she didn't want him to grasp this time.

“Yes, yes,” she cut short, “except that I don't think I want
to repeat the experience, that's all. But I'm tired now and—”

She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Armando rolled his eyes.

“I'll bet it's Francesco again. He hasn't stopped calling . . .”

“I'm not here!” she exclaimed.

“What should I tell him?”

“Tell him whatever you want. I don't want to talk to him.”

Armando lifted the receiver.

“Yes . . . Francesco . . . no . . .” He looked at Margherita, who was shaking her head with determination. “No, Margherita hasn't come back yet . . . No, I don't know when . . . Yes, it's late, but I'm not her babysitter! Come on, don't be upset . . . try to understand . . . you're only making it worse . . . Yes, yes, I'll tell her . . . fine, good-bye.” He hung up, looking exasperated. “He says he can't live without you, that the two of you need to talk, that he was wrong, that—”

“I know, I know, I'm only too familiar with all his lines!” Suddenly, a loving feeling came over her.

She went over to Armando and pecked him on the cheek. “I'm sorry you're caught in the middle of this. But you'll see, sooner or later he'll understand I'm serious.”

“Let's hope so . . . ,” Armando muttered, unconvinced. “Why don't you try talking to him?”

“Because I have nothing to say,” Margherita replied. “So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed. I am exhausted.”

Armando hugged his daughter. “Good night, sweetheart. Don't worry, you're right, sooner or later he'll get the message.”

Margherita gathered up her rabble and headed toward her bedroom. It had been a very tiring day and she needed
some rest. After getting nice and cozy under the covers with Asparagio, Ratatouille, and Artusi, she turned off the light. She was almost asleep when her cell phone lit up and the text icon appeared. It was the umpteenth text from Francesco, but this time the language was different: “You're a BITCH! When you love someone you know how to forgive them. The truth is, YOU NEVER LOVED ME!!!”