him her errand.
‘And of course you’ll deliver them to me without looking at them?’ he said ironically.
‘Did I say that?’ she asked, wide-eyed with innocence.
‘Well at least you play fair,’ he said appreciatively.
Having got the books, Alex shut herself up with them for several hours.
‘I notice that most of the pages were printed then put in ring-binders later,’ she said to Rinaldo.
‘My father used a computer for the accounts,’ he said. ‘He was very proud of the fact that he’d mastered it.’
‘Can I see his files?’
Rinaldo showed her into the study, switched on the computer and showed her what she needed. Then he left her.
Alex’s first impression was that Poppa’s pride had been well-founded. Comparing his files to the receipts she came to the conclusion that he’d kept his records perfectly. They were detailed, informative and easy to check.
Next she managed to access files for previous years, and, after a search, located the books that matched them. She spent a long night checking and cross-checking.
It was early morning by the time she’d finished and switched off the computer. Instead of going to bed she put on her work-out clothes and went running. Then she showered, ate a swift breakfast, and drove into Florence.
She began spending lengthy periods in the city, sometimes driving back late at night, sometimes staying in a hotel. Without saying very much she gave the brothers the impression that she was enjoying a pleasure trip, shopping and going to the theatre. Rinaldo occasionally gave her puzzled glances, but he held his peace.
Soon there was no time for questions, for the harvest was due to begin. Wheat, olives, lemons, now ripe under the burning sun, had to be brought in, stored and sold to the waiting markets.
‘And after them, the wine,’ Gino told her. ‘Maybe October.’
‘Maybe? You don’t know?’
‘Judging the right moment for picking grapes can be very tricky. You have to wait until they’re sweet enough, or you can end up with vinegar. Try this.’
They were sitting on the veranda enjoying the last of the sun. On the low table between them was a bunch of deep purple grapes that he had picked that afternoon. He took one, peeled it carefully with a tiny knife, and offered it to her.
‘Sweet?’ he asked.
‘It tastes very sweet.’
‘But not quite sweet enough. It needs more than this before it’s ready.’
‘And you can tell the moment by the taste.’
‘Rinaldo can, he’s the real expert. He says he’s never wrong. Mind you, he thinks that about everything.’
‘Talking about me?’ came Rinaldo’s voice from just inside the house.
He came out and pulled up another chair, acknowledging Alex with only a brief nod, but sitting close to her. It was the first time she had seen him all day.
‘I was just explaining to Alex how you value your taste buds above the achievements of science.’
‘What has science got to do with it?’ Alex wanted to know.
‘Nothing,’ Rinaldo said. ‘Judging grapes is an art. You either have it or you haven’t. And my little brother hasn’t, so he tries to pretend that science is the next best thing.’
‘No, it’s the very
‘But what science?’ Alex asked, baffled.
From his pocket Gino pulled a narrow metal tube, about six inches long. It reminded Alex of a small telescope, except that at one end was a piece of yellow glass that lifted, revealing a small box beneath.
Into this Gino inserted a grape and closed the lid, squashing the grape so that the juice flowed.
‘Now look,’ he said, holding it up.
Alex squinted from the other end and saw a tiny dial. The needle was hovering back and forth, almost near the red area, but not quite settling there.
‘It tells you the sugar content,’ Gino explained. ‘When that’s right, you know it’s time to pick.’
Rinaldo gave a snort of contempt.
‘I’ve known you use it,’ Gino protested. ‘When it suited you.’
‘I’ve occasionally demonstrated that it backs me up,’ Rinaldo agreed.
‘And when it doesn’t, you ignore it.’
‘Yes, because I know grapes better than any machine. That’s enough talk. I’m going to bed. If you’re wise, you will too. We have a long, hard haul ahead of us.’
Just how hard a haul Alex was to discover. Both Rinaldo and Gino played their full part in the harvest, often picking with their own hands. Alex plunged in, determined to earn her place here by hard work as well as money.
Even she, inexperienced, knew that this would be a good harvest. The long, hot summer had brought the crops to perfection at exactly the right moment, until at last only the grapes were left.
‘And we start on those tomorrow,’ Rinaldo said.
The three of them were sitting on the veranda, in various stages of exhaustion. Gino was sprawled in his chair, his head right back. But he lifted it when he heard this.
‘Tomorrow?’ he echoed. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I do mean it. The grapes are ready.’
‘Not according to this.’ Gino lifted the instrument that was used for testing the grapes, which was lying on the low table.
‘I don’t need a machine to tell me the grapes are ready,’ Rinaldo said stubbornly.
‘Rinaldo be sensible.’
‘Machines don’t drink wine. People do. The grapes are ready.’
‘But nobody else is harvesting now. They’re all waiting another week.’
‘Great. We’ll be ahead of the market and our grapes will be the best. We’ll get the highest price. I’m going to bed.’
Gino’s shocked eyes followed him until he was out of sight.
‘He’s taken leave of his senses,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known him like this before.’
‘But you said he’s the real expert,’ Alex reminded him. ‘Has this never happened in the past?’
‘Only by the odd day or two. But a week? He’s never been out on that much of a limb before. What’s got into him to take such a risk?’
‘Is it really a great risk?’
‘Being wrong by a day can take the edge of perfection off the harvest. He’s risking everything.’
Risking everything. Yes, Alex thought, Rinaldo had had the air of a man leaping into the unknown, ready to chance all he had on one reckless throw of the dice.
Next day, as he’d said, the grape harvest began. The work was long and laborious, for grape picking was another task Rinaldo wouldn’t entrust to machines, saying they damaged the plants.
Alex piled in, picking until her hands were sore. If she tried to talk to Rinaldo he replied automatically. Sometimes she wondered if he really knew that she was there. She had the odd sensation that he was looking beyond her.
‘Pick,’ he said fiercely. ‘Just pick.’
She never knew how she got through that week. Somehow she’d been swept up by his own intensity, driving herself on to some unknown goal. When the last grape was in she felt drained and futile, as though the purpose of her whole life had been taken away.
The Farneses were not wine makers, but sold their grapes to a company. When Signor Valli, the company representative who always dealt with them, received their summons, he gave a yell of pleasure.
‘That’s great. I know we can always trust Rinaldo’s palate. I’ll be right over.’
Alex had meant to be there for his visit, but at the last moment she had to make one of her trips to Florence for a long talk with the accountant, Andansio. What she heard from him was absorbing, but it was still hard to concentrate when her mind was with Rinaldo, learning the result of his life or death gamble.
She wasn’t sure how she knew that it was life and death. But she had no doubt of it.
