AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Typical costumes and food, musicians with traditional instruments, endless dance circles, colorful ribbons hangingover our heads, a loud bonfire, and lots and lots of wine. Every meter there are tables completely filled with full bottles and glasses just waiting to be lifted.
Despite the warm night, most of the men are wearing a complete outfit consisting of a suit made of wool, a white shirt with a high collar and long sleeves, a vest, and a red scarf around their neck. Women wear a traditional dress with long sleeves, made of silk or wool, with flowery prints and a round neckline. They wear a red or white scarf in their hair.
Rafaella, who is in character, explained to me that, throughout the night, the men dismantle themselves, and it is common for them to arrive at dawn without most of the pieces with which they started the party, which is not a matter of lack of decorum, just tradition.
But the most fun part of the celebration is, without a doubt, the grape stompers. I simply can't look away from the dozens of them placed next to each other, nor the people happily jumping around inside while singing and dancing. The smile on my face seems permanently glued to it.
“We'll get there,” Rafaella warns when she notices my asking look “but not now. I don't want to get all covered in grapes at the beginning of the party. And you're in white.” I nod, thinking it makes sense, and I can't help but look at myself.
Obviously, I'm not dressed traditionally. I think I'm the only woman at this party who isn't covered in patterned fabric. The knee-length white dress is simple, its fabric is thin and smooth, and so are the spaghetti straps.
“Okay,” I agree. “So shall we eat?” I ask, feeling like a cartoon, about to float towards the best smell at the party, even though I can't decide which one it is.
“And dance! Let's eat and dance!”
We move around, walking through the cobblestone streets, stopping at the tables that interested us most and gorging ourselves on all the food we found. Antipasti, pasta, fried polenta, and tiramisu, lots of tiramisu.
The party atmosphere reverberates through my body, making it impossible to sit still. Rafaella and I dance until our feet hurt and our legs demand rest.
My friend's admission that this place is her home has never made as much sense to me as it did tonight. Anyone looking at her in her flowery dress, red headscarf and flushed cheeks would be able to tell that she is in her natural habitat. Imagining her living any other life than this one seems impossible.
A typically dressed Italian climbs onto the stage set up in the center of the party and announces the start of the competitions. He introduces the panel of judges, made up of a wine blogger, a winemaker, a critic from a famous international wine magazine and the president of some association. It's the first time in a while that I've heard a word I don't understand. After almost three months in Italy, I'm still terrible at writing, because I don't know the grammatical rules of Italian, but speaking and listening have become almost easy tasks.
“I didn't know the competition jury was at that level” I comment close to Rafaella's ear so she can hear me.
“The scores that wines receive don’t count towards official advertisements but are generally commented on in magazine articles and promotional activities. Besides, Italians are competitive to the death, they would be capable of fighting for the best grades even if the only prize was bragging that their winery produces the best wine,” she responds over the noise, and I laugh.
Wine competitions, however, don't hold my attention for long. Rafa and I sit down to rest our feet while we talk, only paying attention to the stage again when the popular competitions begin. These are fun.
The categories start out serious, like “The best harvester in Vendemmia”, but, as the votes are cast, they become increasingly ridiculous and funny, like “The laziest harvester” or, “The smelliest.” The winner of the popular categories is awarded a blue belt, in the case of men, or a flower crown, in the case of women.
I have a good laugh every time the man with the microphone in his hand cheers up the audience, conducting the votes and rewarding the winners. However, when the competitions are over, no one goes on stage anymore, and a chair made of carved wood with a high back is positioned in front of it. I tilt my head and furrow my eyebrows.
“Why the chair?” I ask Rafaella, but I find out before my friend even opens her mouth, because I feel his presence.
My face turns towards Vittorio and, after days without seeing him, the feeling of suffocation when I lay my eyes on him is even more intense. Stripped of his traditional jacket and vest, he walks to the throne-like chair in front of the stage, and I don't know if it's my imagination or if, suddenly, everything really has gone silent.
The Don takes the seat set out for him and his eyes sweep over the crowd before him. My heart has the audacity to believe he's looking for me, because when his gaze finds me, it doesn't move for two seconds before continuing his exploration.
I exhale and turn my face away, trying to escape the avalanche of emotions that his presence triggers, but what Ifind isn't much better: Rafaella's mocking expression when she answers my question.
“Now is the time for favors.”
CHAPTER 41
________
Vittorio Cataneo
Keeping my eyes on the owner of the first favor of the night requires effort that shouldn't be necessary, but every part of me is paying attention to a single point to my left.
Even surrounded by hundreds of people, I am able to find Gabriella as if the collar had not been the only mark of my dominance placed on her on the night of the ball and, unlike the collar, the other had never been taken back.
The granting of favors is a vendemmia tradition. The festival, despite being a celebration of the end of the Santo Monte harvest, welcomes every man and woman who lives in the surrounding area and many people wait all year for this moment: to ask for La Santa’s blessing.
They ask me, I grant it, and Tizziano, who is waiting in a room nearby, receives them to arrange for the requests I granted to be carried out.
Over the past twelve years, I have fulfilled this obligation with the same diligence that I dedicate to any and all other work that the Sagrada requires of me. Tonight, however, although perfectly aware of my duty, every minute that I sit here seems to challenge my own limits.
