CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (4 page)

A TOP-LEVEL MEETING

The agent walked
into Carlo Braidi’s private office in an elegant old building, number 31, just
around the corner from Piazza San Babila in Milan, an aging receptionist at his
side.  Hanging on the back wall, a new painting: Monet’s
Le bassin aux
nymphéas
, sold at a recent Christie’s auction in London for the “modest”
price of 36 million pounds.  The two men shook hands formally, then Braidi
nodded his head at the receptionist, who politely took her leave, closing the
door carefully behind her.

As soon as the latch clicked shut, Michele
Canosi launched into their usual salutations.  “What’s shaking, you Milanese
bum?”

Braidi replied as always, “How you doing,
you Roman lowlife?”

They had known each other for years, but
they never showed anything but the most formal manners whenever someone else
was in the room.

Carlo Braidi, born 1954, had for more than
ten years been the president of the youth squad and scouting director for
AC
San Carlo
, the Milan soccer team that had taken the world by storm the
previous year, winning the Serie B Italian soccer league and earning a place
with the big boys in Serie A this season.

The man in front of him was Michele
Canosi, born 1958, an unscrupulous agent for many soccer players in both Serie
A and B, and a scouting consultant for various Italian and European clubs.

Getting together always meant opening up
the Pandora’s box of old memories: glorious stories tied mostly to unsuccessful
personal sporting careers.  Both of them, in fact, after less than stellar
stints in the minor leagues of soccer, had tried their hands at managing.  It
was during a mandatory professional coaching course in Coverciano in the 1980s
that they had met and become close friends.  Rarely and unwillingly did they
actually get involved in the classroom debates about innovative soccer tactics;
for them, it was much more interesting to simply sing the praises of the Sunday
prowess of the stars of that era: Baggio, Maradona, Van Basten, and Bruno
Conti.  They were purists, and preferred old-school soccer to any recent
techniques and modules.  Throughout the ‘90s, after short and unfruitful
experiences as managers of teams in Serie C, they both decided that their lives
would continue in the world of soccer, but this time from behind a luxurious
Liberty-style mahogany desk.

What kept them together was their burning
love for soccer, for the beautiful game, even though their respective
backgrounds kept them worlds apart.  Carlo, from the 45th parallel, came from
an upper-middle-class family of Milan.  He had graduated with honors from the
university and had been married for over 20 years to Clara, a child
psychologist who had made a certain reputation for herself in the medical world
for her writings on pervasive childhood development problems.  They had two
daughters.  He was a pensive man, calm and quiet.  He loved his job and
fulfilled his role as director of the youth squad with genuine passion, always
trying to make sure that his young charges grew as men, not only as players. 
He admired Michele for his innate soccer intuition and a certain brazenness
that was essential in their world.

Michele Canosi, latitude 41, came from a
family of restaurateurs in Rome, from the working-class neighborhood of
Testaccio, the same area where the
AS Roma Football Club
had had its
legendary playing field in the ‘30s.  By nature more impulsive and intuitive
than his friend, he was in seventh heaven when he got to play hardball and
negotiate contracts for his players with professional teams.  His cut
fluctuated between 4 and 10 percent of the deal.  Pathologically single, he had
a weakness for beautiful women (he called them his “cheerleaders”), designer
clothes, and fast cars.  He was always elegantly dressed in pinstriped,
ton
sur ton
suits and perfectly coiffed.  He had two offices: one in Milan for
international negotiations, and one in Rome for Italian affairs.  As a way to
invest the significant fortune that he had amassed over the years, he followed
in the family footsteps and purchased one of the most exclusive restaurants in
Milan.  He knew everyone’s phone number and had contacts with the
crème de
la crème
of the soccer world.  And when he discovered a young kid with
talent, his first stop was always Carlo, the only man he knew who could turn a
rough gem into a true diamond.

After a false show of ceremony and a few
tasteless jokes about Michele’s most recent conquests from the world of
showbiz, the sports agent got down to business.  “Carlo, I’ve found the heir to
Roberto Baggio.”

“Please, don’t be so modest!” Carlo said,
trying to cover his immediate excitement with sarcasm.

In the triumphant tone of someone who
knows what he’s talking about, Canosi started his tale.  “Last April, I was in
the hills outside of Vicenza at my trusty wine distributor’s and I got talking
with the owner.  We go way back....”

“Hold on, let me get this straight,”
Braidi interrupted.  “You go
where
?... To
Vicenza
?  To get your
wine
??” 
Carlo put on his best Gallic accent.  “If you please,
monsieur
, I will
call my loyal secretary Teresa  and have her bring you a copy of the
distributors who sell only the highest-quality
vins
français
. 
Shall I have her open a bottle of Château d’Yquem, Premier Cru Supérieur from
Sauternes, 1973?  It’s in the wine cooler as we speak.”

“Impressive, but no,” Michele said, taking
a patriotic stance.  “I prefer the wines of my homeland, and only 100% organic.”

“Ugh, what am I hearing?  My, how we’ve
gotten picky about our wines!  The only thing you have good taste in is your
cheerleaders
. 
I bet my bottle of Château is older than they are!”

Michele made his right hand into a pistol
and shot: BINGO!  “Fine fine, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure....”

“Get to the point!” Carlo begged him.

“The point is, that the winemaker told me
to check out a couple of local kids who play in the Junior Elite league.  So I decided
to kill two birds with one stone.”

While Michele passionately and lengthily
expounded the virtues of the two promising players, Carlo listened to him
without the slightest show of interest, faking skepticism.

“The following week, I stayed in the area. 
I canceled a couple business meetings and more than a couple of, ahem,
dinner
dates, all to watch their practices, talk to the coaches, and, in the end, get
in touch with the families.”

“And so?” Carlo asked, gesturing with his
hands for him to get to the conclusion.

“And so, Carlo,” Michele almost shouted in
his enthusiasm, “you’ve got to come see him!”

“I thought there were two of them,” he
said nonchalantly.  “In any event, I’m way too busy right now for a scouting
trip.”

“Fine, have it your way!  I’ll just have
to put together a video for you then.”  Michele lifted himself out of the 1800s
bergère
, upholstered in sienna leather, and headed toward the door, a
grin on his face.  He knew that he had hooked his prey.

AT THE OLD WATERMILL

The week dragged on
slowly in anxious anticipation of the weekend escape: a getaway to Milan
complete with passing through the turnstiles of the legendary San Siro Stadium.

First week of school brought nothing
remarkable aside from a fortunate two-period break on Wednesdays and the
constant squawking of Livia next to her.  Somehow Marika made it to Saturday
afternoon, which in a show of fortuitousness was a lovely late summer day: the
sun was still high in the clear blue sky and warmed the earth happily.  The
mistral was blowing gently.

It would be her first time inside a
world-class stadium with not one, but two upper decks.  It was
La Scala
of soccer, and the idea of sitting in the area reserved for the most avid fans,
the legendary “lions’ den” of old, gave her a simultaneous rush of reverence
and pure adrenaline.  Matteo had told her that their seats were in the blue
section of the second deck, in the
Curva Sud
: how he had managed to get
tickets for section 210, where almost everyone was a season-ticket holder, was
a mystery.

Even Carlotta had decided to come along,
though reluctantly, seeing as how Valerio said he had no interest in wasting an
entire Saturday evening at the stadium, where, as he put it, “it’s all just a
bunch of guys.”

Until meeting Matteo, Marika had been what
you might call a soccer agnostic; the Vendramini household was interested only
in cycling and the fortunes of the Vicenza soccer team, the
Lanerossi
. 
But Matteo’s influence quickly had an effect on her.  She knew the rules, the
teams (at least at the top of the rankings), and even the sports commentators. 
After enough time, she had learned how to hold her own in a conversation about
soccer with anyone, experts included.  Matteo bragged about his teaching
prowess every time he heard her launch into a debate about the quality of the
referees or a manager’s lineup choices.

As a way to pass the final gut-wrenching
hours before their scheduled departure, she jumped on the back of her scooter
with a black helmet on her head and peeled away toward Mulino Tessari, the old
watermill.  It had been ages since she went there, even though in years past it
had been the favorite (and cheapest) “playground” for her and Carlotta.

She drove leisurely through town, a series
of hills pregnant with the smells of cut grass and endless varieties of trees:
oak, beech, hornbeam, maple, hackberry, acacia, chestnuts hiding their prickly
fruit behind dark leaves, silvery olive trees, and Judas trees with their
crimson berries still clinging to the branches.

As she neared the spot, she turned off the
engine and listened to the slow-moving waters that flowed down the valley in a
wide canal from the Liona river and propelled the large water wheel.  The mill
that stood at the center of the courtyard was a two-story house: the ground
floor had a kitchen and a fireplace, while the second floor, accessible by a
steep set of wooden steps, hosted the bedroom.  Above it all was a granary. 
The stone walls, held together by mortar made of lime and sand, gave the building
its rustic flavor, as did the wooden beams and terracotta tiles on the roof.

Leaving her scooter behind, she passed the
surrounding wall and walked toward the iron wheel that had once been used to
crush wheat and corn, planning to sit down on the wooden steps next to it.  But
as she neared it, she noticed the outline of a man’s back leaning against the
knotty wooden railing.  He was reading.

Marika advanced cautiously, with careful
steps, trying to identify the intruder.  She was unhappy to find an unwelcome
visitor here, since she had chosen the old watermill as the perfect silent and
out-of-the-way place to lose herself in the first chapters of
Eclipse
,
the third book in the
Twilight
saga.

Despite her best efforts to be quiet, dry
branches cracked beneath her tennis shoes and alerted the man to her presence. 
He jerked around.

“Matteo!” she exclaimed, surprised and a
bit thrown off.  “What are
you
doing here?”

“I come here all the time,” he said, his
warm, clear voice sounding slightly embarrassed, giving off a hint of his
northeastern accent.  “What are
you
doing here?”

“Me?” she mumbled.  “I didn’t know you
ever came here.”  She was disappointed to discover that he had secrets from
her.

“I like to come here and read.”

“For school?” she asked, skeptical,
nearing him.

“Yeah, right!”  He tried to find a
justification for himself, as if there were something shameful about it.  “Just
for pleasure.”

Marika felt a shiver run through her body
at the word “pleasure” on his lips.  It sounded vaguely dirty.

“I just like to read outside,” he
concluded, unaware of the effect his words were having.

“Even in the winter?”  She kept on
questioning him out of spite, angry that she didn’t know him as well as she
thought.

“Sometimes, when it isn’t raining,” he
replied calmly, despite the third degree.

She knew that Matteo was free to do what
he wanted, where he wanted, and – unfortunately – with whomever he wanted, so
she tried to laugh it off.  “You’ll catch your death there, sonny!”

“I promise to dress warmly,” he smiled.  “I’m
hardly a polar bear!”

Marika blushed for having interrogated
him.  “What are you reading?” she finally asked, warming to the fact that he
was here, with her, in one of the most romantic places she knew, second only to
the Castles of Romeo and Juliet in Montecchio Maggiore.

“
The Scorpio Illusion
by Robert
Ludlum,” he announced proudly, turning over the cover.

“And he would be...?”

“Come on!” he said, thunderstruck.  “Don’t
you know the Bourne trilogy, you know, with Jason Bourne?”

“
I sure do
,” she said to herself, “
with
Matt Damon
!”  She smirked, her face faking ignorance.

“And you, I suppose you are still at it
with your vampires and werewolves,” he said with a superior tone.

“Damn right!  I was just about to start
the third book of the saga and I keep falling in love with them more and more.”

Matteo whistled, cocking his eyebrow.  “
Them
?
 You mean there’s more than one who fires your dreams?!”

“That’s right!  I just can’t seem to
choose between Edward Cullen and Jacob Black.”  She was enjoying this.  “Edward
is a vampire and blindingly, otherworldly handsome; his body is cold to the
touch and never ages: he hasn’t changed since he turned 17 in 1918.  He’s
deeply in love with Bella, but he’s careful and guarded... he has to be just to
protect her from himself!  Jake, on the other hand, is part of the Quileute
tribe and the legend of the wolves runs deep inside him: he’s strong, brave,
reckless, and his body temperature is 108.9 degrees.  He’s different from
Edward, more impulsive, more passionate... free to be who he is!  Their love
for Bella is going to make them....”

“Enough!  Stop!  I get the picture.”  He
looked exhausted.  “My sister has already bored the pants off of me with these
two ridiculous superheroes.”

“Really?”  Her big eyes widened in
curiosity.  “And so...?” she asked, thrilled at this unexpected chance to
compare opinions about
Twilight
.

“So what?”  Helpless, he watched as she
sat down on the wooden step between his legs and leaned back against his chest.

“Who’s her favorite?”  As if it was the
most obvious question in the world.

“I don’t know...” he blurted out,
uncomfortable.  “Ask her.”

Loretta, Matteo’s older sister, had just
recently turned 22.  Her thick, shining, naturally blond hair and cobalt eyes
made her look like some kind of tame, diaphanous creature.  She was studying
foreign languages and literature at the University of Verona, and unlike her
scholastically lazy brother, she put her heart and soul into it.  After a long,
tedious four-year relationship with a guy she had met at a Caribbean dance
class – a fickle, malleable type who, after changing his dance partner decided
it would be best to change his girlfriend too – she had rebounded nicely,
dedicating time to  herself, rather than stroking the oversized ego of someone
else.  Intelligent and considerate, she was very close to both of her brothers;
she was mothering to Daniele – at 11 years old the baby of the family for whom
Matteo was an absolute idol – while with Matteo she was a confidante, with whom
she had a relationship of uncomplicated affection.

Unchecked, Marika turned her gaze up
toward Matteo again with a graceful turning of her neck.  “We could read
Eclipse
together.  You clearly know as much about the other books as I do.  You won’t
regret it.  Once you start, you won’t want to put it down.”

She stared into his eyes in a state of
euphoria, hoping that he would join her in what felt almost like an illicit
act.  But Matteo only said, “Not!” and threw his arms around her waist,
tickling her so as to shut her up.

“Cut it out!  Stop it, please!”  Marika
was very ticklish and squirmed about like a limp eel in his arms.  “Come on, I’m
not a little girl anymore!” she whined, bitterly aware of the fact that he
still saw her that way, all pigtails and school smock.  “Oww, oww, I can’t breathe...
Please... Oww! Owwww!!”

“OK, OK, I’ll stop.”  Her handsome,
annoying tormentor let go, a smug look of self-satisfaction planted on his
face, which all the same couldn’t hide a hint of embarrassment for their close,
intimate physical contact.

“Moron,” Marika muttered, breathing
heavily from the combination of laughing and crying.  She sprawled out on the
wooden step and caught her breath.

“Anyway, only a little girl could fall in
love with two imaginary characters.”  He watched her tenderly as she rearranged
her clothes.  “But I’m feeling generous today and I’ll make it up to you.  I’ll
give you a preview, seeing as how my sister has already read that same book and
keeps talking about it.”

“Awesome!” she cried, enchanted by the
sunlight in his eyes, the color of the sky on a summer morning.  “I’m all ears.”

“We were stuck in traffic.  There was no
escape,” he defended himself, “when Loretta started talking about the book’s
parallels with
Wuthering Heights
....”  He stretched his arms widely.  “She’s
nuts about this story, as if it were real, and she made me promise ‘not to get
screwed’ by such an egotistical girl like those two dumb-asses in
Twilight
. 
To make an analogy, the true source of all the problems is Catherine, not
Heathcliff.”

Marika stared into space for a moment,
making sense of the literary comparison.  “Interesting,” she murmured,
intrigued by the metaphor.

“Satisfied?  Literature class is over!” he
said, full of himself.

She smiled broadly, and suddenly placed
her full, moist lips on his cheek, pressing them together in a sweet, gentle
kiss.

Matteo looked at her, confused.  They had
always been close friends, but these new emotions were so strong and unfamiliar
that they scared him.

“But remember, if you ask Carlotta about
it, I will always be a Cullen,” Marika said, making an awkward attempt to
direct attention away from the sudden blush that had risen to her cheeks.

“OK, OK... I don’t even know what that
means, but have it your way.”  Then, with a chaste slap to her butt, he told
her to get up.  “You ready for tonight?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she mumbled,
unhappy about having to distance herself from his touch.

“What did your parents say?  Did they give
you a hard time about it?”

“At first, but in the end they gave in.” 
She shrugged.  “After all, you’re going to be there, right?”

“Right,” he answered, lost in his
thoughts.  He adjusted his jeans.  His face was gorgeous in the fading
sunlight, which brought out translucent shades of color in his eyes, and the
air around him was inebriating with the smell of his skin, kissed by the last
rays of the day.

For a moment, Marika looked at him without
moving, enthralled by this boy who was no longer just a simple friend.

Matteo took a long, thirsty look at her as
well, taking in her virginal beauty, but only after she had turned away.  “Let’s
go,” he said, before she could turn and see his face, confused and
disoriented.  “You’re on your scooter, right?” he asked, even though he knew
the answer.

“Need a ride?” she asked, hoping.

“No thanks.  I’ve got my old junk heap,”
he said, sighing.  Matteo had a once-cool metallic gray Alfa Romeo 147,
third-hand but in good condition, which had been a gift from his parents on his
eighteenth birthday in March.

“You big whiner,” she replied, pissy.  Her
driver’s license still seemed like it was light years away.  “At least you’ve
got a car.”  She saw him raise an eyebrow and added, “It runs, doesn’t it...?” 
He frowned.  “What should I say then?”

Giving each other a hard time and
fantasizing about their dream cars, they headed back to her scooter, parked outside
the old mill’s walls.  “Do you have your iPod?”