1
THE PROPOSAL
Saturday, November 11, 7:00 A.M.
My wake-up call is all-natural. I’m roused by the sun as it ascends behind the eastern hills of Chianti. Its insistent rays penetrate my bedroom window and ripple over me, and I allow them to gently stroke my face for a few luxurious moments. Then I slowly open my eyes and watch as the light expands to take possession of the entire room. The sudden brightness warms the egg-yolk hued paint with which I recently adorned the walls, and brightens the cool green of the ficus plants in their terracotta vases at the foot of my brass bed.
It’s many years since I stopped closing the shutters at night; in my opinion, it would be unforgivable to block out the spectacular show nature offers us daily. True, observing the sunrise each morning is a bit like attending the same theatrical performance every day. The crucial difference is that the performance I enjoy varies wildly with regard to the temperature, the level of humidity, the disposition of the clouds, and an infinite number of other imperceptible, ambient factors that can never truly be identical to the scene as it was played the previous day. So while each new sunrise might initially seem repetitive it is in fact never predictable — and let me add an element unusual in today’s society: it never asks for anything in exchange.
Still half asleep, I slip out of bed and head to the window. Despite the fresh, fizzy morning air I lean out, the better to take in the view of the valley below. As always, it has been swallowed by a thick layer of fog, which will melt away as soon as this first glorious burst of sun reaches it. In the meantime, from the mountains of mist there emerge only the uppermost tips of the ancient towers scattered across the countryside; with a bit of imagination it can seem as if a freakishly high tide has taken possession of the entire valley. Some million years ago, when the Tyrrhenian Sea used to lap against these very hills, this is what Chianti might have looked like. I nurture this fantasy, toy with it as I sway between lingering sleep and the sweet torpor of waking.
This, then, is the serene, refreshing way my mornings almost always begin.
Today, however . . .
My head, as I crane through the window, feels as heavy as concrete, like it might snap off my neck and drop; it bobbles, it throbs, each chirp of a bird resounds like thunder in my ears. My eyes refuse to focus; they well up with tears, as though the fresh air were laced with mustard gas. My mouth puckers and parches; it still holds the acid flavor of the wine I drank in such epic quantities last night, at an assembly in nearby Siena of the Noble Contrada of the Bruco — my beloved Caterpillar.
I try to recall the specifics of what happened. As is usually the case at such gatherings, after the conclusion of the agenda and the closing comments by the Rector, I stopped to exchange a few words and to drink a few gottini (shots) with my Caterpillar comrades. As always, we punctuated our drinking with several rounds of songs and hymns dedicated to the glory of our contrada — glory which surrounded us, physically, there in the Caterpillar’s headquarters, hung with the effigies, banners, and photos of the victorious horses and riders who had triumphed in past Palios — those enduring, immortal bareback horse races that each July and August are the highlights of the Sienese calendar. And so, between bursts of lyric and bottles of Tuscan red, we paid homage to our heritage deep into the night.
And . . . then what happened? . . . I remember eventually making my way to collect my car, and becoming aware that I staggering slightly — no doubt due to the copious amounts of wine coursing through my veins. I accordingly decided it would be best to return home via an anti-breathalyzer route that I’ve perfected over the years. It comprises a longer distance, but has the essential advantage that its nearly complete isolation neatly evades any possibility of encountering any police. The snag, alas, is that en route I’m obliged to pass before Albert’s Osteria — in whose window last night I spotted a dim light filtering through the half-closed rolling shutter. It had been a while since I’d seen Alberto, so I reasoned it would be rude not to stop in for a quick hello. I pulled up and parked in the small square in front of the restaurant.
Alberto, I now recall, had just finished cleaning up, his staff had gone home, and all the chairs but one had been stacked on the tables for the night. Alberto himself was seated casually alone, puffing on a cigar and pouring himself a glass of Morellino di Scansano from a bottle he’d just opened. As soon as I passed beneath the partially lowered metal shutter — with my head dangling behind me and my torso curved back as though I were doing the limbo — he invited me to join him, and fetched me a glass which he proceeded to fill up to the brim.
As we drank, we discussed the new American Center that Siena’s basketball team had purchased for its upcoming season, which we agreed could only result in the squad’s decisive leap in quality. Eventually, having exhausted the subject of defense tactics and strategies, we switched to more substantial topics for the second bottle; and by the third we were avidly solving global warming, eliminating Third World starvation, and forging brilliant resolutions to the murderous conflicts that beset the Middle East.
When finally I reached home and lay my head upon the pillow, the blue readout on the alarm clock proclaimed that it was 3.47 a.m.
Now that I’ve recalled all this, I feel quite justified in having a ringing headache, a furred mouth and — I imagine — the kind of breath one might have after swallowing the corpse of a decomposed sewage rat who died of dysentery.
As I don’t want to feel guilty, I decide to don as penance a heavy woolen poncho I purchased in Guatemala and which has been hanging on my poplar cloak hanger ever since. Then I drag my sluggish body to the small office next to the bedroom to check my e-mail — after the performance of which duty, I promise myself, I will return to bed and hope that Morpheus, the Greek god of sleep, will readmit me to his realm of dreams.
I turn on the computer and the 56K modem. With my bloodshot eyes — “sailors’ eyes,” as we say in Italian — I stare at the monitor as it slowly downloads 224 new messages. My heart sinks at the sheer volume of them.
With a bit of difficulty (due to my numb, unresponsive fingers) I manage to identify the spam, first deleting any correspondence offering me cheap Viagra and Cialis. Then I abolish the invitations to websites where I’m assured I can see photos of Paris Hilton or Posh Spice naked. Finally I eradicate all the notifications of the many lotteries I’ve won overnight, and two urgent pleas from fake relatives of fake monarchs of fake African nations offering me millions of fake dollars in exchange for all my financial passwords and the free use of my bank account.
I’ve always taken it for granted that anyone who spends time on-line must receive this kind of spam daily. Otherwise — if this were really the fruit of research by expert marketers who have studied the habits and attitudes of my Internet usage and tailored their messages accordingly — I would have to be classified as a perpetually impotent sex maniac, who is also utterly guileless. (While I may confidently deny the former, I admit to being a little wary about being the latter.)
After having banished all the annoyances to the trash, there are nine mails left, six of which comprise fan mail for my previous books, which is always very welcome. As usual, the writers ask for tips for their upcoming trips to Tuscany and ask hopefully if they might meet me during their stay.
Another email seems at first to be such a fan letter, but turns out to be rather the opposite. It’s from a woman who read my first book in anticipation of coming to Tuscany and found it “a binful of garbage” and me “a pretentious son of a bitch.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, she does not ask to meet me.
Then there’s a message from an old friend from New Jersey who needs a supply of my extra virgin olive oil as a Christmas gift for a friend.
Then, finally, I reach the last — but as it turns out, far from least — e-mail, sent to me by a literary agent in America. I open it and read with curiosity:

Dear Mr Castagno
Buongiorno! I’ve been commissioned to write you on behalf of an established publisher in Los Angeles who is interested in a professional collaboration with you. They will be producing a series of books dedicated to the great wines of the world. We’ve already hired a number of authors who live in the most prestigious wine-making regions, and having read and enjoyed the style and personality of your previous books on the Chianti region, I’m convinced that you would be perfect for this endeavor. If you are interested in this proposal, let me know and I will respond with more specifics.
I look forward hearing from you.
Best Regards
Mia Lane

A book based on wine. . . ? That could be a very interesting undertaking. But . . . where could I possibly begin? Not with history — too heavy; nor with an attempt to describe the qualities that make the wine great — too lofty. Facts and figures on consumption and export? . . . Too dry. But if not these, then what? . . . With a subject as enduring, complex, and culturally weighty as this, it’s almost impossible to come up with an appropriate introduction. Especially with a hangover.
I resolve to consider the problem of the first chapter later, when I’ve had a chance to recover. I’m sure something will come to me. Meanwhile, I turn off the computer, shrug off the poncho, and return to the enveloping warmth of the blankets . . .