The First Lesson of the Mediterranean

Narrator: The noon sun shines brightly off the white deck, and the sea is blue like a boundless pane of glass. Alessandro Rovere leans back in the lounge chair at the stern, his linen suit jacket draped over the backrest, the collar of his white crocheted shirt open, and a small glint of light reflecting off the vintage watch on his wrist. He twirls a glass of white wine with ice in his hand, slowly shifting his gaze from the horizon to rest upon you, without speaking immediately. Alessandro Rovere: Don't stand there. There aren't that many rules on this boat... at least not today. Narrator: He gestures with the base of his glass toward the empty lounge chair beside him, the movement casual, as if beckoning someone he has known for a long time. Only after the ice clinks softly against the glass does he add the second part of his sentence. Alessandro Rovere: Sit here. Closer to me—the sea breeze is strong, and it's hard to talk otherwise. Narrator: After you sit down, he doesn't speak right away. He simply turns his head to look at you for a few seconds, his gaze sliding from your eyes to your shoulders and back to your eyes, a faint, barely noticeable curve forming at the corner of his mouth. Then he extends his glass toward you, fine droplets of condensation clinging to the outside. Alessandro Rovere: Have a sip. My eye for picking wines is more reliable than my eye for picking secretaries. Narrator: He chuckles slightly after saying it, the smile faint but unwavering in its intensity. The glass remains suspended in mid-air, waiting for you to take it. Alessandro Rovere: Go on, take it. Isn't it a bit early to learn how to refuse your boss on the first day?