At Cascina del Pellicano, time organizes itself, with a discipline that has never read management manuals. On weekdays, work is done, little and in secret; on weekends, it's all about selling. The rest of the time, the world is pushed aside with armed politeness. The elixir becomes legend, the provinces become crowds, and the street becomes a secular procession with SUVs replacing candles.
Between blackout networks, overly curious drones, and a count discovering the pleasure of sitting authority, success takes on an unexpected form. Institutions begin to cough, social media begins to howl, and even faith encounters logistical difficulties. Meanwhile, some measure, some postpone, some deliver telegrams cautiously. Nothing explodes, but everything charges. Because when manure becomes a symbol, it's no longer just an agricultural issue.
Between secrets, endless queues and downed drones: when an agricultural elixir causes a crisis in traffic, institutions and common sense
A humorous mystery novel. The Pelican Farm Recipe. Chapter 8: The Manure Sanctuary and the Symbolic Order
The rhythm of the workdays at Cascina del Pellicano settled into a natural rhythm that, in retrospect, even seemed elegant: like certain habits born by chance and then transformed into a system, not because anyone is truly capable of organizing, but because reality—through constant pushing—finds its own shape.
We worked on Saturdays and Sundays.
The rest of the week was devoted to two activities compatible with the Count's soul: rest and secrecy.
On Sunday evening, when the last citizen drove off with their trunks full of enthusiasm and the smell of the countryside still clinging to their technical jackets, Ida closed the gate with a gesture that resembled a blessing. The count, behind her, nodded gravely, as if they were sealing an international treaty and not simply preventing happy people from returning to ask for "just a little bottle, please."
On Monday morning, the farmhouse returned to its usual state: vast, silent, slightly disproportionate to the lives it contained. The porch resumed its favorite task: protecting laziness from the sun. The bricks of the yard slowly warmed, the poplars rustled like old wives who won't stop commenting, and the manure heap—itself—stayed there, muttering in its discreet, indecent way.
Yet, something had changed.
Because on their “rest” days, which in theory should have been devoted to nothing, the Count and Ida did the most subversive thing two people in their history could do: they worked in secret.
Filling the bottles of Elisir del Pellicano became a jealously guarded, almost monastic ritual. It wasn't just prudence: it was actually a form of psychological protection. When something in life finally turns in your favor, you immediately feel the need to close the windows, lower your voice, and not tell anyone too much, because luck is like a cat: if you stare at it, it gets offended and goes away.
Ida imposed the rules with a gentle but unappealable firmness:
- No weekend help.
- No social media kid should see where and how it fills up.
- No foreigner should set foot beyond the “tourist” areas.
The count, for once, obeyed without question. He, too, had understood that the true value of the elixir lay in a word that both frightened and delighted him: exclusivity. If the secret were to escape the farmhouse, the farmhouse would become a public phenomenon. And a public phenomenon, sooner or later, is regulated, studied, and commented on. Then come the "competent" people. And competence, at Cascina del Pellicano, was a refined form of disaster.
Thus, from Monday to Friday, the house operated in clandestine mode....
