‘James, welcome!’ he cried and gave him a startling hug. ‘Forgive me. I am so sorry that I was not able to meet you myself at Palau.’ Victor spoke English impeccably with only a slight Swiss accent. ‘I trust Mauro looked after you well.’

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘He was a little late, but it didn’t matter.’

‘We have had some problems with the car. It was not designed for these rough conditions. I really ought to get something different, or go back to using a donkey!’ He smiled. ‘Is your room all right?’

‘I don’t know,’ said James. ‘I lost Mauro. He seemed in a bad mood.’

‘Mauro is always in a bad mood,’ said Victor. ‘It is just his way. He is a bandit. From the Barbagia.’

Before James could ask Victor what he meant, his cousin led him to a long wooden table under a shady vine. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’

Victor poured two glasses from a jug of iced fruit cocktail. ‘You mustn’t worry about Poliponi,’ he said, passing a glass to James. ‘He likes to be mysterious, but it is all just an act. He has a reputation to maintain. The great surrealist. Painter of dreams. Reader of your inner fantasies. He has probably already done his number trick on you, I imagine?’

‘Yes,’ said James.

‘Seven,’ said Victor.

James grinned. ‘How did you know?’

‘He always says seven. Most people, if you ask them to think of a number between one and ten, they think of seven. If they say another number he bamboozles them with some mumbo-jumbo.’

The two of them laughed and James took a long sip of the cool drink. He couldn’t quite believe he was here.

‘He designed this house for me,’ said Victor. ‘La Casa Polipo. And those are his paintings on the walls. He is probably a genius, but I would never tell him that. It would go to his already swollen head. So. We have arranged a feast in honour of your arrival for later, but first – do you want to go to your room and wash and rest, or down to the beach for a swim?’

‘A swim, definitely,’ said James. ‘I’ve been looking at the sea all day, unable to dive in, and it’s been driving me mad.’

Just then Mauro appeared, wearing swimming shorts and carrying a towel. Victor rattled off some Italian at him and James saw the boy raise his eyes heavenward.

‘Good,’ said Victor. ‘Mauro will show you to your room. You can get your costume, and then he will take you to the beach.’

James would rather have gone alone. This moody Italian boy evidently didn’t like him, but he was not going to let anything spoil his holiday.

Twenty miles away to the south, the harbour at Terranova, the main port of Sardinia, was busy. The stink of fish hung in the air, as fishing boats unloaded their catches. Men ran in all directions with trolleys, shouting. Great cones of salt stood everywhere, ready to be exported. Sardinia supplied most of the salt used in Italy, which was harvested from the salt marshes that dotted the island.