After the last of the grand villas, high above the village, the cobbled track ended abruptly. Rough steps, hewn into the rock, led to a steep path that quickly yielded panoramas of the lake, which shimmered in the morning heat, taking Cai’s breath away. The gradient soon exhausted his awe at the views and his startled amazement at the zucchini-fat lime-green lizards that skited into the undergrowth from sun-soaked slabs of granite. Stopping now and then for long draughts of rosemary-scented air, he watched butterflies – some a silky black, many more common yellows, and the rare few with blood red wing tips. He was amazed too by the hydrangeas – banks and banks purple, indigo and pink, like surreal cotton wool clouds that had fallen from the sky and come to rest on the mountainside.

After a three-hour climb, Cai ate bread and cheese, and drank some rough local wine, at an osteria in Cheglio. The youth that seemed to be in charge had a square face, although there were no hard corners. A light beard softened the lines of his jaw and waves of sun-streaked hair crested onto the wide strand of his forehead. When he smiled his cheeks puffed and his eyes danced: a lapis gem in the lobe of his right ear drew attention away from their gaze. His smile revealed beautiful teeth between lips that were fleshy. Cai watched him pout as he supped beer from a bottle. Then, distracted by another customer, the smile faded and the youth’s face became too mean. Two or three times during the afternoon, as Cai climbed down the mountain, he thought about the smiling face.

One morning, after his shower, Tudor placed my fingers to the right and just below his left nipple. His muscles were hard anyway, after all the workouts, and I couldn’t feel the lump he said he’d found.