We finished our chinottos – ‘The thinking woman’s Coke,’ said Minna – and went outside to the bus stop. A different old man set down the onion he was cutting in his palm, rose from his bench and came over. He was wearing a brown velvet jacket, the nap worn away in patches, and his trousers reached almost to his armpits. Tugging them still higher, he said that there was no bus – he said so incomprehensibly, but there was no mistaking his meaning. He was still shaking his head and pointing at the stop, when a younger man came out of the cafe. We’d seen him leaning on the counter with a beer. In unsteady but unambiguous English he informed us that the bus had broken down and wouldn’t be running that day. He asked where we wanted to go, and when we told him he offered us a lift.

Our saviour’s name was Vittorio. He introduced us to Gina Lollobrigida, who was waiting patiently in his car. The car was a Fiat, and the boot only took one pack, so Minna had hers on her knees. It was a squeeze for me, too, sitting beside Gina Lollobrigida in the back. The vinyl seat was speckled with cigarette burns, and yellow, foamy stuff was escaping from it in places. Vittorio was a chain-smoker who drove leaning back with his arms straight out in front. Minna smoked too, at first. The sky had grown overcast, and rain soon made the hills shapeless. Vittorio kept the windows up, remonstrating with Minna when she tried to wind hers down. He drove fast along the mountain roads and talked just as speedily in Italian. From time to time, he turned around to address a remark to Gina Lollobrigida, crying, ‘Bellezza!’ or ‘Cuore mio!’ The Fiat swung out across the road whenever this occurred.

The wind that was shivering the trees started tearing rents in the clouds. There was black masking tape in the shape of a cross on the back of Vittorio’s seat. The sun came out again, and Gina Lollobrigida began to pant. The miles passed, and a curious smile appeared on her face. She crouched, lowered her head and threw up into the footwell. The Fiat screeched to a halt in the middle of the road – it was a chance to escape into the breezy day. Minna and I admired an olive grove, and Gina Lollobrigida ran around eating grass. With a flow of loud reproaches, Vittorio prised up the vomity rubber mat, wiped it on the verge and stored it in the boot. He forgave Gina Lollobrigida, stroking her with tender cries of ‘Catastrofe!’ and smacking a kiss on the top of her head.