The dottoressa never caught buses – they were ‘even worse than a camel’ – but Derek assured us that the local one would be leaving at noon the next day. He was bossily affectionate with the dottoressa and told her that her footwear was idiotic. ‘You’ll come a cropper wearing socks with those things.’ ‘“Art is magic delivered from the lie of truth.”’

There was something for everyone in Adorno, agreed Derek. He quoted, ‘“Love exists where one can be weak without provoking a show of strength,”’ and his eyes brimmed.

The dottoressa reached over and took his hand. She reminded him that their favourite game show was about to start. Why did I find her wide, creased face so reassuring? Dondolo heaved himself up and tottered to the door. He stood with his back to it, in a casual way. It meant that he wanted to go out, said the dottoressa, so Minna and I offered to take him for a walk. TV applause and the dottoressa’s shouts of ‘Cretino!’ followed us as we left.

A track from the compound ran along the rocky shore. The wind off the water blew my hair across my eyes. One or two stars were out, walking low. I asked if Vittorio had really promised to return for Gina Lollobrigida, but Minna was scanning the sky: ‘Look! Dead baby ghosts.’ Dondolo limped and lurched behind us for the time it took Minna to smoke a cigarette – it was like being trailed by Quasimodo. With the sea shouting encouragement, he chose a prickly pear tree to make his own. Then he turned for home.

We were to share his bedroom, which was furnished with floor cushions, rugs and a rich, yeasty smell. The dottoressa told us that he wasn’t really called Dondolo. His true name had come to her long ago, in a dream: her father, a lifelong nonsmoker, sat at a table beside her and traced out a word in spilled wine with the stem of his pipe. She had no idea how to pronounce the word or what it meant. ‘But as soon as I met this dog, I knew it was his name. A hidden connection can be the most profound.’ Was the dottoressa a philosopher? A doctor of medicine? An anthropologist? It didn’t occur to us to ask what lay behind her honorific. In our sightless young eyes, she was one thing only: old.

Minna and I rolled out our sleeping-bags and began to undress. ‘You have breasts like Cranach’s Eve,’ Minna told me. She was in high spirits: the dottoressa was going to show us her three Marimekko dresses in the morning, and Minna was to pick out one for her own. ‘I love her,’ she declared. I was drawing one of Dondolo’s ears through my fingers, which slowed his breathing and made him exhale in little puffs. It seemed to be all he dared to express of joy.