There was no time for further discussion, as the farmer’s wife had extracted a key from the pocket of her apron and was gesturing for them to follow her. They left the car where it was – the villa was reached by a narrow track that would not admit a vehicle. It was not far away, separated from the farmyard by little more than a straggle of olive trees. The farmer’s wife explained that she had already stocked the kitchen with some basic supplies – a salami, some bread, pasta. They could get more from Montalcino itself, which was only a twenty-minute walk away on the other side. They could drive, of course, as some Scozzesi who had stayed in the villa last month were unable to cope with walking in the heat.

They came to the villa, which was a smallish, square building of stone topped with a roof of red tiles. There were wide eaves, and shade, and the doors and windows looked invitingly dark and cool in the harsh light of noon. They went inside and were shown round, the farmer’s wife opening shutters as they went from room to room.

‘We shall sleep in this room,’ said Domenica, as they went into the larger bedroom. ‘Which bed would you like, Antonia?’

Antonia made her choice, sulkily.

‘And that, I believe, will be your room, Angus,’ Domenica continued, pointing down the corridor. ‘You have the better view, but then, you are an artist, and that is your right.’

Angus fetched their luggage while Domenica and Antonia investigated the kitchen and received instruction in the operation of the hot water system. Now installed, they sat on the veranda and looked out over the hills. The air was loud with the screech of cicadas; the sky so high and empty that it was barely blue, more a washed-out, exhausted white.

‘I read a poem once,’ said Angus, breaking the silence. ‘It was about angels in Italy. How they are seen flying across a sky exactly like this. Flying on great white wings.’

‘It’s such a pity that angels don’t exist,’ said Domenica. ‘This would be a perfect setting for them.’

72. Mistah Kurtz, He Dead