‘Perhaps she was cold,’ said Domenica.

Angus shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t that. When she realised I was there she opened her eyes and said to me that she had been transported. Then she started to mutter. She said, “The beauty! The beauty! The beauty!”’

Domenica frowned. ‘Like Mr Kurtz in Heart of Darkness? Doesn’t he say, “The horror! The horror!”?’

Angus nodded. ‘Mistah Kurtz, he dead – to quote T. S. Eliot, and Conrad, of course.’

Domenica was silent. Then she said, ‘We must be watchful.’

‘Yes, we must,’ said Angus.

73. The Possibilities of Florence

The trip to Florence took place the following day. Leaving early, to allow for errors of navigation, they drove slowly along the dirt road that followed the ridge of hills before reaching the outskirts of Montalcino. From there, the way led down, following a winding route that took them through vineyards and oak forests to a wide plain below. There was little traffic on the road at that hour – an occasional lorry, struggling up from Siena with a load of supplies for the hill villages; a few private cars carrying sleepy villagers to work in some bigger town; a tractor with its spraying arm swinging drunkenly across both lanes of the road.

The morning sun was gentle, the sky quite empty of cloud. Angus, sitting in the front passenger seat, looked out over the fields on either side. There was a railway line and what looked like a scarecrow, but which revealed itself to be a man, as the figure suddenly straightened up and walked away purposively. I could paint that, he thought: a field with a man who looks like a scarecrow but is not. He smiled at the thought. Perhaps what seems to be a statue might move too; perhaps David might suddenly get down from his pedestal in the Piazza della Signoria and go for a cup of coffee with Neptune descended from his fountain. Anything could happen in Italy, he thought; the impossible was possible, and thank heavens for that – that there should be this beautiful country where art made everything feasible.

Domenica, although concentrating on the road, allowed herself a quick glance in the driver’s mirror at Antonia, seated directly behind her. Her neighbour, she noted, was dressed in a rather peculiar white frock, suitable for a hot day, perhaps, but somewhat theatrical in its effect. But that was not what interested her; it was the expression that caught her eye. Antonia was staring out of the window with what could only be described as a glazed look.

Domenica spoke breezily. ‘Everybody all right?’

Angus smiled. ‘Of course. I was just thinking about what lay ahead of us. The art. I feel like … a boy about to enter the sweetie shop.’

Domenica nodded. ‘And you, Antonia? Everything all right?’

There was no answer. Domenica looked anxiously in the mirror and Angus half turned in his seat.

‘All right?’ asked Angus.

Antonia came to. ‘What?’