He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. And dreamed that he was walking along a path in the Pentlands, with a friend beside him, a warm presence; and that warm presence was a boy called Andy. And Andy reached out and gave him a penknife, and he thanked him, and they both started to run – it was so easy, so easy, as it is easy to run in a dream – and before them was a glen with waterfalls and caves, and a loch, blue and silver, on which a pirate ship was under sail. And there was sunlight, and glasses of Irn-Bru in which that sunlight was caught, liquid, golden, forgiving.

78. An Incident in a Café

While Domenica joined the queue for admission to the Uffizi Gallery, Angus accompanied Antonia in the search for a suitable café in which to have a cup of coffee and, if possible, a light breakfast. They had not eaten before they left the villa, and both now felt growing pangs of hunger.

‘I know it’s not what one normally has for breakfast,’ said Angus, ‘but I could do with a slice of pizza. Thin. Very tomatoey. And perhaps just a hint of anchovy on the top. That, and lashings of coffee.’

‘Entirely understandable,’ said Antonia. ‘What is being on holiday but allowing yourself to do that which you do not do at home? I shall join you in a pizza. Oh my, this place is so beautiful. Look at that. Just look at it. An entirely ordinary street, but so beautiful. So very beautiful.’

Angus glanced at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Italy is like that. The most humble corners are … how shall we put it? Rich in aesthetic possibilities.’

‘And the men and women!’ Antonia continued. ‘Look at them. So handsome. We are surrounded by people who could have walked out of a Renaissance painting, don’t you think? Botticelli could have placed them in one of his paintings – he really could.’

Angus looked again at Antonia. It was understandable to be struck by the glories of Italy – animate and inanimate – but she was rather labouring the point, he felt. But that was what Italy did, he thought; and that was why people had come to Italy for hundreds of years – since the invention of the notion of the journey of the spirit – they had come here for precisely this. Antonia was merely articulating what people must feel.

They did not have far to walk before they found a small café that looked suitable. It was in a largely residential side street, tucked between a carpenter’s studio in the window of which a couple of freshly made, ornate coffins were stacked, and a laundry. A rather dirty plate-glass window revealed an interior shelved high on either side, the shelves stacked with biscuits, bottles of wine and olive oil, packets of coloured pasta. At the far end was a counter behind which a high pizza oven could be seen.