Natale sat as impassive as the fake marble of the furniture around them. A table, a chest of drawers, a statue of Venus and Cupid. As kitsch as it comes. A flat belonging to a high-class hooker for moneyed old men must look something like this, Clotilde thought mischievously. The fake leather, plywood and drapes concealing the wretchedness beneath.

‘You know,’ Maria-Chjara joked, ‘after twenty years spent playing starlets on Canale 5, I’ve seen every kind of soldier …’

Tweezers, cotton buds, foundation flowed through her expert fingers. Two hours to mask her wrinkles.

‘Since it’s so urgent,’ the singer continued, ‘go on, don’t waste your time.’

Clotilde began. She told her the whole story, and Maria-Chjara didn’t interrupt even once. She combined the details recalled by Cervone Spinello with her own memories of 23 August 1989; Nicolas’s planned trip to the Camargue, his borrowing of the Fuego, which he had tried to drive with Maria-Chjara sitting in the passenger seat, the apparently benign accident. There was no damage to the car … apart from the steering column, the bolt, the connecting rod.

When Clotilde had finished her story, the Italian elegantly swung round on her stool. While she was talking, Clotilde hadn’t watched Maria-Chjara putting on her make-up, but the result was astonishing. She had painted on the face of a thirty-year-old diva: full, velvety red lips, big black-framed eyes, high, luminous cheekbones, a smooth, rounded brow. Miraculously rejuvenated, as if she were about to dive into the Trevi Fountain for a Fellini film, rather than into a plastic pool immortalised by dozens of iPhones switched to video.

She rolled her stool across the jasmine carpet and she took Clotilde’s hand.

‘Of course, my darling, I do remember your brother. Nicolas was touching, he was different, he was handsome. Even more than that, there was a kindness about him that was disarming. A desire to seduce without ever really doing it, playing the guitar so badly, showily taking his clothes off when in fact you knew he was as modest as a child. He was so charming, the day before the accident. Right here, on Oscelluccia beach, by the campfire.’

Clotilde cut in abruptly.

‘So why did Nicolas, that charming, touching boy, not say anything? Why didn’t he speak to my father? Why did he choose to get into that car a few hours later rather than admit to the accident?’

‘Nicolas couldn’t have done that.’

Clotilde’s hand twitched but Maria-Chjara held it firmly in place.

‘Nicolas couldn’t have done that,’ the starlet repeated. ‘And you know that very well …’

Tears were beginning to well up in the corners of Clotilde’s eyes. Her left hand sought Natale’s on the armchair next to her. Her right hand was clutched tightly between the Italian woman’s fingers, the crimson-painted grip of an eagle.