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‘Oh, please. If I have to drive all the way to San Damiano, I might as well drop you off in Romituzzo. It would be a waste not to.’
‘I appreciate it, though. I should really get a car myself, now I’m settled.’
‘Why bother?’ Chiara says. ‘It’s so expensive, and it’s not like you need one in Florence.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I have a feeling I’m going to spend a lot of time exploring Tuscany. I’d like to drive some of Achille’s routes. Within the speed limit, obviously.’
‘Well, if you do decide to get a car, Marco will be only too happy to advise you. In fact, you might not be able to shut him up.’
Oh God, Marco. I don’t want to talk about Marco, and I have a feeling that’s exactly what Chiara is dying to do. ‘So what are you doing in San Damiano?’
‘Some English clients of mine are looking for a house around there. They’ve got a house in town – not far from you, actually – and now they want a country villa as well. I’ve found a few possibilities, so I’m going to go and check them out. Talk to the sellers, take a few photos, scope out the area… My clients have a pretty long list of requirements, so it’s quicker and easier if I filter the properties first. Saves a lot of awkward visits.’
‘They sound demanding, your clients.’
Chiara shrugs. ‘They know what they want – put it that way. It makes my job a lot easier when people do, so long as they’re realistic about what their budget will actually get them. And what country life involves, obviously. Sure, you get spectacular views and cheap wine and sunshine and friendly people, but there’s also bad Wi-Fi and local politics and wild boar wrecking your garden.’
‘Sounds like the Scottish Highlands. Except for the cheap wine and the sunshine, and it’s deer and rabbits rather than boar.’
‘Do you miss it there?’ Chiara asks. ‘Not Duncan, obviously, but the place?’
‘Oh, I loved the place,’ I say, and I feel a sharp pang of something like homesickness. ‘We lived in the north-west, up near Fort William, and it was just… you know, it was wonderful. Not the actual estate – I’m really not cut out for farm life – but the countryside, the people in our village, the coastline… I think I could have felt at home there.’
‘If not for the guy. And his farm.’
‘Right.’
‘And the weather.’ Chiara gives a theatrical shudder. ‘I don’t think I could cope with the rain.’
‘The rain isn’t great. But it’s the price you pay, isn’t it? Like the heat and mosquitos in Tuscany.’ It’s already getting uncomfortably hot and I can feel sweat coursing down the back of my neck. I pull out my fan and try to cool myself.
‘Nearly there,’ Chiara says.
Ahead of us, a large sign says ROMITUZZO. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the town, but all I can see is what looks like a shopping centre.
‘It’s actually quite a big town these days,’ Chiara says. ‘Most of it’s new, though.’
‘So I see,’ I say. On every side of us are garages, wholesalers, hardware shops and, just ahead on the left, an absolutely massive supermarket. ‘I don’t suppose your clients often ask you to find them something in Romituzzo.’
‘Literally never. It’s too much like normal life.’ Chiara pulls over at the bus stop in front of the supermarket. Pulling out her phone, she opens the map and shows me the blue dot indicating our position. ‘Okay, so we’re here in the industrial quarter. This was all built in the Sixties – it was probably still countryside when Achille was around. You want to head for thecentro storico, the old town. See the bridge there?’ She points past me, out of the passenger window, to a low concrete bridge that spans a sunken riverbed. ‘And the clocktower on the other side?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cross that bridge and head straight for that clocktower. Walk a few hundred yards, and you’ll see the train station directly ahead of you. Just go through the underpass and you’ll pop up right in the middle of town. I’ll text you when I’m on my way, and we can meet somewhere along the via Senese. That’sthemain street in Romituzzo,’ she explains as I peer at the map again. ‘It runs straight through town from north to south. You can’t miss it. All clear?’
‘All clear. Thanks, Chiara.’ I open the door and get out into the bright sunshine.
‘No problem. And, look, let’s go and have lunch when I’m done. Then we can really talk.Ciao ciao.’ She gives me a cheerful wave and drives off.
*
The walk to the centre of Romituzzo is mostly uphill and mercilessly lacking in shade. By the time I reach the main square in front of the train station, with its war monument and its stone benches and fountains, I’m overheated and tired. I’ve been sleeping badly these last few nights, caught between anxiety and frustrated desire, and it’s really starting to wear me down. I sit down on a bench in the shade of a tree, pull out my phone and open the map of Romituzzo.
The app tells me I’m currently on piazza Achille Infuriati. No surprises there. I zoom out a bit and see that a couple of streets ahead, on piazza Garibaldi, is the church of St Catherine of Alexandria – that must be the clocktower – and right next to it is the Infuriati cultural centre and lending library. To the north, on my right hand, is the Workers’ Social Club ‘A. Infuriati’; to the south, along the via Senese, is the church of St Christopher with its cemetery, where Achille is buried. A little beyond that, on the very edge of town, is the Achille Infuriati youth club and sports ground.
I put my phone down and look around. The industrial quarter was bustling, the supermarket car park full of vehicles, but here in the old town it’s quiet. The clocktower stands at half past ten, and I know I should really get any walking over with before the sun hits its peak. That would be the truly sensible move.
On the other hand, I could really do with a coffee. And some water. Lots of water. In the far corner of the square is the Bar Pasticceria Achille (what else?). I head straight for it and go in, sighing in relief at the cold rush of air conditioning.
