According to my guidebook, Pensione Galli stood halfway between here and my destination. I only hope the small guest house is still open for business. I tried calling from Florence using my new phone, but the number rang repeatedly. I read that many smaller hotels shut their doors for good during the modern plague, some disappearing overnight. If that’s the case, I’ll need a change of plan. Not that sleeping rough in the bones of a house would bother me as long as there’s some form of shelter. In London, I slept in building sites and under construction underpasses. If the night is as balmy as the day, I’d be happy to sleep in the open, but according to my guide, sunny days in Tuscany are often followed by thunderstorms at night. Perhaps anticipating this, Josh insisted that I take his lightweight one-person tent in camouflage green and an inflatable pillow, both of which hang from my rucksack.
Another twenty minutes later, just after a gentle bend in the lane, an old stone building with a terracotta-tiled roof and wooden shutters comes into view. Outside the main entrance, set in the shade of lemon trees, are unoccupied tables and chairs in sturdy wrought iron. As I approach, I notice the front door standing open and a sign surrounded by ivy that announces ‘Pensione Galli’. Two windows with closed shutters sit on the upper level, while those below remain open. A sleek black BMW motorcycle leans against the wall in the shade. By now, I’m beginning to regret not wearing a hat. The oppressive midday sun makes me eager for the cool shade inside the inn.
Once I step across the threshold, my eyes take time to adjust to the gloom. In front of me is a cramped reception desk, constructed beneath a staircase and currently unattended. A wooden, glass-fronted rifle cabinet stands against the wall, containing five assorted rifles, the door locked with a sturdy padlock. When I turn to my right, where the stairway begins, there are wooden-framed double doors with glass panes through which I can see the gloom of a dining room, each table set but unoccupied.
I hear raised male voices and head to a small entrance to the left of the reception desk. There I find a narrow, dreary, but well-stocked barroom, with assorted bottles on haphazardly placed wooden shelves, the same teak as the countertop. At the counter, three men are seated, and one is on his mobile phone. A fourth man—the pensione owner, I assume—stands behind the bar. As I hover in the doorway, the tall, gangly man sitting in the middle spots me and nods to the guy drying a glass. Unsmiling, the barman flips the tea towel over his shoulder and shrugs at me.
“Oh, er,mi scusi,” I say, dropping my rucksack, digging out myLonely Planetand reciting a phrase I had learnt during the coach trip. “Parla inglese?”
With a shake of his head, he turns to the other men and mutters something in Italian, causing them to laugh. I assume this means I must converse using my limited Italian phrase list. If only Albert were here. He could speak five languages—had not been particularly fluent in any, but Albert had been the kind of person who considered having a rudimentary understanding of many languages a means of survival and a basic form of manners. I stare down at my guidebook and rattle off the next one.
“Vor—vorrei pren—prenotare una camera per due notti.”
I hope I have just asked to book a room for two nights. One of the men snorts and mutters something, which is when I actually notice the figure at the far end. With his head covered by a grey hoodie, he hunches forward protectively over his beer glass. His black hair is greasy and overlong, covering his face, and the hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing tanned, hairy forearms. A tattoo sleeve encases one of his arms, trailing down to his fingertips. Both hands are clamped around his glass. I can’t make out his face, but sense something innately threatening about his presence. Another skill I have picked up, and I have no idea how or when—maybe from my time on the streets—but I can quickly differentiate harmless punks with attitude from their quietly capable but dangerous doppelgängers. This man falls comfortably into the latter. When he tilts his head slightly to stare my way, his dark eyes coldly assessing me, a shiver passes through me, and I tear my gaze away.
Just then, the older man nearest finishes his call and swivels his bar stool to face me. Perspiring in the humid afternoon, he appears out of place in the group, decked out in clean sandy-coloured chinos, a crisp white shirt and shiny brown leather shoes.
“You have not already booked the room?”
I am sure he hears the small breath of relief that escapes me.
“I tried calling. Nobody picked up.”
After I answer, the man translates for everyone, and this time, everyone except the barman laughs. I am completely ignored for a few minutes as they carry on a conversation.
“You want to book a room now?” asks the man.
“Yes.”
“Why do you come here? To Monticiano?”
“To view a property.”
“Which property?”
Why has this started to feel like an interrogation? Albert used to say Italians can be direct, unlike the British, who tend to be more circumspect in the hope of appearing polite or less threatening.
“It’s called Eagle House in English. In Italian, I think it’s—”
“Casa dell’Aquila?”
Although I address my words to the man, I sense them all turn to stare at me.
“Yes. Do you know the place?”
Once again, the nearest man converses with the barman, but this time they include the surly shadow at the end of the bar. Without looking up, he fires off something in a deep voice.
“Who are you?” asks the usual man, and finally, my temper bristles.
“Mi chiamo, Gabriel, Gabriel Redbrick,” I reply, using another stock phrase I have memorised. “Come ti chiami?”
If he wants my name, he can damn well be polite enough to give me his.
“I am Carlo Romano. Dr Romano,” he says, holding out his hand and smiling, making me feel like a prick. “I am the local medical doctor.”
“You have an interesting surgery,” I add, shaking his hand and looking around the room. At least he has the good nature to laugh at my attempt at a joke. When he translates for them, the barman finally grunts out a laugh.
“This is a home visit,” explains the doctor. “SignoraGalli is unwell upstairs. Can I ask, are you expected at Casa dell’Aquila?”