“Gabriel, please. Call me Gabriel.”
“Gabriel, then,” says the doctor, smiling his approval. “I must offer you my sincere condolences about the loss of Dr Callico. He did not tell me much about you, but from what he did, I could tell he was not only fond but wholly invested in you. And more than that, although I do not know the intricacies of his work, I understand that he fought tirelessly to find cures for multiple lethal diseases. He was a rare decent human being, and his death is profoundly tragic.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the sentiment.”
Romano peers across the lawn, reflecting on his words, before he brings his attention back to me.
“Now, Gabriel, before we eat, I need to explain a few important things to you about Casa dell’Aquila. I imagine Dr Callico would have planned to do this when you came here together, but clearly that is no longer possible. First of all, I hire and employ thehouse staff. They live in-house and, as you can see, maintain the property and cater to any guests on the rare occasion they come to stay.”
“I understand. Who pays their wages?”
“My agreement with Dr Callico was that he would provide their accommodation and I would take care of their financial remuneration. He also agreed that I could have guests to stay at times throughout the year when the place was empty. We hold a small conference of like-minded medics twice a year, and Casa dell’Aquila provides the perfect location. Dr Callico and I also had a legalprocura generalecreated—our Italian version of a power of attorney—which allows me to manage a local bank account, to pay for maintenance and everything else concerning the house. Of course, as you are now the principal owner, you can revoke any of these arrangements if you so wish—”
“No. Please, no. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.”
The doctor nods slowly and appears satisfied with this answer.
“I am happy to hear that. Now, you will need to let me orla signoraknow what time you wish to take your meals—”
“Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to be fed. I’m used to fending for myself.”
“La signorawill expect to provide meals while you stay. Shall we say seven in the morning for breakfast and midday for your lunch? Dr Callico and his guest took all their meals out here. You can always take them in your room or on your bedroom balcony if the weather is inclement. Do you take tea or coffee with your breakfast?”
Even though he is no longer with us, I feel Albert’s caring hand in the doctor’s words.
“Coffee. I know Albert would have insisted on tea, but I prefer coffee. And whatever blend the locals drink will be fine.”
“Perfect. Just let her know if you plan to be elsewhere during the day or in the evening.”
“I will, thank you. Is there anything else I need to know while I’m here?” I ask.
“No, no. I think that is all,” he says, looking down while folding his napkin. “For now.”
I’m unsure how I know, but he appears to be holding something back. This is an impression, nothing concrete, but I’ve always relied heavily on these instincts. Perhaps this is a cultural misalignment and something I should overlook, but my instincts tell me otherwise.
Mrs Bellacci brings over a large dish of plump, thickly sliced tomatoes, black olives and soft local cheese—not burrata but something similar—garnished with sweet basil and covered with a liberal coating of olive oil and black pepper. She provides plates, forks and spoons, and I wonder if the custom is to serve myself. Dr Romano must recognise my hesitation because he takes a plate and starts to scoop up the juicy contents before handing the plate to me. Once he has filled his own, we begin to eat together in companionable silence.
Flavours explode in my mouth, the tangy and juicy tomato mixing perfectly with the soft, creamy cheese. I do my best to restrain my hunger and eat unhurriedly, but I’m soon helping myself to another serving.
“Mr Redbrick,” comes the voice of Mrs Bellacci, appearing at the table with the shifty-looking young man I’d seen naked earlier, who stands a step behind her, staring at the ground. “This is my son, Lorenzo. He tends the grounds and helps around the house.”
“Good evening, Lorenzo,” I say after wiping my mouth with the napkin. He meets my gaze and nods once before frowning as though something about me offends him, a deep furrow between his thick eyebrows. A second later, his gaze shifts away across the evening grounds. Although in profile he lacks the perfect features of contemporary male beauty, he has an innatemasculinity, a raw attractiveness. Fortunately for me, his blunt rudeness stops any further assessment. I wonder if he noticed me watching him shower earlier and has an issue with gay men. Or perhaps he has a condition that makes social interaction difficult, although he seemed to be doing fine socialising with the men at the pensione bar earlier that day.Whatever. I return my attention to the food on my plate.
The doctor is less forgiving. He addresses Lorenzo in quick-fire Italian, his tone low and scolding, clearly rattled at the young man’s rudeness. Lorenzo answers back, and a short back-and-forth plays out between them, with Mrs Bellacci chipping in and clearly siding with the doctor. Eventually, Lorenzo storms off across the grounds, and Mrs Bellacci, who appears mortified, says a few soft words to the doctor before hurrying away herself.
“Please forgive us. Lorenzo is used to having the house and grounds to himself.”
“I can understand that.”
“But I reminded him that he is employed here, not a guest. He is—how is it you say in English—a little hot-headed.”
“Yes, that I can also see.”
“But he is loyal and hard working like his mother, which is why I employ them—”
“Dr Romano. Honestly, there’s no need to apologise for him. I really don’t care. His mother told me he doesn’t like to speak much, and that suits me fine.”
Once we finish and I put my cutlery onto the empty plate, I notice Mrs Bellacci heading back to us, this time with an even larger dish loaded with cooked meat and pasta. Behind her, Lorenzo walks sullenly with an uncorked bottle of red wine and a couple of glasses dangling from one hand.