With every station the train passed through, the sense of relief and

liberation grew inside Alberto. At first, the geographical distance failed to

dispel the images of his mother’s disapproving face that occasionally popped

in to his mind, but the closer he got to his uncle Raimondo the more they

faded.

It was a crisp September evening when Alberto looked out on to the

bustling platform. It was his first time in Verona and the mere sight of so many

people in movement took him aback. By contrast with Alberobello, the village

he had just left, everywhere he looked people were drawn along as though

pulled by an invisible spirit. Everyone was absolutely alive and unequivocally

themselves. It was just how he imagined it to be. His spirits lifted at the

thought that he was about to join this vital, barely contained madness. It had

been a long time coming.

His parents had been dead against this trip, especially when they

heard he’d be staying with his notorious uncle. Raimondo was the antithesis

of everything his mother had raised her son to be. His main crime was never

to have settled down to raise a family. Over the years he had become a

symbol for the scandalous life of the city in general and the lasciviousness of

men in particular. Alberto had had to work hard to convince them of the value

of this trip. He distracted them on both counts by pointing out the attraction of

St Zeno, one of the oldest churches in Europe and by reminding them that

Raimondo was very involved with his antiques business.

Alberto recalled looking up from his homework and catching a glimpse

of Raimondo zipping round the village in his Spider during his rare summer

visits. Later he might see him parading his latest girlfriend on the beach. One

year it was a Swedish girl, the next a French, another time a German. Alberto

1
had always admired Raimondo’s ease around women. With his husky laugh

and effortless style he was like a glamorous character from an Italian film; a

man who broke the rules. A man you could look up to. Now, at the age of

twenty-seven, having recently graduated from Bari University, Alberto

decided it was time to study at the university of life. Who better to have as a

teacher than Raimondo?

As Alberto picked his way through the crowds in the concourse he

soon caught sight of the man himself. Raimondo was leaning against a

column, a dashing figure in his cream linen suit. He looked healthy and well-

fed for a man in his fifties, stylish and craggily handsome with his grey-flecked

curly hair.

Alberto looked down at his plain shoes and old-fashioned grey flannel

suit and felt like someone from an earlier generation. As a student he had

got round the problem of keeping abreast with fashion by ignoring it

altogether and mimicking the older, dishevelled professors. From the way

Raimondo regarded him he had a feeling that was about to change.

“Welcome to Verona,” he said, clapping Alberto on the back. “Good

journey?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Alberto.

“I’ll bet that suit was your mother’s idea,” he said with a slight smile,

leading him towards a silver grey BMW.

Alberto had always suspected that his parents’ hostility to Raimondo

was matched only by his contempt for their conventionality. It was both

pleasant and embarrassing to have his suspicions confirmed.

Raimondo swung the car out of the station car park and headed for the

city centre. As he negotiated the rush hour traffic Alberto took in his

2
surroundings. The elegant buildings and monuments were not the main focus

of his attention, however. On both sides of the road confident young women

hurried along the pavement or rode past on bicycles. Women who exuded a

city buzz. Women who were not even aware of his existence.

“I thought maybe a bite to eat,” said Raimondo. “Then home to get you

settled in. OK?”

“Fine,” said Alberto, craning his neck to catch even more of these

wonderful creatures.

Raimondo caught him looking. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Alberto could hardly wait.

In a corner of the discreetly lit restaurant a pianist was tinkling out Yesterday.

Alberto swung his gaze around the well-dressed men and women spearing

pasta at tables. He loosened his thin floral tie in an attempt to appear more

relaxed than he was in the unfamiliar, opulent surroundings.

“Now I take it you haven’t just come here to visit churches and

museums,” said Raimondo.

“Well -”

“Good. I’ve always thought you needed bringing out of yourself. When

I was your age I’d already been round Europe twice. Still, you have to start

somewhere, right?”

“I think so,” said Alberto.

The waitress came to take their order. Alberto watched as Raimondo

flirted with her, mentally noting the telling details: the steady gaze, the casual

brush of his hand across her wrist, the confident smile that was almost a leer.

3
The effect on her was just as interesting: the shy grin, the gentle laughter at

his flattery, the playful rolling of the eyes.

“What do you reckon?” said Raimondo as she sashayed towards the

swing doors of the kitchen.

Though his feelings were in turmoil simply by watching her walk, all he

could manage was a feeble, “She’s very pretty.”

“We can do better than that,” said Raimondo with a flick of his wrist.

Alberto basked in the flattery that ‘we’ implied.

All through dinner Raimondo discoursed on the joys of life and the

wonders of women, never losing the opportunity to criticise Alberto’s parents

and the stultifying life of the village. At each juncture Alberto nodded in

agreement. By the end of the evening he was heady with wine (it was the first

time he had drunk more than one glass with dinner) and ready to put his past

behind him.

Raimondo’s apartment was above his antique shop which was situated in the

city's old quarter. From the outside it looked like any number of stucco-fronted

buildings. The interior, however, was like nothing he had ever seen. There

were no statues of the Virgin Mary, no palms attached to the mirror, no

trreasured photos of deceased relatives. Instead, the carefully-lit living space

was crowded with framed pictures of naked women and statues of lovers,

their arms entwined around each other. It was the kind of room Alberto’s

mother would not even deign to enter.

“Here.”

Raimondo handed him a large Chivas Regal. Alberto took a sip of the

burning liquor and drew his shoulders back. He wanted his uncle to see that

4
he too was a man amongst men, at ease with himself and the world. He was

so engrossed in the feeling that he couldn’t think of anything to say so he just

stood there, swirling the whisky around the glass.

“A word of advice,” said Raimondo. “Women. They like to enjoy

themselves just as much as we do. If you want to enjoy yourself with them

make sure you don’t take them seriously. Understand?”

“Right,” said Alberto, pursing his lips.

“Look at me," said Raimondo, stretching out his arms. "Can you

picture me settled down with a wife and children?”

“No,” said Alberto.

“I could be if I wanted but I don’t want and no-one cares either way.

That’s the difference between the village and the city.”

“I understand,” said Alberto.

“On that note.” Raimondo slammed his empty glass on the table. “See

you in the morning bright and early.”

Alberto waited till his uncle had left the room then did likewise, except

that he slammed it so hard he left a hairline crack in the bowl.

When Alberto awoke the following morning, Raimondo was already out. On

the kitchen table was a note and a roll of lire. It said simply, BUY YOURSELF

A NEW SUIT and gave the address of a shop in the centre where Raimondo

'knew the manager'. Alberto found the shop easily. He was nervous when he

entered but when he showed her Raimondo's business card the sales

assistant put him at ease with a sparkling smile. Overwhelmed by the choice

of styles, Alberto played safe and chose a light blue version of the suit his

uncle had been wearing.

5
 The sales assistant cocked her head to one side as she appraised

Alberto’s reflection in the full-length mirror.

“Very nice. It really suits you.”

Alberto scanned her face in search of irony and condescension but

there didn’t appear to be any. He would have been happier if his uncle had

accompanied him to the shops, but he had clients to see. The sales assistant

then selected a pair of casual trousers and a couple of polo shirts.

After he had dropped the suit at Raimondo’s apartment Alberto went

for a walk around the city. His senses alert to every sight and sound, he

revelled in the sheer anonymity of it all. Everyone was at home in their own

world so no-one paid him the slightest attention. He explored the ruins of the

Roman Forum and Arena, then wandered across the medieval centre to

Piazza Delle Erbe. Tourists gathered around the statue of Juliet, taking

photos and running their hands over its smooth contours. The statue had a

special significance that Raimondo later explained.

“According to the legend,” he said as he ladled out pasta. “If you touch

Juliet’s right breast you’ll find a new lover in less than a year.”

“Did you ever touch it?” said Alberto.

Raimondo threw up his hands. “I don’t need to.”

The next day Raimondo set him to work. His duties consisted mainly of

opening mail, filing documents and making sure the rare objects were dusted

and cleaned to perfection. He found it pleasant enough and even got used to

the smell of old leather that hung permanently in the air.

“Anything planned for tonight?” Raimondo said at the end of the day as

he locked up.

“Not exactly, no.”

6
 Raimondo shrugged. “I thought we might go out to a club or

something.”

Alberto perked up. “Sounds good.”

All the way to the Verona 2000 disco Alberto sat stiff-legged in Raimondo’s

car so as not to crease his new suit. His face was still a little sore from an

over-scrupulous shave but the musky aroma of the heavy aftershave he had

borrowed from his uncle made him feel manly and assertive. This soon faded

when he realised that the only disco he had ever been to previously was the

local one in Alberobello, a pick-up point for farm labourers’ daughters with

bad teeth and loud pimply bad boys pretending they were in New York.

Verona 2000 was like a huge, futuristic electronic hall. Carefully positioned

mirrors reflected muted lights that emphasised the glamour of the dancers

and bathed their imperfections in a luxurious twilight.

Alberto hugged the strange, blue cocktail his uncle had bought for him

and concentrated on being part of the pounding disco scene. He had once

hear someone use the phrase, ‘Go with the flow’. He meditated on it now in

the hope that the music would draw him in. But the more he meditated, the

more it remained at a distance. These things obviously took time. As for

actually dancing - that was reserved for a much later date.

Whilst Raimondo was in the Gents, Alberto cast his eye around the

tables surrounding the dance floor. His gaze fell upon a slim-faced girl with

heavily made-up eyes. Straw-coloured hair hung around her head in two,

straight glossy sheets. More to the point, she seemed to be alone. Drawing

himself up, Alberto strode across to the bar to buy drinks for himself and

7
Raimondo. He was aware of the girl eyeing him. During a lull in the music she

said, "My name’s Betty. What 's yours?"

The directness of her approach threw him. He glanced about to make

sure she wasn't addressing someone else, then said, "Alberto."

He offered her his hand, but she just looked at it strangely.

“I haven't see you here before," she said.

"In fact it's my first time."

"Ah yes?"

Alberto leaned forward. Her perfume saturated his nostrils. He quickly

stuttered out the next phase, "Can I buy you a drink?" hoping the noise would

hide the trembling in his voice.

She swept a hand through her pitch-black hair, crossed her legs and

swung towards to him. “OK, a Bacardi and Coke.”

Flushed with success, Alberto signalled to the barman.

“How long are you in Verona?”

“I'm not sure yet,” said Alberto. “It’s a kind of working holiday for me.

I’m a student, or at least I was.”

“I see,” said the girl. “What did you study?”

Alberto explained how the different units of his Literature and Art

History courses interlocked. He had enjoyed his degree and his own

enthusiasm made him ramble. He was about to apologise for going on about

himself when she said, “Have you got a cigarette?”

Pleased that the conversation was progressing nicely, Alberto glanced

back at the cigarettes on the table where he had been sitting with Raimondo.

“I’ll be right back.”

8
 He weaved quickly through the crowds, grabbed the cigarettes and

weaved back again. By the time he got back to the table, however, the girl

was gone. He scanned the other tables and saw her drawing upon a freshly

lighted cigarette as she chatted to two men. He was still trying to work out

which aspect of the courtship protocol he had violated when Raimondo

emerged from the crowds.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Alberto.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

With a flourish he disappeared into the crowd. Alberto observed the girl

across the bar. She was talking to another man now as she sipped the

cocktail he had bought for her. Unsure how to proceed, Alberto took a sip of

his drink and waited until she too disappeared into the crowd.

Alberto was trying to work out how the flashing lights were so co-ordinated

with the pulsing music and the jerking bodies when a a voie whispered in his

ear.

“By the way, this is Gisella.”

A tall girl with her hair tied up in a chignon smiled at him over

Raimondo’s shoulder. “Hi.”

“We’re heading off home,” said Raimondo. “If you want to stay you can

catch a cab later. It’s up to you.”

Alberto decided that if courtship was a battlefield all he had done so far

was scan the map and consider a strategy or two. He wasn’t ready yet, and

certainly not without Raimondo present to bale him out.

9
 All the way back to the flat Alberto listened to Raimondo and Gisella

from the back seat. Raimondo drove with one hand, his elbow dangling

casually from the open window. When the chatter stopped, Gisella snuggled

into him. Later, as Alberto lay in bed, he couldn’t bear to imagine what was

going on in Raimondo’s room. Clearly, once you made your approach you

saw it through to completion in one spontaneous, uninterrupted movement.

The problem with spontaneity, as Alberto saw it, was that it required a good

deal of forward planning.

As Alberto came out of his room the following morning he heard

whispering in the hall. He peered round the corner just in time to see

Raimondo pushing a wad of notes into Gisella’s hand before ushering her out

of the door. It seemed an awful lot of money for taxi fare.

At the end of the first week, Raimondo announced that he had to go to

Amsterdam on a business trip for a few days. Before he left he said, “You've

got the place to yourself. I can trust you to keep things under control, right?”

Alberto felt confident enough to deal with the day to day running of the

shop and this left him free to ponder his next move on the female front. Away

from the prying eyes of the village he had no fear of making a fool of himself,

which was just as well, because he did so more than once. He boldly invited

the girl from the newspaper kiosk to have a pizza with him. To his delight, she

accepted then asked if it was OK if she brought along a couple of friends. He

waited till she was busy serving a customer before quickly moving off. He

invited the girl from the coffee bar on Piazza Signori to go to the cinema. She

too accepted but said she would have to check with her boyfriend first. In the

1
0
Arena he got talking to a student from Milan and arranged to meet her the

following day at nine on Piazza dei Signori.

That evening when he was sure there wouldn’t be many tourists about,

Alberto headed across the city. He looked up at the famous statue of Juliette.

He took a deep breath, quickly reached up to touch the left breast, then

pulled back his hand. For a second he was overwhelmed by the

ridiculousness of the situation. Worse, he kept having visions of his mother's

shocked face. As the shame battled with embarrassment he took a run at the

statue and carefully ran his hand over Juliet’s right breast. Then, for good

measure, he ran his hand over the left one as well. God only knew, he

needed all the help he could get.

The following day Alberto was catching up on some paperwork when the door

went. He looked up to see an elegant woman in her late forties, wearing a low

cut sleeveless blue blouse that perfectly matched her skirt. Her skin was

tanned and smooth and her auburn hair was piled high on her head. She

peered over his shoulder and said, “Where’s Raimondo got to this time?”

Alberto told her about the business trip. Barely listening to him, she

strutted about the shop, picking up objects at random and examining them.

“And you are, what, his assistant?”

“Yes, I’m also his nephew.”

“I see.” She held his gaze for a moment. Her eyes were a curiously

washed-out blue. “Well, nice to meet you.”

She offered him her hand. Her fingers felt delicate and bony in his

palm.

1
1
 Alberto quickly summoned up his customer service skills. “Were you

looking for anything in particular, madam?”

“Yes, a vase. My cleaning lady had a little accident.”

“Please come this way.” Alberto led her into the back room. She

immediately eyed two Lalique vases. She pursed her lips, then said, “I don’t

really think I can have one without the other, so I’d better take both.”

After she had signed the cheque she said, “You couldn’t possibly

deliver them for me, could you?”

His uncle had told him to offer this service to customers who made

expensive purchases. He reached below the counter for a pad. “Certainly,

madam, if I could just take your details.”

“Elena Piccozzi,” she began.

He quickly scribbled down the name and address.

At eight o'clock he closed the shop and went upstairs to change. He

calculated that the delivery would kill time before he went to meet the student

girl. After packing the vase he flagged down a taxi and headed for the north

of the city.

As he waited for the electronic gates to open, Alberto studied the faded

exterior of the villa set high above the hills. Pale green stucco walls were off

set by peeling wooden balconies.

Finally Signora Piccozzi’s voice came through the intercom, “Come in.”

She came out to meet him as he lugged the heavy box along the drive.

She had changed into a light summer dress and low-heeled pumps, her hair

pinned up in a clasp. He followed her along the hall, watching the way the

dress clung to her calves, and into a large bright, airy sitting room carefully

1
2
laid out with rococo sofas and polished chests of drawers. All remaining

space was taken by clocks. Big clocks, small clocks, grandfather clocks, wall

clocks and ships’ clocks. All of them had stopped at different times.

“Let me see now,” she said, glancing about the room as Alberto

removed the vases from the boxes. “Over there I think.”

It was the first of many locations she was to consider. In the end she

chose a spot on the lid of a grand piano, at either side of a framed photo of a

man in naval uniform.

“Lovely,” she said. “Now I’m sure you’d like something to drink.”

It was true that Alberto was flushed and perspiring, but he wasn’t sure

whether he was allowed to accept hospitality from customers.

“What would you like?”

“Whatever you’re having, signora,” Alberto said quickly.

Signora Piccozzi returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

Alberto perched on the edge of the sofa. Signora Piccozzi sat down

beside him and decanted the wine. After she had handed him his glass she

clasped her hands together and watched as he took a sip. It was a heavy red,

a good deal stronger than the wines of the region where he came from. He

swallowed it down with some difficulty.

“Vintage Amarone.”

Alberto blushed slightly at the name. Though he knew it derived from

the word ‘bitter’ it also carried the meaning ‘big lover’.

“My husband used to say that wine makes the soul speak.” She

glanced across at the photo on the piano. “I’m not sure about that but I know

that some people find it a little overpowering, a little too full bodied.”

1
3
 At this, Alberto found himself glancing at Signora Piccozzi’s breasts.

To save himself further embarrassment he said, “You have a lot of clocks.”

“Ah yes,” she said. “They were an obsession of my late husband’s.

Every country he visited he bought a clock. I’ve been thinking of handing

them over to my daughter in Bologna, if she wants them.”

“You live alone in this house?”

“Completely. And quite contentedly."

"I see."

She kicked off her shoes and made herself comfortable on the sofa,

tucking her feet beneath her.

"Does that surprise you?" she said.

"No," he said. "Not at all."

He felt she was studying him, assessing him like a collectable art

object. He couldn't recall ever feeling like this before. He glanced at his

watch.

"You're not in a hurry, are you?" she said.

"Actually I…"

"Would you like another?” Before he could object she had reached for

the bottle. She was quiet for a moment, then she said, "You’re a very shy

young man, aren’t you?”

“I… don't know," he said.

“Relax. There’s nothing to worry about. Now tell me about yourself.”

Alberto shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, really.”

“Everyone has a story to tell."

“Well, I come from a village called Alberobello and…”

“Yes?”

1
4
 The words came out like the details of a Resume. He talked about his

university studies and his decision to come to Verona - though he omitted the

real reason for his visit. By the end he realised that when nothing had really

happened there was not a great deal to say. Strangely, Signora Piccozzi

appeared to hang on to his every word.

“You speak just like my sweet husband,” she said.

“Do I?” said Alberto.

Alberto drained his glass. The room had begun to swim. He closed his

eyes to steady himself. “I really should be going.”

“Don’t worry about that now,” she whispered, removing the glass from

his fingers. She was so close he could smell the heady musk of her perfume.

He kept his eyes closed as her warmth enveloped him. Though Alberto

wasn’t sure what was happening, it felt right somehow, as though he were

submitting to a necessary power. He knew that his life would never be the

same again. He also know that he wouldn't be keeping his appointment with

the student girl.

Alberto awoke in the middle of the night, startled in a strange bed, the sour

taste of stale wine in his throat. Signora Piccozzi was naked beside him. As

the memory of how he had got here came back to him, two images sprang

into his mind: his mother’s appalled face, and his uncle Raimondo’s

incredulous frown. He could not imagine confiding his recent experience to

either of them. Alberto slipped quietly from beneath the quilt and got dressed.

Dawn was breaking when he left the villa. He was just in time to catch

the first bus that took shift workers from the suburbs into the city centre. He

tried to turn things over in his mind as the bus crawled through the awakening

1
5
city. All he could think of was the strangeness of it all - the strange

pleasantness of it all. The feeling stayed with him throughout the day.

It hadn’t occurred to him that the experience might be repeated, but

later that morning Signora Piccozzi called him at the shop. At first he was too

nervous to speak. She soon put him at his ease by asking him to drop by the

house when he had closed the shop for the day.

This time she had him play on a cruise simulator her late husband had

designed. It seemed an odd request at first but he began to enjoy negotiating

the fake tidal waves and the rolling and tumbling of the machine. Afterwards,

with Debussy's Claire de Lune (her husband's favourite) playing in the

background, they played cards, drank Amarone and made love.

It was the start of many evenings together and by the end of the week

he felt more at home than he had ever felt with anyone. The age difference

between them was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that she

seemed as happy to be with him as he was with her. Though he often

wondered what she saw in him, her sincere attentiveness made him feel

mature and confident. By the end of the week it seemed the most natural

thing in the world for him to go to her house after leaving the shop, hang his

coat in the hall, peck her on the cheek and take his seat at the table for

dinner. One evening the entire house was filled with tinkling sounds.

For the first time since Signora Piccozzi’s husband’s death all the clocks

chimed in unison.

“It’s a sign!” she called out. Though he wasn’t sure what she meant,

Alberto was pleased that it made her happy.

One weekend they drove to the country, staying in a small pensione

and going for long walks in the moonlight. It didn't seem to matter to her that

1
6
others assumed they were mother and son. Privately, Alberto preferred the

small, enclosed world they had created at her villa, away from prying eyes.

Otherwise he was content. The only problem he foresaw was how on

earth to tell his Uncle Raimondo.

“Anything happen while I was away?” Raimondo called as he dropped his

bags in the hall.

Alberto told him about the two Lalique vases, but left out the events

following their delivery. Raimondo brought his Chivas Regal to the sofa and

smiled.

“Excellent. I always knew there was more to you than studying. Let’s

go out and celebrate.”

Alberto glanced at his watch. “Actually, I’m eating out tonight.”

A broad, lecherous grin spread across Raimondo’s face. “With a

woman, perhaps?”

Alberto felt his throat go dry as he moved towards the door. “Yes.”

“Invite her round,” Raimondo called after him as he closed the door.

“We’ll throw a dinner party or something.”

“Maybe,” said Alberto. “One day.”

Alberto turned things over in his mind as he played on the cruise

simulator that evening. He was wearing a blazer and white trousers that

Signora Piccozzi had picked out from her late husband’s wardrobe. Much to

her delight they fitted perfectly. Again, Alberto was pleased that she was

happy.

It struck him that he was, perhaps, worrying unnecessarily about how

his uncle might respond to the news of his relationship with Signora Piccozzi.

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7
Was he not, after all, an unshockable man of the world? Would he not shrug

and say something to the effect that in the city all things are possible?

Clearly sensing something was on is mind, Signora Piccozzi said, “Is

everything all right, Alberto?”

Alberto shrugged. “Everything’s fine. Just fine.”

Next morning he had already decided to reveal all. He threw back his

shoulders and stepped into his uncle’s flat. Raimondo was sipping a

cappuccino as he leafed through his Stampa. Without even looking up, he

said, “Good time?”

“Very nice,” said Alberto.

Raimondo put down his newspaper. The contempt burned in his eyes.

“So the rumours are true, then?”

“Rumours?” said Alberto, a squeak appearing in his voice.

“Just tell me something. What do you find so fascinating about that old

woman?”

Alberto’s heart sank. “Forty seven is not so old…”

“Yeah yeah yeah.” Raimondo silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“She’s still old enough to be your mother. And I’ll bet she gave you those

clothes, didn’t she?”

Alberto glanced down at his blazer and white trousers. “What if she

did?”

Raimondo got up and came closer to him. “Alberto, she does this all

the time. You weren’t the first and you probably won’t be the last.”

“What do you mean?”

1
8
 Raimondo shook his head. “Maybe one day you’ll understand.

Anyway, your mother called earlier. She wants to know when you’re coming

back. Why don’t you take your girlfriend home to meet her?”

Alberto tried to speak but the image his uncle had put into his head

prevented him. He hurried out of the room. Even when he reached his

bedroom his heart was still palpitating.

Alberto was oblivious to the small crowd of travellers gathered at the station.

If Alberto had understood right, Signora Piccozzi regularly took on a partner

to fill the absence left by her late husband. Her way of dealing with his death

was to replay the past. When they realised it, these substitute lovers

abandoned her, unwilling to be used in such a manner. Alberto put the

thought from his mind.

Home. The village. His mother’s stifling concern. Perhaps he would

return to his studies and carve out a quiet life for himself as a lecturer. In time

his mother would see to it that he found a suitable companion. The daughter

of a family friend, no doubt. A girl whose features were as dark and mournful

as the faded icons his mother kept around the house. A girl who expected

little from life apart from marriage to a quiet, respectable man like himself.

The train to Bari pulled alongside the platform. Alberto reached for his

suitcase. Just then he caught his reflection in the waiting room window. He

was still wearing the blazer and trousers Signora Piccozzi had given him. The

reflection showed an unfamiliar figure, a man in the process of becoming

himself. Alberto liked what he saw.

What was he going back to? A life of restrictive convention. And what

had he escaped to? A life of restrictive convention hidden beneath a veneer

1
9
of ‘anything goes’. The behaviour of most of the women he had met had been

governed by other kinds of conventions, ones he was not prepared to learn.

Conventions that allowed Raimondo to maintain a permanent youth through

the power of his wallet. If you worked within these conventions you were

happy, if your spirit went against them you suffered. The only difference

between the village and the city, as far as Alberto could see, was that Signora

Piccozzi, the only woman who had made him feel at ease, was here in

Verona rather than down there in Alberobello. When he was with her there

was no past and no future, only a glowing present. What did it matter that he

was merely a character in her private drama as long as he was happy to play

his part with genuine passion?

Ten minutes later he was standing at the gates of Signora Piccozzi’s

villa.

END

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