Monticiano #3
“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. “Signora Galli is unwell upstairs. Can I ask, are you expected at Casa dell’Aquila?”
“No, I— This is very last minute.”
“But you know Professore Albert Callico? The owner. Is he with you?”
The fact that he knows Albert is a relief. But they clearly have no idea what happened to him.
“I am—was—his close friend. His life partner. He was in a serious motorway accident a few weeks back. I’m afraid he didn’t survive. You had not heard?”
“Professore Callico is dead?” asks the doctor, his surprise evident.
“Yes. As I said, he died in the crash.”
Once again, the man translates. This time, I sense a tension in the room as all eyes turn to me.
The doctor emphasises a particular word or phrase, and this time, all of them, even the man at the end of the bar with dark eyes, glares at me.
I am about to supplement my reply, but my attention is drawn away by the barman, who has pushed a glass of ice-cold beer my way.
“For you,” he says. I reach for the wallet inside my jacket, but the man shakes his head decisively. Maybe these locals are not so bad after all. Nodding my thanks, I down the beer in a few gulps, much to the audience’s amusement.
“La Signora Bellacci takes care of Casa dell’Aquila,” says the doctor as I place the empty glass back. You should go to meet her first, before you decide if you need a room here.”
“Are you saying that someone is overseeing the site?”
“Of course. And she speaks English. In fact, tell her I’ll be dropping by around seven-thirty. Then, if you still prefer to come back here for a room, I can bring you in my car.”
“Thank you, Dr Romano. That’s very kind of you. And thank you for the beer. I’ll leave you all to your—um—business.”
As I head for the inn door, I hear the deep rumble of voices behind me.
I have no idea what they’re saying or even if I’m the object of their discussion.
Neither do I care. Out in the open air, I breathe in the fresh air before releasing a sigh of relief.
Once I have adjusted my backpack, I put my head down and trudge onward.
Thirty minutes down the meandering track, I notice signs of habitation in the distance.
The building appears to be newly constructed, possibly a renovation, fenced off by colossal, well-groomed hedgerows on either side of ornate, black metal gates.
As I approach, the architecture becomes more evident, a beautiful, classical Italian country-style villa, painstakingly renovated.
I wonder absently if Albert realised he had a neighbour.
When the lane ends, I am naturally confused and wonder if I may have missed a turning. While I am checking whether the overgrown dirt track trailing off to the left leads anywhere, a woman’s voice issues from the house grounds.
“Mr Redbrick? Are you Mr Redbrick?”
One side of the automatic gate clicks and opens inwards.
When I turn to greet her, she is not exactly unfriendly, but appears a little suspicious.
In her early sixties, by my estimation, she carries more weight than is probably healthy and wears a white apron over a plain grey dress with matching espadrilles.
Her hair is dyed black and tied back by a simple white scarf.
If not for the bronzed Italian glow to her skin, she would not look out of place in a nunnery.
Clearly, one of the men at the pensione has called to tell her I was on my way.
“I am. And you must be Mrs Bellacci. I’m looking for Eagle House.”
“Yes,” she says, but offers nothing else.
“Can you point me in the right direction?”
“You are here. This is Casa dell’Aquila.”
“This is—?” I begin, stepping back, surprised, looking up at the grand structure.
There is nothing about the building that resembles the bomb site I had expected to find.
From the facade, there are no signs of ongoing construction.
Confused, I shrug out of my backpack and pull the envelope containing photos from the side pocket.
When I move over to show her, tapping a finger at the picture of the derelict structure Hammond-Clyde gave me, her features finally transform with amusement.
“This is taken when the professore first inspected the house. I helped him to oversee the restoration. Everything was completed in July. Do you have identification?”
I stall a moment, trying to process everything this woman has said.
Eventually, I catch up, fumble my passport out, and show her the documentation.
I also let her see the photocopy of the deeds to Eagle House that Hammond-Clyde left me.
After scanning quickly, she finally hands everything back to me.
“Yes, Mr Redbrick,” she says, stepping out of the way. “This is Casa dell’Aquila. Welcome to your home. Would you like me to show you around?”