Dr Romano
Chapter Seven
“Good evening, Mr Redbrick. You clean up well.”
I smile. Albert had used the same expression on the rare occasion we went somewhere formal and I’d made noises about having to shave and wear a jacket.
“Please take a seat. La signora Bellacci has made us the perfect aperitif, a pitcher of Negroni. Can I pour you a glass?”
I notice two jugs on the table, one filled with still water, the other with an amber liquid, ice cubes and thin orange slices.
“Why not? I don’t think I’ve had Negroni before.”
Actually, I had heard from Alice that the drink had become fashionable in London bars in recent years, but I had never sampled the concoction.
“Dry gin, Campari, sweet vermouth. And I believe la signora uses a combination of Prosecco and soda water. Something she picked up from her time in Milano. I hope you find it light and refreshing.”
The taste is unusual, with an odd but not unpleasant aftertaste and a coolness in the warmth of the early evening. If their intention is to relax their new guest, then the ploy is working perfectly.
“Mr Redbrick—”
“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 the house 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 legal procura generale created—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 or la signora know what time you wish to take your meals—”
“Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to be fed. I’m used to fending for myself.”
“La signora will 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 innate masculinity, 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.
“Mrs Bellacci is spoiling us tonight. If I am not mistaken, she has made us her speciality, which is called Peposa Dell’Impruneta. These are braised beef short ribs with fresh herbs served on a bed of her homemade fettuccine. I hope you eat meat.”
“I eat anything and everything,” I reply to the doctor before turning my attention to Mrs Bellacci. “And if the smell is anything to go by, I already know I am going to enjoy this.”
This time, a smiling Mrs Bellacci serves us, placing the meat and pasta onto our appetiser plates before setting the large platter of leftovers in the middle of the table.
The taste is sublime, the best food I have tasted since Nishan's meal.
As I twirl my fork in a bed of fettuccine, I sense Lorenzo come to stand next to me, placing down an empty glass with his tattooed hand and pouring in red wine.
“My mother asks me to apologise,” says Lorenzo, to the top of my head. Even though his voice carries no warmth, the sound sends a sizzle to my groin. “This wine is from a local vineyard and is a premium chianti. I am sure you will enjoy it with this food.”
Once he finishes pouring, he remains standing there, but I say nothing. After a few moments, he moves away to serve the doctor. When I look up, he’s heading back to the kitchen, where Mrs Bellacci appears to be laying the table for their own meal. I wonder absently if I will eat alone in future.
“Is there anything you would like to ask me?” asks Dr Romano after we both return to our food. “I am sure you must have questions.”
There are many questions I need answered, but first, I need to find out how much he knows. I’m especially intrigued about his connection to Albert.
“How well did you know Albert—uh—Professor Callico?”
“Well enough. I know his work was one of the most important aspects of his life. He also thought highly of you, Gabriel. I could tell by the way his face transformed when he talked about you, about how much you would love this house when he eventually surprised you with a visit. Completely different to his mood when asked about his immediate family. Of them he disclosed very little, which gave me the impression they were not close or did not get along.”
“That sounds about right. And you met Sylvie Leblanc when he brought her?”
“I did not, I’m afraid. I had family business in Sicily at the time. But la signora Bellacci took good care of them.”
“Do you know why she came with him?”