Dr Romano #2
“I believe they had been travelling together. Before coming here, they had been to consult with medical professionals at one of the main hospitals in Lombardy, the one that had dealt with the deluge of coronavirus cases when the virus first hit our shores.”
That makes sense. Even after numerous countries had begun referring to the pandemic as an endemic, Albert had continued to research more effective vaccines.
He’d cited one of his contemporaries, a medical research expert called Puchinsky, who had helped to found a new combination super vaccination protecting against common diseases such as diphtheria and tetanus.
He aimed to add an effective coronavirus vaccine to the mix.
I’d had the impression Albert had respected the intent but not the man.
“They took separate bedrooms, if that is what—”
“No, no,” I reply, stifling a laugh. “I know they were close friends only in a professional capacity. I merely wondered if there was more to their trip here.”
“More? In what way?”
“I don’t know,” I reply before turning my full attention to him. “Have you heard of someone locally called Luriabio? Or maybe just Luria?”
I watch his face carefully for any tell, any surprise at me mentioning the name, but there is nothing. Instead, he scratches his head and frowns in concentration.
“Luria is certainly an Italian name. Less common, I should say, and I don’t know anyone who bears the name locally. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Just a name Albert referred to—”
“Ah, then,” says the doctor with a grin, “that makes perfect sense. He was probably referring to Salvador Luria, an Italian microbiologist. The man shared a Nobel Prize with two other medical contemporaries for their research into the composition of viruses.”
“Would Albert have known him?”
“Luria won the award in 1969 and died in the early nineties. In the US, if I’m not mistaken. So I doubt there would have been a personal connection. But Dr Callico would undoubtedly have studied his body of work and most likely in great detail.”
“I see.” Josh had clearly been searching in the wrong place. Albert would have been more invested in the work of a microbiologist, wouldn’t he? And at least I can rule out the name as a reference to someone locally.
“I thought you might ask me what there is to do around here? To pass your time while you’re staying. A young man like yourself.”
“Honestly, I’m grateful just to relax, recuperate and gather my thoughts, if you know what I mean?”
“I understand completely. And as a doctor, I wholly endorse this plan. To be honest, the house is like a hidden sanctuary at the end of a lane that goes nowhere. The grounds are substantial, five hectares of land, which is over twelve acres I believe. Beyond is countryside until the next farmhouse. You’d need to use another road to get there.
So if it’s peace and quiet you are seeking, then you could not have come to rest in a better place. ”
That night, I leave the patio doors wide open, letting a gentle breeze billow the gossamer-thin curtains.
Eventually, I fall asleep wearing only boxers and a white tee, lulled by the constant buzz of crickets and the distant hoot of a lone owl.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I sleep soundly through the night.
Sunlight wakes me, and I am immediately tempted to head to the pool and resume my fitness routine.
Until I remember the filth littering the water.
When I check my phone, it’s just after six.
No missed calls or messages from Josh. Out on the balcony, the day appears to promise sunshine again, and I decide to don the shorts and T-shirt he loaned me.
Below me, I hear someone laying the patio table, and I take a seat on the bedroom balcony.
The morning panorama along the horizon is lit so differently from the evening before, yet is just as beautiful.
Familiar hints of lemon and lavender waft in on gentle breezes.
Idyllic, Albert would have called this—and probably did, sitting right here.
But there is also something instinctive that tells me not to let down my guard, as though the allure of the natural beauty is the disguise of a deadly flower.
I wonder if the instinct is an over-exaggeration, a self-preservation hangover from my time on the streets.
But then I spy tiny, telltale pencil-thin CCTV cameras on rotating mounts, almost undetectably placed at the top corners of my balcony.
Intrigued, I lean back over the balustrade and study the facade at the back of the building.
Similar cavities have been created in critical positions beneath sections of the guttering, all of which house exceptionally well-disguised cameras.
Unless a person knew to look carefully, they would never spot them.
After stepping back into the bedroom, I stop instinctively to scrutinise the walls, but am reasonably confident there are no cameras inside the room.
I head to the bathroom and do the same. Nothing.
I understand that a villa at the end of the lane might need external security, but this seems somewhat overcautious.
Albert must have had them installed because many are integrated into the exterior masonry.
More importantly, who has access to the feed from the cameras?
Do I bring this up with Mrs Bellacci or Dr Romano?
Or should I keep this information to myself until I know more? I decide on the latter.
Breakfast is simple. I am not sure if this is typical for Tuscany, but I know that this is what Albert would have enjoyed, apart from the large cup of aromatic coffee served with a small jug of hot milk.
Mrs Bellacci has also brought me a basket of pastries, a glass of fresh orange juice and a bowl of colourful fruit, including grapes and plump peaches.
While I am eating, I notice Lorenzo emerge from the kitchen, a yellow-and-white-striped towel over one shoulder, and walk toward the olive grove.
“Excuse me, Lorenzo,” I call out. “Would it be possible to have the pool cleaned today? I’d like to take a swim before breakfast tomorrow.”
He continues walking, staring blankly ahead, neither slowing nor acknowledging my request. I want to believe that he doesn’t hear me or realise I am addressing him.
I heave a sigh and consider seeking out Mrs Bellacci once the sun gets too hot to sit outside.
Half an hour later, once I find a lounger and recline back to enjoy the morning, Lorenzo shuffles my way, carrying a long pole with a large net attached.
I sit up and am about to thank him when he tosses the implement onto the ground at the foot of my lounger.
Without stopping or turning around, he spits out words in Italian that I am sure are not civil.
Does he expect me to clean the pool? I am not averse to manual work, but don’t find the gesture particularly welcoming.
When I stare into the waters, there appears to be more to do than clearing the surface.
From where I sit, the bottom has patches of dark algae.
A cloud passes over, and a cold shiver runs through me.
When I look at the sky, I notice clouds amassing and wonder if we are due rain.
I rarely let annoyance take hold of me, but I resolve to take the matter of the pool up with Mrs Bellacci.
Perhaps there is a local company that provides pool-cleaning services if her son is too proud to do the job himself.
On my way back to the room, I stop by the kitchen entrance and am about to call out to Mrs Bellacci when I hear her distinctive voice talking to someone.
I glance through the doorway and notice she is on her mobile phone with her back to me.
After hesitating a moment, I decide to come back later, but in the short time I am there, something unusual commands my attention.
She is not speaking Italian. I didn’t think I was familiar with any language other than English, but my brain automatically translates the one she is using.
Russian. Her words make sense, but I have no idea why.
I even know that this is not her native tongue and that her use is not only grammatically incorrect in places but highly accented.
She’s telling someone that she doesn’t know how long the guest will be staying.
I assume that the guest is me. She then goes on to say that she doesn’t think I’m a threat.
I wander off baffled, not only wondering who she’s speaking to, but why I can understand the meaning of her words.
Could my birth parents have taught me the language, whoever they might be?
When I woke this morning, I had hoped things might start to settle down and I could enjoy the simplicity of staying in this idyllic part of the world.
Now I’m no longer sure. I’m almost at the open doors leading into the villa when the familiar voice calls out.
“Mr Redbrick.” I turn to see Mrs Bellacci standing in the kitchen doorway, putting the mobile phone away in her apron pocket. “Was there something I could help you with?”
I am bewildered for a moment but recover quickly. “I wondered if we could arrange to have the pool cleaned at some point. Is there a local company you could call?”
“Let me check with Lorenzo,” she says, and I stop myself from telling her not to waste her time with her ill-tempered son. She appears satisfied with the interaction and heads back into the kitchen.
A blanket of cloud cover has moved to block the sun and maybe even threaten rain. I decide to head to my room and tidy up before finding something to occupy my mind, and what better way than to begin my search of the library?