'C'è nient’ altro che posso fare per lei?’
They stood in the middle of the big room and admired the high ceiling with the plaster-of-Paris moulding and the gold paint, the old wooden floor and the tall French windows that opened out onto a small balcony overlooking the gardens. They had arrived in the country an hour earlier, early in the morning, on a long transatlantic flight that was delayed several times without any explanation. It was the first holiday in many years that the children had not come too. The husband walked up to the window and parted the thin lace curtains. The big house was built on a steep promontory that crumbled into sharp boulders near the bottom and was swallowed by a calm sea. It was a big garden with narrow paths and paved steps, viewpoints that looked out at the sea, and enormous agave plants that were as strange as creatures from the bottom of the ocean. And everywhere there were the tall pine trees that shaded the garden and gave the quiet hotel its name: Villa dei Pini.

The bellboy coughed several times, until the couple turned and looked at him. The heavy suitcases were at his feet.
    ‘C’ è nient’ altro che posso fare per lei?’
    ‘What did he say?’ asked the husband.
    ‘It anything do you want?’
    ‘Give him something,’ said the wife.
    The man searched his pockets and handed the boy a few perfect banknotes.
    ‘Here, son,’ he said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Buy the Linguaphone records.’
    The bellboy stared at him.
    ‘Records, signore?’
    ‘Never mind him,’     said the wife, and coaxed the boy towards the door. ‘Grazie. Tutto bene.’ She moved her hands expressively. ‘We tutto bene. You can go. Molto grazie.’
    ‘Yes,’ her husband said, studying the frames on the walls with his hands in his pockets. ‘We’re very tutto bene. Please call again.’
    The boy left their key on the bedside table, and shut the door. Suddenly the couple were alone in the big quiet room with their suitcases in a corner, the plaster-of-Paris moulding on the ceiling and the towering windows from where the morning sun was starting to lighten the grand room. A moment later the birds in the pine trees broke into song.
    ‘We should unpack,’ said the wife.
    ‘First I’m going to sleep.’
    ‘How can you sleep on a day like this? It’s beautiful.’

Standing at the window the man began to undress. He threw his clothes onto a chair, took off his watch and left it on the table next to the key, and then lay in bed with a sigh. His wife began to unpack. After hanging her husband’s shirts in the closet, she paused and looked out of the window.
    ‘This is such a beautiful place.’
    The man in the bed folded his arms under his head, and stared at the ornamental ceiling. His wife hung the skirts and trousers on the rail, and put the underwear, the socks and a pair of woollen sweaters, unnecessary for such warm weather, in the drawers. When the suitcases were empty, she shut them and climbed onto a chair to store them on top of the antique closet.
    ‘Why don’t you go for a walk?’ the husband suggested.
    He pulled the bed sheet from under him and covered himself. The starched fabric felt cool and pleasant, as the temperature in the room continued to rise.
    ‘Draw the curtains, will you?’ he asked. ‘No – the heavy ones.’

His wife went from window to window drawing the curtains, until the room sank into a warm velvety twilight. When she looked at him again he was snoring. She stood in front of the mirror and inspected herself. She wore a pair of olive chinos, a white sleeveless shirt and the leather trainers she had been avoiding for many years, until her feet could no longer tolerate any other shoe. The wrinkles on her face were in step with her age, but the dark circles round her eyes were only the result of the long flight. A hint of sadness was in her face, as if a shadow had passed over it and left an indelible mark.

After she shut the door behind her, the husband stopped snoring and waited for a moment. Then he got out of bed and went and stood behind the curtain at the window. When he saw his wife come out into the garden, he sat on the edge of the bed and made a long telephone call.

 

Downstairs there was no one at the front desk. The wife had walked outside where she saw the young bellboy, now dressed in slack overalls, working in the garden. He raised his head and greeted her with a smile. She strolled along the paths that crisscrossed the gardens, passed among the sharp leathery leaves of the enormous agaves stretching out in front of her and came to a stone-paved terrace with iron tables and chairs where one could watch the sea under the shade of the trees. At one of the tables two middle-aged men sat side by side, holding hands. They were dressed in immaculate white suits and hats, and one had a clipped beard. Two small cups and saucers were on the table. When the men saw her they raised their hats.

    ‘Buongiorno, signora,’ they said in one voice.
    The woman blushed. She stared at them, trying to smile. They men said: ‘È appena arrivata?’
    ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
    The man with the beard smiled.
    ‘Are you arrive today?’
    ‘Si.’
    They invited her for coffee at their table, and she said that she would love to but better perhaps later so that her husband, who was still in bed, could join them. The two men shrugged their shoulders amiably.
    ‘Certo. Other hour.’
    They returned her goodbye with another old-fashioned tip of their hats, and sat back to continue admiring the view of the sea from the terrace. When the wife returned to the room the curtains were drawn open and her husband had finished his phone call and was lying in bed. He was reading.
    ‘I had a lovely walk,’ she said. ‘What did you do?’
    He raised his eyes.
    ‘Mm?’
    ‘The gardens are very beautiful. Do you want to go for a walk together?’
    ‘In a while. I need time to acclimatise.’
    The book he was reading was a thick detective novel he had picked at the airport. He had already read two thirds of it. Later he would shut it, and go for a walk with his wife. She went and stood at the tall French window and looked out, but could not see the terrace from there.
    ‘Those plants are strange in a beautiful way,’ she said.
    Her husband did not lift his eyes from the page.
    ‘The cactuses?’
    ‘They’re called something else.’
    ‘Whatever they’re called, they seem deadly. Be careful.’