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wings extended, it darted out from under the washing on the line and menaced Poldi, who, in default of a walking stick, held the bird at bay with a barrage of Bavarian invective.
    â€œPiss off, you miserable creature. If you think I’m scared of your antics, think again. Get lost, or I’ll turn your liver into foie gras.”
    Hisses on the gander’s part, curses from my aunt. Attack, retreat, more hissing, more cussing.
    â€œ Mon Dieu . Who’s there?” a woman’s voice called from overhead in French-accented Italian.
    â€œ Moi ,” Poldi called back.
    The gander instantly calmed down.
    A slim young woman had appeared on the balcony. Palefaced, jeans, threadbare roll-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses, her short, dark hair tousled as if she’d just got out of bed.
    â€œEvery chain-smoking French film director’s dream,” Poldi told me later. “If you know what I mean. A total cliché – the quintessence of a nervous, incredibly capricious, unbearably lonely, ultra-sexy, Sartre-reading Gallic beauty.”
    â€œI get it,” I said. “She wouldn’t suit me, you mean.”
    â€œMy, aren’t you sensitive.”
    â€œDid you really say ‘ Moi ’?”
    â€œYes, of course. I pegged the accent spontaneously. I didn’t have to think twice.”
    â€œ Ah, vous êtes française? ” the girl called down delightedly.
    â€œNo,” Poldi called out in Italian, one eye on the now pacified gander. “But don’t tell your macho goose.”
    The girl laughed and came downstairs. The gander withdrew to its lookout post.
    â€œ Mon Dieu , he is intimidating, isn’t he? I suspect he even charges the dogs protection money.” She spoke fluent Italian, but with a really strong French accent. Having eyed Poldi for a moment, she laughed again as if that brief inspection had proved thoroughly satisfactory, and extended her hand. “Valérie Raisi di Belfiore. Call me Valérie.”
    â€œIsolde Oberreiter. Poldi for short.”
    â€œWhat was that funny language you were speaking just now?”
    â€œBavarian.”
    â€œAh, you’re German.”
    â€œIt’s a bit more complicated than that.”
    â€œI’d never have known it from your Italian. But, mon Dieu , I’m the last person to judge. I’ve lived here since I was twenty, but everyone keeps telling me, ‘Don’t worry, signorina, another few months and your Italian will improve a lot.’” The girl laughed again – something she did almost as often as she said “ mon Dieu ”. Impulsively, like an old friend, she took Poldi by the arm.
    â€œBut why are we standing around out here? Would you like a coffee? Then you can tell me what friendly tide has washed you up on these shores.”
    Valérie led Poldi into the house, which was cool and shadowy and redolent of dust, books, mothballs and the luxuriant sprigs of jasmine she had distributed around the interior in numerous vases. Time seemed suddenly to slow as if compelled to find its way through scented oil. A dog barked somewhere, but that was all that could be heard of the outside world. The interior of the pink house, too, seemed timeless, abraded by the centuries but in almost pristine condition. The floor was tiled with pale terracotta and black basalt. Here and there, colourful mosaics glowed beneath the worn carpets. The ceilings displayed shimmering floral ornamentation, pallid nymphs and their attendant fauns cavorting through tropical scenery, peacocks fanning out their tails, cranes soaring over misty landscapes, and patches of mildew. Huge krakens, dolphins and glittering goatfish cruised a mythical ocean populated by water sprites and sirens, and a lustful Cyclops leered down at my speechless aunt from behind the slopes of Etna.
    â€œWell, tickle my arse with a feather,” Poldi exclaimed in German. And, in Italian,