As Theo follows him, I remain sitting on the mattress and run my hands over its surface. So Wilfred died right here on this bed. I wonder what he was thinking before he went to sleep. Did he still think about his family?
I jog downstairs and follow the sound of Signor Mancini’s voice—and the smell of his strong aftershave—outside, then back into the house through another big door, entering a cavernous ground-floor chamber that looks like it hasn’t been used as a wine store for some time. Although there are a few empty kegs and barrels, it’s clearly been repurposed as a dumping ground for all kinds of domestic items, such as broken tables and stools, tins of dried-up paint and varnish, and a storage heater that looks like it hasn’t worked for years. There’s also an enormous old mustard-yellow boiler, a washing machine that—thankfully—seems to be in working order, and various dustbins for rubbish and recycling. It smells damp, musty and a bit rank.
The lawyer’s phone pings and he lifts it out of his briefcase to read a message. “I am sorry,” he states, “I must return to Lucca. But I think you have seen most of the important things.”
I try not to look disappointed. “But what about the castle?”
Signor Mancini leads us outside and around the wall of the chapel, where he points towards a crude path that zigzags up the side of the hill. “That is the way. But I am afraid the castle is only a pile of stones.”
“I’d still like to see it,” I say. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. But it is difficult to climb and I cannot do it like this.” He gestures to his smart suit and black leather shoes. “If youlike, I can leave you the keys and you two can enjoy more time here?”
We accept his offer and he takes us back to the house and shows us how to lock up.
“Please return the keys to my office in the morning,” he says. “And we must start the process to get acodice fiscale—that is an Italian social security number. We must also deal with the issue of inheritance tax.”
Shit, I didn’t think of that. I’ve never inherited anything before—I’m not from that kind of family, nor are any of my friends.
“What do you mean, inheritance tax?” I ask, aware that the pitch of my voice is rising. “I’m not going to have to pay any money, am I?”
Signor Mancini rakes his fingers through his hair. “Yes: in Italy everyone who inherits property over a certain value has to pay tax.”
“But how much?”
He runs his hand up and down the strap of his briefcase. “I do not know for sure but I have done a very rough calculation.” He tells me what it is.
I give a yelp. “Where am I supposed to find that kind of money?”
He raises his shoulders. “Most people who do not have the money choose to sell the property.”
“Sell it? But I haven’t even finished looking at it!”
Theo puts his arm around me. “Ads, let’s not worry about that for now. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do before you have to pay.”
He thanks Signor Mancini and we shake hands. Once his car has driven up the graveled lane and disappeared around the corner into the olive grove, Theo suggests opening a bottle of wine. “Come on, I spotted some in the larder.”
“But can we just take it?” I ask, following him through the turquoise doors. “None of this belongs to me yet. And I don’t think I can afford to keep it!”
Theo reassures me it’ll be fine, finds a bottle opener in a drawer he has to yank open, and rinses a couple of glasses under a tap that splutters out water. We fetch some chairs and sit on the patio, looking out over the valley.
As it’s only April and the trees aren’t yet in full leaf, the landscape contains patches of brown as well as green. And there are various grays in the stone of houses, farm buildings and churches, plus splashes of blue in the smattering of swimming pools. The blue of the sky is much lighter and broken up by a strip of little clouds, like puffs of smoke released from a stuttering engine. It’s quiet, apart from the odd snatch of birdsong and the sound of the occasional car or motorbike driving through the valley.
“Cheers,” I say.
“Wait, how do you say that in Italian?” asks Theo. “Is itsalute?”
“Something like that.” I tap my glass against his.“Salute!”
“To the Castello Montemagno!”
“Prego! Certo! Buonasera!”I say, affecting an over-the-top Italian accent. “Do we know any other Italian?”
“Mamma mia!”joins in Theo.
“Mamma mia!”I warble, even louder.
We both laugh.
