Two Dogs One Wife

By Giorgio Allemano

Turin, in the eighties. On an unexpected train trip from Italy to England, Giorgio meets the love of his life. A few months later Giorgio and Margherita get a German shepherd puppy together.

Everything seems perfect until a car accident in the Tuscan countryside shatters this dream. The man survives, the dog dies. But life must go on and soon Aria arrives, another German shepherd puppy with a connection to the first – and a special talent for attracting trouble.

Just days before Margherita and Giorgio's wedding, Aria disappears, apparently kidnapped. An epic hunt ensues and via tragicomic episodes and vignettes of Italian life of the time, they embark on an adventure that turns Aria into Italy's most hunted and famous dog.

This heart-warming, true story evokes tears and laughter and love – human and canine – set against the backdrop of beautiful Tuscan and Mediterranean summers and old, classic Turin. It's a story dedicated to those who still know how to dream with their eyes open.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giorgio Allemano
• Release date: Aug 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780473433789

Book preview

Prologue

To say this is just the story of a dog, a German shepherd, wouldn’t be accurate. This is the story of two dogs, related, the spitting image of each other, profoundly connected and entwined in my memories.

Have you ever considered what exactly a dog is? At the front a pair of golden eyes that embarrass us with their expectations of love and at the rear a tail swishing with excitement, anticipating playtime with its master.

I believe it is difficult to live serenely if you have never had the experience of owning a dog.

It might sound paradoxical but I think that to live at peace means to learn how to face death with tranquillity. If with all the passion and effort we put into living, rushing around, trying to get things done, if all of this has no continuity and afterwards there is nothing … well, at least finally we get to rest.

If, however, there is something more, I imagine it to be like a painful reawakening in a peaceful place, a place with no more worries. Painful because you are separated from your loved ones and because, for most people, death isn’t painless.

The ancient Egyptians, the culture with the most considered commentary on the hereafter, described death as an exit into the light.

I prefer to imagine it as an unsettling dream, a kind of post-anaesthesia state that is soon interrupted because something warm and damp is greeting me by licking my face helping me to wake up.

They are my dogs.

1

Planet Tschai

My desk wasn’t set up in its own office, it was positioned in a corner of the showroom.

In addition to the drawing tables with their draughting machines and tripods on which the topographic instruments had been carefully placed and secured, the office overlooked one of the most beautiful landmarks in Turin, the Galleria Subalpina[1].

Because of the lack of space and being the ‘new boy’, even if I was the boss’s son and therefore the dynastic heir, I found myself working in the showroom, full of cold measuring devices.

A setup that might seem bleak, however it had its advantages. The big oak-framed window looked directly onto the internal arcade and, thanks to an opportune positioning, offered a perfect view to the walkway. I wasn’t trying to catch surveyors on the fly who might be interested in buying a theodolite or an electronic distance meter, but at twenty-eight I found the feminine fauna of Turin fascinating and was agreeably enslaved by the distraction that glided elegantly by on the other side of the glass. A back-to-front aquarium.

Brochures and instruction manuals to translate, papers full of notes and diaries were all thrown together untidily on the table, competing for my attention while demanding precedence. It didn’t let up for a minute.

From time to time I wondered how on earth, after a degree in hydrobiology and a specialisation in aquaculture gained abroad, I had ended up here, in the old family firm. Either I wasn’t suited to breeding prawns or Italy and its crowded beaches weren’t the ideal environment for that kind of activity. Measuring instruments … what a funny destiny for someone who couldn’t even knot his tie properly.

However, life was good, full of promise. And that Friday afternoon at the beginning of December seemed more beautiful than usual. Soon I would drop everything and race to Porta Nuova train station to pick up Margherita.

We had met a few months earlier, at the end of June, during an interminable train trip to England. It had been impossible for me to find an air ticket in that busy pre-holiday period while she, despite having pre-booked, at purchase time Alitalia had only a ticket for the return leg of her journey available. Inexplicably, the ticket for her outbound trip had vanished into thin air.

And so, still unaware of each other but on the same ‘track’, we had both been obliged to resort to the blessed state railways and face twenty-four hours of rail travel in the direction of Boulogne, where we would finally catch the ferry for Dover. Starting in Naples the train went north passing Pisa where Margherita had boarded and made a stop in Turin around midnight instead of the anticipated ten-forty pm. We were only at the beginning of a very long journey and already delayed by an hour and a half. A magnificent trip was on the cards.

As silent as a cat, taking great care not to disturb the sleep of the compartment’s other occupants, I had slid into my paltry couchette. Before falling asleep I spied on the neighbouring couchette, on the pale pillow, a mass of dark and menacing hair at the centre of which were eyes just as dark and luminous as they observed me, if only for a fraction of a second. I fantasised about how perhaps destiny had placed beside me, almost in reach, a really good-looking woman but then I fell asleep, a resigned realist thinking it could just as easily have been Roger Daltrey[2].

On waking the following morning, desperate after a night full of jerks and jolts but little sleep, I dedicated myself to finding the dining car for at least an espresso. I searched the entire train, carriage after carriage. First the three cars that followed ours, then the sixteen in front of us. I made it to the engine room without finding anything remotely resembling coffee. The dining car must have been unhitched at Modane just after the border.

Although well aware that in France you drink the world’s worst coffee and that the French are better with frogs and snails, I was dumbfounded. Didn’t anyone realise the train was full of Italians? With a thunderous expression that only a human being who has been denied the right to breakfast might wear, I retraced my steps and after a few kilometres with the noise of doors opening and shutting, attacked by merciless draughts between carriages, I reached the seventeenth one and saw her. Standing in the corridor with her elbows on the windowsill watching the unchanging green that rolled by, to all intents and purposes ignorant of the dramatic lack of hot beverages, she filled a pair of tight pink jeans and matching T-shirt to perfection. I admired her statuesque figure and realised I had in front of me a perfect female, clearly a mammal. Same hair but no, definitely not Roger Daltrey.

I have never been good at chatting up women but the following, in its absurdity, was a masterpiece.

‘Excuse me but … did you sleep here?’

My vision turned her head and sized me up suspiciously, clearly thinking that I didn’t have all my marbles. While perplexed, she nodded in agreement, looking mildly amused and a little intrigued. She confirmed that, together with three others, a grandfather and his two grandchildren, we had spent the night together in the same compartment. The ticket inspector had advised them that another passenger would get on at Turin and with the help of the other three they had prepared my couchette so that once on board I wouldn’t need to turn on the light.

Her sociology studies at the University of Pisa and associated essays on the aging of the Italian population led her to deduce that the person in question would most likely be an elderly gentleman. Hopefully one that didn’t snore.

The ice was broken. Quickly we said goodbye to the English family that had slept in the same compartment and moved to the neighbouring one, oddly enough empty, where we started to chat and pass the time telling each other our life stories.

Through the window a dreary French countryside rolled past while my empty stomach’s occasional rumbling was conveniently disguised by the noise of the iron tracks. Yet, in the space of an hour, I began to feel the precise and absolute sensation that I had found the love of my life.

Crossing the Channel submerged in fog gave us an opportunity to get to know each other better, until we reached the Dover station and said goodbye, both promising, once back in Italy, to catch up again. It sounded a bit too vague to me. I thought I could do better and make a real impression, what’s the point in having a scientific mind if you don’t use it?

At ten-thirty next morning, from my lodgings in the south of England, I dialled the phone number of the Kensington house where she was staying to check that everything was okay. A woman with a funny accent — at least that’s how it sounded to my ears — kindly replied that Margherita had arrived yesterday and was really worn out after the long journey but she would call and wake her up.

Well … clearly not an early bird!

Eventually Margherita came to the phone, believing it was some relative from Italy who wanted to check that she was OK. To her great surprise it was me. The fact that I had quickly made the effort to call in order to impress her definitely left a mark. The seeds had been sown and sooner or later we would meet again. Hopefully in Tuscany and not on a train.

Later on I would never miss the opportunity to amuse myself by embarrassing friends and relatives with the story of how we had first spent the night together then ‘met’ the following morning.

*

I emerged from my memories and returned to reality. That winter evening the express train from Pisa was scheduled for 19.10. Mindful of the chronic delays of the state railways, I thought we would be late for dinner. For once we had been invited out. It was far from just any ordinary dinner. Bertex’s mother had trained as a chef and, to hear her son talk, you would think that she had singlehandedly invented Piedmont’s cuisine. The banquet would take place at the small apartment mother and son shared in via Amerigo Vespucci and the menu boasted Bagna Cauda and Brasato al Barolo. Just a little something ‘light’. We would be in big trouble if we weren’t punctual. The garlic would be past its best and would make the sauce too strong, while the meat of the second course would be overcooked and even dry. A worrying responsibility for the state railways.

‘Has Jacobs, the surveyor, shown up?’ Bertex burst in distracting me from my thoughts.

‘No, I called him this morning. He told me he’s organised the demonstration for Tuesday and that he’s also invited the consulting engineers from the Pinerolo Council. We have to make a small relief map of the area where the helicopter crashed last week after touching the high-voltage power lines, process the data, then once back at his office download and tabulate everything. It is definitely going to take the whole morning.

‘He might also invite a few colleagues who are in the process of considering purchase of a Total Station[3].’

‘Okay then, we will meet at the workshop around eight am to load the instruments and then shoot off to Pinerolo,’ he replied rubbing his hands together, excited as only a sales rep who works on commission can be glimpsing a possible sale and sniffing out the prey. Bertex, like most reps, was made this way. The fact that a few people had died and we were about to go and work at the scene of the disaster, left him completely unmoved.

He was a man of about fifty with a lean physique, straight black hair and green eyes that despite his huge Bakelite-framed glasses conveyed evil thoughts and mischief. The kind of guy you could fall out with but who would never bore you.

‘Federico is coming as well, with his daughter Ilaria. Be warned, eight pm on the dot!’ he admonished me.

I returned to my work but was unable to concentrate.

It was going to be an important weekend. Not just because of the arrival of my girlfriend with whom I could finally spend two days and two nights, nor for the dinner which shortly awaited us.

There was something else that made it special: the search was about to begin and I couldn’t wait.

Every now and then the phone would ring, annoyingly: small daily problems unperturbed by the fact that it was a Friday afternoon. However, mentally I had already left, focussed as I was on the clock in an attempt to move the hands forward while they seemed to slow down on purpose.

Finally, 18.30 arrived. The office’s official closing time was seven pm, but I had to race to the station in order to find and haggle over a lucky car park with the usual abusive parking attendants. A benevolent and understanding ‘break the rules’ from my parents saw me dart into the garage to get the Lancia HPE, then join the traffic that flowed slowly from Piazza Castello towards the lights and porticos of via Roma in the direction of Porta Nuova.

I arrived in the station’s huge foyer a few minutes early. The arrivals board, as expected, unfeelingly and unpleasantly informed me that the express from Pisa was half an hour late. Scrupulous and precise in its innate lack of punctuality. I looked around uncertain as to how to pass the time. There were heaps of people, the weekend railway crowds. Anxious faces, red with cold, of people waiting for someone to arrive, worried faces of those who ran so as not to miss the train that wouldn’t have waited for them, and finally the happy faces of those arriving and those who embraced them. With more than twenty platforms there was never any let-up; a river of people who never stood still, thousands of thoughts and stories that just moved from one place to another. I stood in front of the main bar and my glance flitted over them without really managing to see anybody. I was a stone pillar surrounded by vehicles in motion.

‘The 19.10 Express from Pisa is arriving at platform fourteen.’

The booming announcement woke me from my reverie and almost at a run — this time it was my turn — I headed towards my target.

After a few long moments, the train’s headlights appeared from the darkness that stretched south towards Lingotto. Then I glimpsed the snake of carriages which followed them. On one of those carriages, behind one of those windows, there was someone who was filled with excitement like me. With an exasperating slowness, the front of the train approached the huge green bumper until it was only a few metres away from it and a screech of metal, more annoying than usual, announced that the train had stopped, exhausted.

I took up position near the front carriage, the first that Margherita might disembark from, in order not to risk missing her. The doors started to open but I couldn’t see her yet. There were at least twenty or so carriages; I needed to be patient. After a few seconds, anxiety prevailed over strategy and I began to walk towards the other carriages, but I kept turning around to look behind me to make sure that in the midst of the confusion she wouldn’t go past without seeing me.

Where the hell was she? How could it be that she was never in a hurry? Finally I caught sight of her. With that mass of dark hair, yellow shoulder bag and eyes that were searching for me, Margherita wasn’t that difficult to spot. I quickened my pace, reached her and before she could even say hello I was kissing her and sliding my hands inside her heavy jacket.

‘Go easy …’ she responded, more amused than embarrassed.

‘Just checking it’s you!’ I retorted.

She loaded me up with her big bag and we walked to the car with childish haste, telling each other bit by bit about the events of the two weeks since the last time we had seen each other, every now and again peeling away from each other for no other reason than to reassure ourselves that we were together again.

‘We’ve been invited to dinner by Bertex’s mother.’ It finally occurred to me to tell her.

‘Wonderful, I’m starving!’

‘Good, but we have to get a move on. They expect us at eight and if we are late we risk giving offence or, worse still, they will start without us.’

Margherita quickened her step; the second possibility must have sounded very alarming. I easily won against her insistence on buying some flowers or at least a plant to give to the lady of the house. I had a couple of bottles of wine in the car and I was sure they would be more appreciated and useful than some greenery for the lounge.

The parking attendant had changed; the Moroccan’s shift must have finished and now it was the Pole’s turn. The inflection of his speech and his professionalism were unmistakeable. Having just paid a fee to his colleague I was off the hook, but I was happy and gave him a tip anyway. I slid into the traffic, enjoying his look of satisfaction in the rear-view mirror. I had just done my good works for the day to one of the Pope’s countrymen.

We arrived at the old building in via Vespucci just after eight. All things considered, an acceptable delay. We were reasonably safe from the otherwise inevitable grumbles of that old maid Bertex. The intercom was well-lit enough for us to make out the magic word ‘Bertarelli’, and after pressing the buzzer the heavy front door opened with an inviting click.

Dinner was almost on the table. The old multi-coloured tiles in the small entrance hall, lucky to have survived the Allied bombings aimed at the Fiat factory during the war, signalled the way towards the narrow marble staircase. As in every hallway in any self-respecting old house, there was a dim light and not even the shadow of a lift. From the position of the name plate on the intercom, I concluded that our treasure was kept on the second floor. As I had been taught that a real gentleman lets a lady go first, I made Margherita go ahead of me and, despite being weighed down with bottles, I enjoyed those dozen or so steps, admiring her figure.

The aroma of food on the second-floor landing left no doubt, we had arrived. A fraction of a second after ringing the bell, the door opened.

‘Finally!’ Ilaria hugged me a little stiffly as she studied Margherita, who after hearing so much about her was seeing Ilaria for the first time.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Ilaria, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Despite my poor knowledge of matters pertaining to women, even if one of them was only nine, I sensed an undercurrent of jealousy and wariness in Ilaria’s voice and cautious stance.

‘I have to talk to you!’ she said to me with gravity, ignoring my companion.

‘Okay, but wait a minute, first of all let me say hello to the hostess.’ I moved towards what, according to the sound of voices and aromas, I judged had to be the kitchen.

I had never met Bertex’s mother, but as soon as I saw an elderly lady by the stove, I recognised her. Not because of her apron but because Roberta Bertarelli was a feminine version of her son, twenty or so years older and a few kilos heavier. And judging from the lines on her face and the weary smile, they probably hadn’t been easy years. However, her green eyes were still very beautiful.

After the usual pleasantries, the time had come for the magic formula: ‘A tavola!’[4]

The living room, beautifully tidy and spick-and-span for the occasion, had its epicentre in a round table, overseen by a crystal chandelier and surrounded by furniture that gave the impression of being old rather than antique. Bertex directed the traffic and seated the diners, by now more impatient and hungry than ever.

I was lucky and found myself with Federico on my left and Margherita on my right, the hosts opposite, in the direction of the kitchen, while Ilaria was seated next to her father, intent on catching my attention and overwhelming me with questions. She could wait: the bagna cauda was about to make its entrance. At the centre of each plate a small alcohol burner had been placed under a tiny terracotta pot. In the middle of the table an enormous platter of raw vegetables: celery, carrots, capsicum and cardoons.

I couldn’t resist teasing my neighbour, whispering to her that I was right not to bring flowers or plants because there were more than enough of them in that house. Meanwhile I saw her observing the whole choreography perplexed. At the arrival of a huge overflowing tureen with a piping-hot grey sauce that emitted the smell of garlic and other medicinal herbs, she couldn’t help herself and furtively squeezed my hand under the table while looking at me anxiously.

Sure, she was hungry, but … garlic soup? Not to mention that there weren’t even any spoons.

Those looks of discomfort didn’t escape our hostess and she hurried to explain how bagna cauda was a dish whose origins had been lost over time and that it was based on the slow cooking of garlic and anchovy fillets in olive oil. A few hours of passion and patience were needed so the garlic would melt without blackening, giving substance to the thick sauce we were about to eat.

‘My grandmother’s sauce was unbeatable,’ she continued, ‘but in those days it was cooked on a cast-iron stove, not on these stupid gas hobs. Nowadays there are even people who use milk and cream instead of oil! Sure, it’s easier to cook beforehand, you don’t run the risk of burning it and it’s less problematic for your breath. But it’s not the same thing, it’s no longer bagna cauda!’

The odour of excommunication mingled with that of the garlic. To humour her and start dinner we all agreed regarding the sacrileges and infamy of modern cuisine. A small wooden ladle appeared and all the individual small terracotta pots were filled with steaming sauce. The little burners enabled the sauce to be kept fiendishly hot, preventing a temperature drop to more reasonable levels. The trick to making the whole process edible was immersing the raw vegetables in the sauce and bringing them slowly to your mouth. Undertaken unhurriedly and with care, the short journey was sufficient to avoid getting burned and allowed you to taste the contrast between the cold delicate crudité and the infernal violence of the sauce. It may seem impossible but it was delicious. Furthermore, the slow process of execution had the advantage of allowing conversation and socialising among the victims. If they were still able to talk.

‘And, in addition, it is very good for your health!’ our hostess continued undeterred. ‘I’ve read that garlic contains a potent natural antibiotic.’

The power of medical information found in glossy magazines read at the hairdressers.

‘The only problem is that … well, in short, because of your breath, for the next couple of days it’s a bit difficult socially!’

The rest of the audience including Ilaria smiled and winked at us but we pretended not to notice.

After half an hour of chatting, laughter, vitamins and vegetal antibiotics, it was time for a rest before the second course. Roberta got up and cleared the table with surprising speed considering her bulk and made her way proudly towards the kitchen to organise round two.

It was a good time to talk to Federico about work. After all, he was our business partner. Federico worked in the same office but since he had become predominantly responsible for the administration side, we never had much time to talk. He was four years older than me, kind of a big brother, and we complemented each other well at work. He took care of the problems I wasn’t interested in and I took care of those that weighed him down.

‘Papà, I absolutely have to speak to Giorgio!’

At nine Ilaria was serious, hypersensitive, extremely intelligent and with her head always in the clouds. Every time she opened her mouth it was to express an interesting and unusual idea, an unexpected point of view. I don’t ever recall hearing her say something banal or predictable. This is why I liked her and I was sure she liked me too. Fede was a very understanding father and furthermore it was Friday night; we had had quite enough of work for that week.

‘Okay, he’s all yours but hurry up because the main course will arrive soon’, and he turned gallantly to keep Margherita entertained by asking about her teaching and how her trip had gone.

Behaving as if we were conspirators, which if you ask me made her feel important and amused her greatly, Ilaria dragged me into what she judged the safest place for keeping secrets of the greatest importance: the bathroom.

‘Well then, are you going to get it tomorrow?’

I realised that I was about to disappoint her. The operation was only in its initial phase; it certainly wouldn’t be completed by the following day.

‘Ilaria, listen to me carefully. We are not going to get it tomorrow; we are just doing the rounds of the breeders with puppies and we hope to find the right one. I have been in contact with four and tomorrow the hunt is on.’

‘What do you mean by the ‘right’ puppy? Can there be a ‘wrong’ one?

I started to feel that I might need to call a lawyer.

‘No, it’s not that. The puppy has to be available for a certain date, it has to be a girl and then we have to ‘recognise’ each other,’ I replied, disoriented by the third degree and nostalgic for my place at the table.

‘Why does it have to be a girl?’

‘Well, …’ I was feeling increasingly backed into a corner. ‘Because I have never had a female pet, only male cats. Females are pure love, they get very attached to their owners.’

She thought about it for a moment and finally agreed that there was also the advantage that perhaps one day it would have puppies.

‘Will you give me one?’

‘Listen, there is still plenty of time and perhaps first of all we should see what your parents have to say, don’t you think?’

‘But you are going to get it and bring it home without telling your parents!’ she retorted.

‘Yes, that’s true, however even if I do live with my parents, I am twenty-eight and you aren’t even ten yet!’

Maybe I had managed to immobilise her. Voices and wonderful smells penetrated the slightly open door and wafted around the aqua-coloured tiles. I wanted to get myself out of there and return to the table to have fun with the others.

‘What are you going to call her?’

‘Tschai,’ I replied reluctantly. That little devil was getting all my secrets out of me.

‘And what does it mean?’

‘Do you know anything about science fiction?’

‘Those stories of green men, space ships and death rays?’

‘Yes, that too. However, Tschai is the name of a strange and fascinating planet where a man is shipwrecked one day and has all sorts of adventures[5].’

‘What sort of adventures?’ continued my inquisitive little Panzer.

Why hadn’t the main course arrived? Why weren’t they calling us to return to the table immediately? I thought it would only be a matter of minutes. I was imagining the cook, absorbed in smoking her umpteenth cigarette on the balcony, while the Gestapo interrogated me in the bathroom. There was no hope.

‘Listen, when you’re older I’ll lend you the book and then you will know everything.’

A few seconds’ silence, then the coup de grȃce.

‘Can I come too tomorrow? I promise I’ll be good, I won’t give you any trouble. My parents are having some boring friends over for lunch and I can do my homework on Sunday. Please, let me come!’

There was only one way out: physical force. I picked her up and put her over my shoulder while she laughed hysterically pretending to punch me on the back. I held her firm with my right arm while the left scrabbled around until I managed to grab the bathroom door, flinging it open in the direction of freedom.

‘Now listen to me carefully, you ugly little monkey.’ Worried silence from the half-pint inquisitor, reduced to a position from which it was difficult to negotiate. ‘Margherita and I haven’t seen each other for two weeks. We want to be together, catch up, and so tomorrow the two of us are going alone. Sunday evening I’ll phone you and tell you in detail about the breeders and the puppies we will have seen. How’s that?’

She didn’t have time to reply and come up with other questions: a commanding ‘Come to the table!’ reverberated through the apartment. I delicately unloaded those thirty kilos of questions, hurrying to regain my seat. A big terracotta saucepan occupied the spot that only a short while ago held the vegetables. The aromas of wine and spices had replaced the smell of garlic and medicinal herbs. We had just moved from the pharmacy to the cellar.

I checked that my neighbour and her long legs were still at my side, regretting that jeans were more comfortable for train travel than a skirt.

‘This is pot roast in Barolo wine. The dish of kings!’ thundered Roberta giving us the opportunity, if indeed there had been the need, to increase our alcohol intake simply by breathing in the fragrant contents of the dish. And so began yet another lesson.

‘You let the meat marinate in the Barolo along with carrots, celery, onions, garlic, peppers and cloves. After a few days you throw away the liquid. Brown the meat and, using another couple of bottles of Barolo, you cook the meat slowly in the wine with the vegetables from the marinade. When it has finished cooking, remove the vegetables and pass them through a vegetable strainer — don’t you dare use a blender! — and reunite them with the meat, which has been sliced in the meantime.’

Fascinated by the explanation, without giving a thought to the cost of making the dish, we were all keen to eat Barolo while drinking Barbera[6]. It goes without saying that it was heavenly. For a few minutes there was no conversation or laughter, only jaws in action and satisfied murmurs. References to work from the men’s camp were immediately censured by the female side with digressions and teasing. I was having a whale of a time, yet I couldn’t wait to leave.

At a certain point Bertex broke the spell by crossly telling his mother off for forgetting to put toothpicks on the table. He went into the kitchen to get some. On the way back he covered his mouth as he did battle to liberate some meat.

‘You know … our teeth are really badly designed …’ he mumbled, continuing to probe. ‘Food gets stuck in between and you can’t finish a meal without having some toothpicks at hand. As soon as I get to heaven I want to have a few words with the Boss: there are a lot of improvements to be made down here!’

‘Right, and if he is busy you can always have a chat about it to St Peter!’ an amused Federico replied.

‘I’m sorry but I’m not used to wasting time with ushers!’

The wine was helping make the evening merrier and listening to the diners’ jokes was like being seated at a small country theatre. Ilaria managed to join the increasingly chaotic conversation and asked why we called him Bertex instead of his proper name. Fede was quicker than me and told her that first of all Gianguido was too long and a waste of time, then he explained what Semtex was and its obvious similarities with the explosive personality of our host.

Ten o’clock was long gone. Faces, red from wine, shone with satisfaction. We were waiting for dessert when Federico turned to Ilaria, saying perhaps louder than intended, ‘Take your elbows off the table!’ Immediately, several embarrassed elbows withdrew in unison, as if the order had been addressed to the whole table, leaving Federico in stitches. No matter how old we are, it is hard to forget the rules that our parents inflict on us to display good manners and appear well brought up.

Finally, the fruit arrived. The finishing line was in sight.

‘What is that apple like?’ Ilaria asked.

‘Peeled’ was her father’s response as he gave it to her, smiling and shaking his head.

It was almost eleven o’clock. The formal but sincere process of thanks, compliments and goodbyes and see you at the next dinner had begun. Christmas was only a few weeks away and there would certainly be opportunities to repeat the experience once the festivities were over. I retrieved the big yellow bag, went down the stairs with the others and finally, outside into the sobering and piercing cold of the night.

We said our goodbyes to Federico and his little devil, who behind her father’s back slyly reminded me to phone her for an update on developments. She had the serious air of someone who concedes neither delays nor omissions. It was already unbearable that I had stopped her from joining the advance party.

Perhaps one day she would forgive me, who knew?

They left and as if by magic we found ourselves miraculously alone. It didn’t seem possible. I clasped her to me to make sure once more that Margherita was really there and I took a big breath of winter air. It would most certainly have been full of smog and thousands of other toxins but at that moment I didn’t want to think about it. I had a beautiful woman at my side who cared for me and tomorrow the most exciting adventure of my life was about to begin. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

We moved off into the darkness of the city, a blackness relieved by the occasional streetlight, the increasing number of Christmas decorations, the neon signs of sleeping shops and the traffic lights that coloured the pavements and the tram tracks. We made our way across the city centre of my little Piedmontese Paris, with its lights and porticos, until Piazza Castello appeared before us. On the opposite side the silhouette of the huge Royal Palace was outlined with its enormous parking area where the stables used to be. I did a slow lap around the piazza and showed her the big entrance door through which, surrounded by porticos, you gained access to the Royal Gardens. They were the gardens where, at least a couple of afternoons a week, my grandmother used to take me to play once I had finished my homework that the primary school teacher saddled us with daily.

We would cross the entrance hall in deferential silence where I imagined kings and princesses, soldiers and commanders once strolled, to then emerge outside into the light where the immense gardens opened out before us. It wasn’t Versailles but for an only child of six, everything had seemed gigantic, imposing and entertaining. Even the stone pond where the goldfish lazily slumbered seemed more like a swimming pool than a pond. With my ball under my arm I would search for someone my own age to play with and kick the ball around in the garden but always on the lookout for the arrival of the local policemen. They were the worst nightmare of us grass soccer players and would requisition our ball and perhaps even issue a fine.

In short, I explained to Margherita, a hugely stressful experience but still better than staying cooped up at home or in the office where my parents, both quite advanced in years, were busy running the family business.

‘Are you and your grandmother very close?’

‘Mmm, in our own way, let’s say like cats and dogs!’

In spite of the darkness inside the car, I saw Margherita look at me both curious and perplexed.

‘We argue all the time, that’s for sure, and in the past she has played some unforgettable tricks on me. Since I was a child I’ve always loved animals, I’ve always dreamt of owning a pet, but either my parents wouldn’t allow it or, in the rare cases when they did, my grandmother would take care of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that sooner or later the budgerigar’s cage was inexplicably left open and … goodbye, budgerigar, or, once when I had a kitten, our apartment front door ‘didn’t shut properly’ and the kitten decided to leave us and explore the world outside. I never saw him again either.’

‘How can you be sure it was your grandmother?’

I continued driving slowly, enjoying Turin by night while reminiscing about my solitary childhood.

‘She always gruffly denied any responsibility, of course. God forbid she should do such a thing! However, I was not convinced. Like most country dwellers, she couldn’t conceive of keeping an animal that didn’t work, who didn’t in some way earn its daily bread. The idea simply didn’t enter her head. I excused my grandmother without managing to forgive her. The only exception was Free, a ginger cat that entered our lives seven years ago. He was so sweet and endearing that my mother fell in love with him, took him under her protection and spoiled him to the point of making me feel envious. Grandma didn’t dare get up to her usual tricks.’

‘She must have mellowed with age.’

I nearly burst out laughing. My grandmother ‘mellow’!

‘And … what happened to Free?’

‘At seven, just a few months ago, while I was away on a business trip, he became ill with a serious kidney infection. Despite medical care there was nothing that could be done and they had to put an end to his suffering. After the injection Free went to sleep, then the vet had to turn his attention to my mother to make sure she didn’t faint.’

We drove on, passing in front of the Regio Theatre, down past the Dora River leaving the Savoia royal family behind us and Porta Palazzo on our left, without any more detours towards our Jacobin and Bohemian destination: corso Novara, via Pollone and finally via Quittengo, a dark blind alley with a pebbled surface. We had arrived at ‘La Nivula’ — the cloud, in Piedmontese dialect. A little bedsit I had been renting for a couple of months in order to experience the intoxicating feeling of freedom and intermittent independence; ‘sin’, as far as my parents were concerned.

Margherita was already familiar with it: it was our third visit. And just the fact that she returned there willingly proved how much she cared for me. In all honesty it wasn’t really a proper house, not even an apartment; simply a room on the first floor of an old building, noble and austere like a castle, as it was almost in ruins and quite spartan. You entered from the window-lined balcony through a little door that opened next to the bathroom door. It is worth pointing out — an outdoor bathroom and an historic setting. The Turkish bath was out there on the balcony, two icy metres away from our love nest.

Once inside the apartment you found yourself in a grandiose room of about sixteen square metres without any heating at all except for the electric heater I hurriedly turned on. The side opposite the entrance had a window looking onto the alley where we had left the car; on the right a small table with a couple of chairs and a tiny kitchen cupboard with plates and tableware that were never used. Just beyond was a big sink which, when in the mood, dispensed violent jets of icy water, while immediately to the left, in a corner, was the most important thing, the bed.

I had built it in my spare time with a friend whose uncle was a stonemason, which guaranteed that he would have more, at least theoretical, experience than me. The structure consisted of bricks and cement with a good double mattress on top and on its base the indispensable stereo system which, regrettably, every now and again, decided not to work. Unfortunately, my friend was short an uncle who was an electrician. It turned out to be a bit hard to sleep on in every way, but in the long run it proved useful from a physiotherapeutic point of view. The day after having slept on it you would wake up and, from the creaking sounds coming from your back, it seemed as if you had slept on the ground. Making the bed was a very easy task lasting a quarter of an hour of cursing that loosened up your muscles and made you sweat, leaving you more than ready for a shower. What a shame there was no shower and the old sink, while a decent size, seemed more suited to a stable than a boudoir. Nevertheless, it was wonderful.

As soon as the heater succeeded in bringing the temperature up to a decent level, I became brave. Off with my heavy jacket and hers. I embraced her and kissing her I realised that the maths made sense: garlic divided by two equals no problem.

It was already the tenth of December and the night, the world and my woman were all smiling at me.

*

It wasn’t the light that filtered through the old wooden blinds painted in a cheerful emerald green that woke us, so much as the arctic temperatures. It didn’t feel safe to leave the heater on overnight and I also found its buzzing annoying. As a result, at eight o’clock that Saturday morning, it was as if we were smiling and saying our good mornings in a fridge. Our hero jumped out of bed, turned the heater to its highest setting and in less than three seconds had dived back under the covers, expecting his courageous gesture to unleash a certain response. The stalactites hanging threateningly from the ceiling above us started to melt and no polar bear showed up. Within a few minutes we were able to breathe without exhaling clouds of icy vapour.

All of a sudden, I remembered what day it was and what lay ahead. A flush of warmth enveloped me starting at my chest and spreading violently to my face, endowing me with a crazed expression. I was about to meet my dog! Maybe that day, maybe tomorrow, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the adventure was about to begin and my life was about to change. My excitement levels were sky high with a subtle undercurrent of listlessness and concern. What if we didn’t find anything? No, something would turn up, it had to. We had to succeed. I felt I was owed on this issue. And in any case, my grandmother had aged. She certainly wasn’t harmless but the passing of the years played in my favour.

It was time to dedicate myself to my companion, and to her increasingly worried and